Chapter Text
“Hey. Have a good time?” Cyrus asks from the driver’s seat as Dorian slides in on the passenger side and tosses his duffle back into the second row of the car.
“Yeah,” Dorian answers, his smile lopsided and his gaze far away. “Had a really good time.”
Cyrus nods. He doesn’t really want to know any more than that about his baby brother’s romantic weekend away.
“You and Mor hang out?” Dorian asks to fill the silence before it can begin.
“Uh, yeah. Saw her on Da'leysen for a bit,” his older brother answers absentmindedly.
Cyrus throws an arm across the back of the passenger seat and twists himself around to check his blind spot. No meandering pedestrians. No cars cruising by looking for parking. He’s all set to begin backing out of the parking space when he sees it. Sees them. Plural.
“Gods, Brontë!” he shouts. “You’re bruised to Yios and back! What the fuck!”
Dorian feels himself flush violet from the tips of his ears down to his collarbone; down along his hickey-covered neck and burning across his face. On instinct he makes himself smaller, shrinking down in his seat and bringing his shoulders up to his ears to hide the offending plum-colored marks. If he could, he’d crawl completely inside his sweater. But then another heat creeps out from the center of his chest, blooming and unfurling out until its tendrils tickle at his twisting stomach. He remembers Orym and what the halfling had done to paint him up this way. Sucking and biting and worrying at his delicate blue skin. And then he remembers what he had done in return…
“You should see the other guy,” Dorian quips and promptly slaps his palm over his own traitorous mouth.
“Sorry!” he squeaks, but his apology is drowned out by Cyrus’s bark of laughter and the clap of a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“A Wyvernwind after all,” Cyrus booms, and a part of Dorian might be just a little bit proud.
◇◆◇◆◇
At home a few days later, enjoying his ordered time off after traveling to Whitestone, Orym flips a page in his copy of A History of the Dwendalian Empire: 790 P.D. to Today (Vol. II) and snuggles down into the corner of the sofa. The cushions mold in around him, soft and worn down from years of comfortable burrowing. His phone buzzes violently on the coffee table, assaulting his ears.
Everything okay?” he says when he picks up the call.
Dorian’s response is hurried and whispered. “Yes yes! I’m fine. But…Can I come over? Cyrus says now that I have a boyfriend he doesn’t feel so bad kicking me out of the apartment. Mor is coming by in like 20 minutes and I don’t want to be here to hear whatever they have planned.”
“Of course,” Orym chuckles. “I’ll make popcorn.”
◇◆◇◆◇
Dorian knocks awkwardly on Orym’s front door. He’s panicking a little and wishing he had just sent an “I’m outside!” text like a normal person. He’s rocking back and forth on his heels when Orym answers the door.
Orym’s cheeks color a little bit when he realizes why Dorian is hesitant. He looks away from his boyfriend, refusing to make direct eye contact.
“Sorry I–”
“This is so–”
“…you should come in,” Orym finally manages to get out and Dorian shuffles past him into the house.
He pauses for a moment in the little entryway and then, seeing Orym’s work boots and hiking shoes lined up neatly, slips off his shoes.
“It’s silly, but I feel…nervous? I think?” Dorian says with forced laughter. “Which I know is ridiculous because you’re my boyfriend and all, but it is kind of funny being in here for the first time.”
“Dorian,” Orym says fondly and pulls him down for a quick kiss. “You are more than welcome in my home. The only reason you haven’t been in here yet is that I didn’t trust myself..."
“Oh,” Dorian says softly, flushing deeper and allowing himself to be led into the living room. Orym deposits him on one end of the sofa and grabs some drinks from the kitchen before settling in next to him.
Orym gestures to the stack of dvd cases on the coffee table next to the bowl of fresh popcorn. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want to do, but I took the liberty of pulling out some movies for you to pick from, if you want.”
Orym watches on with a soft smile as Dorian shuffles through the film options. It’s strange, in a good kind of way, to see Dorian sitting on the other end of the couch where Will used to sit. As always though, Orym is struck not by their similarities, but by their differences. Dorian sits perched on top of his legs, folded in on himself, appearing smaller than usual. Will was always sprawled out, his long limbs draped over the sides of the couch and his feet poking into Orym’s space.
“This one. I don’t even care what it’s about,” Dorian giggles moments later, jabbing his finger at the cocky looking elven man on the cover of Topflight.
“You have excellent taste,” Orym grins and pops the disc in to start the movie.
It doesn’t take long for them to gravitate towards each other. By the end of the title sequence Orym is tucked up under Dorian’s chin snuggling in for warmth and cuddles. He can feel Dorian rumble with laughter against his back and hear the soft reaction noises Dorian makes under his breath as his breath tickles behind Orym’s ear.
“She’s pretty and all,” Dorian murmurs at the start of a thinly veiled sex scene two-thirds into the film. “But there really should be more pilot-on-pilot action in this movie.”
“Baby, I have been saying that for years ,” Orym chuckles. “The first time I saw this movie I was 14 and two full couch cushions away from Will. We didn’t know it until years later, but we pretty much had simultaneous sexual awakenings to this next scene.”
As if on cue, the elven man from the cover emerges from behind the fogged up shower glass. A short towel hangs precariously low on his hips and beads of water roll down the suntanned expanse of his muscular torso. The following shot focuses on the flex of his shoulders and back muscles. Another angle flashes an excellent view of his ass and Dorian audibly groans.
“ Please tell me he gets with his flight partner in the end,” he whines.
“Not last I checked,” Orym laughs. “You’ll have to pitch that idea for a reboot.”
“Maybe.” Dorian smiles and twists Orym around to face him. “Wanna help me write it?”
“I could do some brainstorming,” Orym whispers against Dorian’s mouth, falling forward into a simmering kiss.
When Orym pulls away to breathe, Dorian leans back in. “Hey, soldier. Heard your ride is out of commission. Wanna take me for a spin instead?”
“Oh, so it’s that kind of ‘reboot’ then, is it? Putting the top in Topflight ?” Orym laughs. The sound turns into a soft gasp when Dorian follows through, pressing him down into the sofa cushion and straddling him.
“Dorian! The movie…” Orym yelps, only to be cut off once again by heated kisses and the firm press of Dorian’s thigh against his groin.
“Dorian’s not my callsign,” the genasi rasps into his ear.
“ Fine. Baby blue, then?” Orym squirms under Dorian’s gaze, waiting to see if his offering is well received.
“I could work with that, my little rabbit.”
Orym blinks up at him. “Rabbit? How is that sexy?”
“Well,” Dorian explains, kissing and sucking down the smaller man’s neck and pinning both of his wrists down with one large musician's hand. “I heard you fuck like one. Is that true, my little bunny?”
“One way to find out,” Orym grins and slides his way out from underneath Dorian, though not without some effort.
Dorian twists around on the sofa, eyes surfacing just over the back of it and tracking Orym’s movements, like a predator lying in wait. He can hear the forced slide of odds-and-ends against the bottom and sides of a wooden drawer. The subsequent shove and then slam of said drawer. Swift feet picking over carpet and hardwood.
Orym springs his way back into Dorian’s lap and kisses him roughly. “I have an idea, but you have to make a deal with me first, okay?
“What did you have in mind?” Dorian’s hands slide up under Orym’s shirt and ghost over his sides.
Orym’s answer is drawn out by the erratic jerking of limbs and shuffling of bodies as they divest each other of their clothing. “I’ve seen this movie plenty, but you’re not off the hook. If you promise to keep watching the movie, I’ll take over from here. Think you can do that for me? Think you can be a good boy and watch the movie while I get ready to stuff myself full of your cock?”
The noise Dorian makes is somewhere between a whimper and a groan, bucking his hips up reflexively in response.
“Sorry, Baby blue. I can’t hear you,” Orym teases.
“Gods, Orym. Yes. Fuck. I’ll be so good. I’ll watch the whole movie. Twice, even.”
“Who’s Orym?” the halfling growls low against Dorian’s throat and chuckles. He redirects Dorian’s gaze to the film before he can respond and sets to work opening himself up. It’s a slow and thorough process. Thoroughly tortuous, if you ask Dorian, who is still wiggling and whimpering between Orym’s thighs, ever so careful to keep his eyes trained on the screen while allowing his hands to wander.
Dorian realizes belatedly that Orym has seen this movie too many times. So many that he is able to synchronize the tight stretch of his hole around Dorian’s cockhead and the hot glide of Dorian’s shaft against his inner walls with the revving engines and swelling soundtrack of a take-off sequence. Dorian’s stomach drops as if he really were taking off in a plane. Orym rocks back and forth in his lap, starting them up and bouncing their way up into the atmosphere with a steadily growing pressure. He grips Dorian’s shoulders tightly before exhaling and fucking himself down in earnest. His strokes are slow, but hard and fluid, each movement counting for all its worth.
Dorian does his best to hold on tight, white knuckling the sofa cushions and the meat of Orym’s thighs. He holds the halfling steady, pressing oval shaped bruises into his hips and resisting the urge to bite dull, toothy patterns into his shoulders and chest. He keeps his eyes trained on the pilots on the screen, just like Orym told him too.
“You can still move, you know,” Orym teases breezily, though the sweat drips down his brow from exertion.
“Sorry, busy watching,” Dorian grins cheekily and moves to rest his hands behind his head. Orym is quick to catch his wrists and return Dorian’s hands to his own waist, which only makes Dorian grin even wider. His laugh is low and dark, but still playful, dancing like lightning across Orym’s skin. “I think I’d rather watch you, if that’s alright.”
Orym opens his mouth to protest. That wasn’t the deal. Wasn’t the plan. But his words twist and transform in his throat, finally coming out as a moan when Dorian gets a slender hand on his thick, mushroom-headed cock. He strokes gently, dilated cyan pupils tracking Orym’s every shiver and twitch.
“We can watch the movie another time,” Dorian says huskily and reaches to caress Orym’s cheek with his free hand. “But I only get this moment with you once. Let me watch you be beautiful, my love.”
Orym’s chest feels too small for his heart. If he wasn’t already sure about Dorian, he thinks that line alone would have undone him. He nods fervently, desperately approving of Dorian’s deviation. “Okay.”
So Dorian does. He takes Orym in hand more firmly and strokes him in time to each thrust. Orym leans in for a kiss, but finds himself halted. Dorian’s outstretched arm holding him back far enough to allow the genasi full visual range: Dorian’s own hand gripping Orym’s muscular shoulder. Each thick swallow as it reverberates on the ridges of Orym’s delicate throat. Orym’s silent, slack jawed scream as he’s vaulted over the edge. The flex of Orym’s core, squeezing tight and wringing the pleasure from Dorian’s cock.
Dorian has never cared for gods and Orym is at most cordial, but in this moment they both swear to powers higher than themselves. Some out-of-body thing has plucked their souls, raw and naked, from their chests and touched the sensitive nerve ends to each other, blinding hot and transcendental.
“I know I’ve said it before,” Dorian says shakily, once he’s returned to his body. He looks up into Orym’s sex flushed face. “But I am so incredibly in love with you. I just need to be sure you know that.”
“I do know, and I feel the same. Perhaps even more, if you can believe it,” Orym says shyly, despite their current contortion.
They smile wetly at each other and separate themselves gently. In the bright white light of the scrolling credits, they clean each other up. Orym adjusts the cushions so that they sag into each other properly and settles back down.
“I would actually like to watch a movie all the way through with you sometime, you know,” he says, pressing his cheek to Dorian’s side.
“That could be fun.” Dorian shifts so that he can pet his hand fondly through Orym’s loose curls. He huffs a laugh to himself. “We might need chaperones though. At least until one of us remembers what self-control is like.”
“Not it,” Orym says with a smile. And then after a briefer moment, “I know you were mostly kidding, but chaperones could be kind of fun. We could plan a movie night with my sisters? And maybe their partners too so you aren’t outnumbered?”
“That actually sounds…really nice. I like it.” Dorian nods and then his smile splits into a grin. “Especially the part where I’m not alone with the triplets.”
“So shy for a performer,” Orym muses. He places a kiss to Dorian’s chest, right above where the fluttering of his heart must be, and then pats his side encouragingly. “We should get ready for bed though. We both still work in the morning and you know Cyrus isn’t going to cut you any slack.”
Dorian groans and drags himself off of the sofa, trudging along behind Orym, suddenly quite tired.
◇◆◇◆◇
Showered, changed, and ready for sleep, Orym sits a little stiffly on the foot of the bed. Dorian wavers in the doorway, unsure of which side, if any, is to be his for the night.
“Sorry,” Dorian grimaces. “I just don’t know…where should I–?”
“I’m trying to work that out myself,” Orym says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t get me wrong! I want you here. I just don’t know how this all works here . It was different in Whitestone.”
“I know.” Dorian sits down delicately beside him and takes his hand. “I know…”
The air is thick and heavy; sticky and unpleasant in Dorian’s throat when he continues.
“What if you don’t tell me? We’ll sleep on the same sides as Whitestone and that’s that.”
The prospect makes Orym’s stomach squirm, but it’s the best option they have. He nods and flicks on the nightstand light before scooting over to his side of the bed. Dorian rises to turn off the overhead light and slides in tentatively, suspicious of the space he’s filling.
It’s a complicated feeling for Orym, to have a larger body pressed against his back again in the dark in this bed. He’s on his side of the bed, he tells himself. Dorian’s not on Will’s side. Orym is just on his preferred side and Dorian is on…the other one. Still, he finds himself quiet and contemplative. Lost in times long past and dreams long dead.
“They built this house, you know. Will and Derrig,” Orym says eventually into the darkness. “That first summer after we started dating. Will had just turned 17 and he told his dad he was going to marry me someday. Derrig just laughed and told him that they better get building then.”
Orym stares up at the ceiling while he speaks, his body pressed up against the gentle rise and fall of Dorian’s chest. Dorian gives Orym’s hand a squeeze, their fingers slotting together tightly. After a moment and a deep breath, Orym continues.
“I thought he was crazy, but it made Will happy, so I spent the summer here with him: sanding down floors, staining furniture, carving all the knobs for the cabinet doors. At the end of the day they’d go home to Nel and the girls and I’d go back to have dinner with Ma. But some nights Will would come get me and we’d sneak back out. He’d bring a thick quilt and a basket full of cookies or a bottle of honey wine that he swiped from the kitchen. We’d lay here, on the unfinished floor between the half built walls, and look up at the stars where the roof should have been. Some nights the moons would fall perfectly into frame and he’d whisper, ‘Baby, look. It’s us, right up there, together like always.’ and we’d giggle and make love on a quilt tossed over cold hardwood like only young bodies can.”
Orym’s smiling fondly at the memory, but then he remembers himself. Remembers where he is and remembers that Dorian is pressed beside him, so he lets his words fade out. They feel thick in his throat, anyway. Probably for the best if he stops waxing poetic about another man while his boyfriend, silent and unbreathing in that strange air genasi way of his, holds him tightly. Orym wipes the beginnings of a tear from his eyes and snuggles in closer to Dorian.
“You don’t have to stop, you know,” Dorian says softly. “I don’t mind. He’s a part of you.”
Orym’s smile is thin and sad. “What else do you want to know then?”
“Everything, Orym. I want to know every last bit of you.”
“The plan was always to add a second floor someday. For, uh, for children.”
“And do you still…?”
“I don’t know,” Orym shakes his head. “I don’t know anymore. I haven’t had much of a reason to think about it in the last few years. Right now I’m just glad to have you.”
“I understand. Think about it when you’re ready and, uh, let me know I guess.” Dorian clears his throat.
“So yeah,” Orym soldiers on. “It’s an overwhelming thing, I think. To be gifted a home. I don’t think Will realized it when he started the project, but I’m glad for it. Glad to be surrounded by how much he loved me. Glad to be here now with you and to know how much you love me.”
Orym twists around in Dorian’s arms and smiles, his eyes noticeably wet in the moonlight. He takes the larger man’s face in his hands and kisses him, softly but fully. “And how much I love you , Dorian Storm.”
Dorian thinks he knows exactly what Orym means, about being gifted a home. It’s how he’s starting to feel about Zephrah. How he feels at the bakery with his brother and their new friends. How he feels when he holds Orym close and kisses him back oh so sweetly; a sense of peace and belonging and incredible gratitude for this man who feels like home.
Eventually, they fall asleep, wrapped up in each other and too relaxed to bother pulling apart.
◇◆◇◆◇
On Miresen morning, already buckled into his uniform for the day, Orym bites his lip in a failed attempt to stifle a goofy smile as he places a magnet in his locker, right beside a photo of him and Will on their wedding day. In the photo, Orym is baby-faced, his bright green eyes lacking crows’ feet and his stomach bursting with butterflies. Will has a twisted little mustache that took him months to grow out thick enough to convince Nel and the girls to let him keep it for the wedding.They’re just looking at each other. It shouldn’t be a remarkable photo, but, to Orym at least, it is all the same. He remembers that moment, looking over at Will like he was the only other thing in the entire world, despite them being surrounded by, quite literally, every person either of them had ever met in their young lives.
In this moment, though, Orym is smiling at a silly little piece of plastic that reads “Whitestone is for Lovers” in that classic Whitestone Tourism Board font. Dorian had insisted that they each get something to commemorate the trip and any others they might take together.
~
“Magnets?” Dorian suggested. “You could put yours in your locker at work and I’ll put mine on the big cake fridge?”
“What happens when we end up with duplicates of all our magnets?” Orym laughed. “Why do we need two sets?”
Dorian looked a bit stunned, but brightened again quickly. “We’ve been boyfriends for 18 hours and you’re already planning for when I move in? Buy a guy a drink first.”
Orym had giggled at the exaggerated way Dorian fluttered his eyelashes. And also, maybe, a bit because he had startled himself with how quickly his heart was moving. And then startled again at the realization that Dorian had not only realized Orym was falling fast, but also tried to save him from himself. The whole thing only made Orym plummet faster.
~
“Orym,” Lita calls, not for the first time. “What the hells is up with you?”
“Nothing,” he answers quickly, hoping she doesn’t say anything about his blush tinged cheeks. “Just glad to be back home.”
“I’m sure you are,” she says knowingly.
Orym turns around once he’s got his bracers fashioned just-so. Lita scrunches her face when she looks at him properly for the first time that morning. Then her eyebrows jump and she gives him a look he hasn’t seen in so long he forgets quite what it means.
“What?” he asks stupidly.
“Put on a jacket,” Lita hisses at him.
“It’s not that cold, Li. I just got back from Whitestone, for Exandria’s sake,” he laughs, getting the uncomfortable feeling that he’s missed something, but soldiering on anyway.
“Grab your uniform jacket and Zip. It. Up.” Lita instructs, gesturing conspicuously at her neck.
Orym touches his own neck absentmindedly until his fingers graze a plum-colored bruise. His face grows hot and he remembers Dorian’s… enthusiasm the evening before.
“Fuck!” Orym growls to himself and zips up his jacket to hide the evidence of their escapades for his shift. Lita gives him a pat on the back that might be characterized by some as a slap, but he is thankful either way for her big-sisterly advice wrapped in Captain’s orders.
“Anyway,” Orym begins, looking for anything to discuss that wasn’t his own relationship. “What do you think about getting all four of us together for a movie night sometime soon? I was thinking maybe Dorian too for some sibling bonding time?”
“Yeah, okay,” Lita answers, allowing her little brother a sliver of dignity as they walk towards their posts, assuming their professional personas for the day. “What movie are we thinking, though? Because that’s make or break it for me, Orym.”
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