shitlords!

[onefellswoop]

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.

Comments

[onefellswoop]

He doesn't drink. There's nothing to do but stare at Dima with that same confused wonder; nothing to do but lean his head to the touch at his cheek and feel something in his chest unknot, tension flowing from him at Dima's final pronouncement.

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.

<.>