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kingdomsofrain2026-01-17 02:26 pm
onefellswoop) wrote in kingdomsofrain2026-01-17 02:26 pm
shitlords!
placeholder title above! hmmmm
1) Prelude: Ill-Natured Shrubbery.
2) The Party Gathers: If a Tree Burns in the Forest...
3) Death House Pt. 1: Family, If You Wish It.
4) Death House Pt. 2: Onward and Downward.
5) Awich: The Dead All Know, The Dead All Go.
6) Awich: Investigations.
7) Awich: After the Battle.
8) Loch Bien: Complications, Concerns, Frogs.
1) Prelude: Ill-Natured Shrubbery.
2) The Party Gathers: If a Tree Burns in the Forest...
3) Death House Pt. 1: Family, If You Wish It.
4) Death House Pt. 2: Onward and Downward.
5) Awich: The Dead All Know, The Dead All Go.
6) Awich: Investigations.
7) Awich: After the Battle.
8) Loch Bien: Complications, Concerns, Frogs.
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."
<.>
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."
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no subject
Everything will be all right. He's done well, even if he doesn't understand this. Even if this is new territory when he'd believed there was no new territory to explore.
Holding on to the cup in both hands, steadily settled in his lap, he doesn't move away from the hand at his cheek. It is very simple, in the end: he did something good.
He'd like to keep doing good.
Barely audible, not far from delirious (not far from worship), he breathes, "Thank you."
For knowing what to do. For forgiving him. For giving this, whatever this is, in tenderness. In mercy. In love.
<.>
He'd like to stay within this moment: Fae leaning at ease into his touch; Fae unmoving, unafraid, apparently also relishing this instant, this centuries-expanding drift of seconds, for the fullness it contains. (Precisely what it contains is an accounting beyond Dima's current scope, beyond any encountering he's known.) (He's never felt so close to anyone.) (He's never shared a touch, and felt in it both himself more wholly, and himself allied with someone, pulses minds and hearts aligned.) (Astonishing, this man.) (Astonishing, what they might be and what they are together.)
There isn't any need to hurry past. The day will wait ahead, or it will pass; there's no urgency to rush into its clamor.
There is nothing more important, nothing more vital than the breath and breadth of the man who melts against him now, who speaks something like divinity, like words slipped from the divine.
And Dima own response is tenderness and quiet, endless fire, is assurance and a gratitude all of his own: "Always, Faolan.
"For you, my Fae: Always.
"You will always have a place with me. In my heart and at my touch. In my guidance.
"Everything is well. And you, Dearest - whatever you have heard; whatever you've been led to think about yourself - are peerless, perfect.
"The fire at the center of the forest; the fire that calls the wholeness of my soul.
"Oh, Faolan— Thank you.
"My brilliant Fae."
<.>
At Dima's touch, Faolan feels his awareness shrink down, telescoping so that there's nothing but himself and Dima, together. There's nothing but the touch to his cheek and words like revelation. (Like grown awareness.) (Did Dmitri act this way yesterday, the day before, the day before, or didn't he seem so careful, so needful and yearning, beseeching eyes full of frustrated longing? This is different, as though something's been broken open inside them each, and between them. He feels the run of Dima's finger along the edges of this could-be-existence, careful but assured. It's an unspoken question to Faolan and Dima alike: What is this, and do you like it, too?)
Faolan shifts forward on the bed, hardly aware of his movements, knowing only that he's never felt so cared for, so protected, so safe as he does in this moment - and he's never felt such a depth of connection with anyone. Never felt so close, as though he shares a heart, as though his soul twines with Dima's. He moves to the edge, sitting so that Dima stands over him, occupying the space between his knees. He doesn't know what to do with the cup, so he holds it against his thigh, waiting for instruction. Direction.
If Dima's hand remains on his cheek, he half-closes his eyes and lets the sensation consume him; somehow, everything ceases to matter. What concern is it to him if he's peerless or perfect or if everything is well, or if he's heard or been led to anything, when Dima calls him Dearest and touches him, praises him? He feels Dima's hip under his free hand and then Dima's chest against his cheek, Dima filling his arms. (And the cup's gone, dropped or taken, but it's not in his hands any longer so it stops existing.) He doesn't weep, he doesn't move towards ends that bring ease to arousal - doesn't hide his arousal. He only breathes, shuddering each exhale but matching the rhythm of Dmitri's breathing, listening to his heart, feeling his hands, approval, gaze, love in abundance.
And, careful not to disrupt this, whatever this is, this sharing and holding and submitting, he whispers, "You like this, too."
It's a question. It's also not a question at all, because the meaning isn't at all what the words suggest. You like this, too, but also, We found one another.
You need this as much as I do.
You didn't know you'd like this. You've never been with anyone like this.
A surge of excitement gathers in him, reddening his cheeks and sending a drumbeat throb through his veins, through his groin. Whatever this is, it's a first time for them both. ( Whatever this is, he never wants it to end.)
Without considering beyond the fire growing in him and Dima's burning nearness, the intimacy of holding and being held, Faolan continues in low tones, "I'd rather be the forest. I'd rather be burned to ash and renewed. Revived. By you. Be the fire for me, Dima. Be my sunlight. Be the rain and the soil. Be my everything and breathe life into me."
Almost inaudible now, eyes closed and thoughts turning dusky, drowsy, he breathes, "My Dima. Dearer to me than all the world."
<.>
Endless meaning captured in the breadth of four resonating words, in the arms wrapped the man wrapping himself around Dima, coalescence drawn in staggered lungs racing heart unhurried arousal, in amber eyes that will never leave his knowing and look on him like revelation (oh, isn’t Dmitri gazing in kind? doesn’t he know rapture like a warmth wreathing crackled sanctity around him?), in a voice like divine liqueur opening, firing his veins. (What would it be (what could, what will - please, please - it be) to know this every day of living?
Ah, but Dima can never forget. Even if something should happen. Even if he should fail this man - a thought to flinch against - he’ll never cease to know this feeling, like delight, like permanence, like breathing fully for the first time in his life.)
Faolan speaks so much in a word, in a gesture. Sings soul-to-soul with Dmitri, and doesn’t everything seem clear now? Doesn’t everything seem at once boundless and perfectly, beautifully simple? As if there can be no complication between or before them. As if they two might turn the world upon their wishing, and why not? Oh, why shouldn’t they make life just as they please?
He’s never felt this way, about anyone, about anything.
Never known adoration or, yes, just as well, the coils and shivers of desire, of arousal that both wants and loves to linger in its gathering, in the pulse of rising ache and in a relishing upon this feeling.
Gods, gods; Dima never knew he could feel anything upon so many facets, so many aspects of himself. (It’s as if he feels more whole within himself, drawn together for love, in love of this man.)
And there’s exhilaration in the way his Fae obeys, requests, as if speaking in trust and speaking in longing and speaking in wonder all alike. As if there were relief in permitting Dima’s guiding hand, and doesn’t Dima thrill to know that he can guide and guard his Faolan this way? Oh, Dima has always been demanding, commanding, but it’s never felt like this. So fulfilling in ways that reach beyond himself. So fulfilling in ways that require no precise end goal, save to keep his Faolan close, and guarded, and happy (and perhaps) (and perhaps, yes, dancing upon excitation’s edge— though that’s an exploration to wait largely for another time, a better day) (that’s a day to dream and thrill upon).
Dima knows both heady dizziness and a centering of self as Fae speaks of fire and of everything. Finds his hand at Faolan’s jaw brushing, brushing, then slipping to his throat to lightly hold and to caress. Finds himself kissing the top of Faolan’s head, and lingering to breath the scent of fresh washing and a night’s deep rest. Feels in every movement both in and beyond himself, as if Faolan opened access to another world, another realm; a being both entirely of and moving far beyond himself.
“Oh, Love. “I will revive you with the dawn, and with the peak of evening’s passage.
“I’ll help you burn - perfectly, brilliantly - brighter and bright with every word, with every act— With every shiver.
“I will give you the world, my Faolan. My perfect creature.
“Or— You are my world, and I will show you all the miracle and truth you are. What you mean for me; how the world has always turned upon you. How I think— “I think I have always been waiting to find you. I have always been yours, my heart and my desires held outside my knowledge before finding you.
“Fae. Oh, Fae, do I like this, too?
“I live upon it, and will live for it. For you, and for the chance to know this life beside you.
“For the chance to breathe my life to you, and flourish, my Fae, flourish with your blooming.
“My Dearest, there is nothing to this world without you.
“I will care for you always. Show you all that I can find. Give you every comfort, every spark-struck revelation I can hold.
“Everything, my Fae. My everything is yours; now, and always.”
And Dima leans inward - one hand brushing through Faolan’s hair; one hand touching light caress along his cheek - in graceful swoop, meaning to kiss this man.
<.>
As Dima speaks, Faolan watches him with wide eyes threatening wetness, full of confusion and belief. (This shouldn't be real. What did he ever do to deserve this?) (But it is real, and he believes every word. Whether he deserves it or not, Dima will be, wants to be this way with him.)
When Dima bows his head to kiss him, there's nothing to interrupt. Not even the sound of ruffling feathers encroaches on the silence, and at the first brush of lips, inside Faolan's head, there are blossoming vines, starbursts like culmination, like the world breathing its first and blooming.
His lips part to draw a shaken inhale, to invite Dima closer and deeper, and he raises an unsteady hand to cup the other man's cheek.
It's like finding divinity, in a way. Like finding grace. (Like finding the thing he was chasing with so many men, with Fedir, with Lachlan, ah, but all their names are fading because he was always looking for Dima, wasn't he? Always pressing against the wrong body, always feeling the discordant beating of hearts that weren't waiting for him.)
(He's been looking for this man for twenty-five years, with every breath and step and wish.)
Dmitri said something a moment ago, called him Love, and Faolan breathes it, his lips brushing Dima's as he forms the word, then reforms it so it becomes My Love, barely spoken and known only to the both of them - like the soft, grace-touched smile that follows and becomes another kiss.
<.>
Yes.
Yes, his love, yes, 'my love,' yes, the welcome of a kiss when Dima has never cared for kissing, never cared much for touch at all for for permitting anyone, anyone to know him beneath veils of self-construction and disdain. Yes, the way Dmitri's own body turns molten, to thawing, to bending without break, to giving itself, himself into this kiss, the gesture a vow all of its own and an admission, adoration, telling ardor in the way he deepends tenderly, the way the touch of his fingertips speak care, speak gentleness and claim alike; the way his willingness to give, to sigh, to let his breath catch twice and then again speaks that he is Faolan's, wantingly and willingly.
('You for I; myself for you,' he thinks, he thinks in reeling repetition, the words elative and intoxicating, the words striking true where so much in existence scarcely scratches beneath surface.)
And the sound offered to Fae's words is a mingling both complicated and not complex at all: part laugh, part sigh, part moan and part exhale; all amounting to one meaning that speaks 'yes' and 'please' and 'oh, of course."
And he says, words of his own between brushed lips, "Yes; yes."
And, "Please."
And, "My Faolan; my Love."
One arm twining around Faolan's shoulders, the better to draw near him. The other hand still stroking, still burying through Fae's hair, and Dima knows that he can never hold caress or love this man too much, can never speak the fullness of his love—
But he can try. And he will try.
And, when he draws from this second kiss - slowly, gently, offering another brush of lips because he cannot so simply let go, even knowing there will be another kiss, even knowing there's no hurry, there need never be an end - when he rests his forehead against Faolan's and nudges, nudges, with a soft smile and a huffed laugh—
"The world remakes itself upon you.
“My world blooms on everything you are.
"And, Faolan, I'll bring the world to you, in burning and in bright renewal.
"My Dearest, My Love."
<.>
Moments pass with Faolan's arms around Dima, head resting against his chest, the pair of them caught in suspended silence. He feels the caress of Dima's hand through his hair and hears again, again in echo Dima's voice shaping the words My Love.
If anyone has ever loved him, they've never spoken it; certainly never with such ease and certainty. It's strange, new, bewildering that someone who only met him a week ago might offer him the world, might have a place in their heart solely for him. (Any other man, he would suspect of some plot to bring him shame in revenge for what he 'did' to Fedir, and by all rights, if anyone might do it, Dmitri Voronin would be at the top of his list-
If he had never met him. If he had never looked in Dima's eyes and listened to him speak of rivers and forests and stars long into the night. If he had never learned that once, there was a rose, and a seaside, and a broken heart.
Dmitri Voronin might have played him for a fool. Dima would never. All his faith feels not only to gather around this man, but to grow from him.)
He starts to speak, but a knock at the door heralds breakfast, and breakfast heralds speaking of a different kind - testing of command and obedience, of tenderness, of sudden bursts of joy between them. Before long, breakfast is intruded upon by Sen with Rin in tow, and there's no chance left to speak of yesterday. (Sen cheerfully helps himself to bits of unguarded breakfast and Faolan can't bring himself to be upset.)
There are chances for Faolan to catch Dima's eye and burn brightly with a blush, to duck his head in an abashed smile, to reach out and take his hand. The conversation may turn sober with talk of Calabra, but yesterday recedes into shadows.
Dima loves him. Dima means to stay with him, whatever that may mean.
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