Archive of Our Own ^beta

Seven years after the fateful attack on Zephrah, orchestrated by Ludinus Da’leth and spearheaded by Otohan Thull, Orym can proudly admit to himself that he has gotten much better at tending to the scars it left behind. He is far from mastering his emotions, of course, but the undeniable truth of the matter still persists. Orym is healing. He is happier. There are moments in which he is fully able to let those waves of guilt and terror consume the parts of himself they so long to break and mend them quickly after. Move on and on even with the constant reminders; live with it all.

At least most of the time.

The world has changed much in recent times and so has Zephrah. So has his family and friends. And when the anniversary of that day rolls around once again, something in the air shifts. It’s the very first time since the Rites of Catatheosis that the town mourns the losses with no one to answer some of their yet still so faithful calls; ever since Orym and his friends changed the nature of their grief and prayers.

Orym has never been a man of faith; but he cannot deny the serenity of being heard and soothed by that sense of belonging. He was granted some sense of closure by a god, after all, to move on and mourn the way his heart desired for so long.

A new kind of guilt sneaks up on the halfling then, one he has not yet learned to bridle. And he would later call himself a bit of a coward for what he does to ease that new guilt.

On that day of remembrance, Orym decides to take on another mission for the Tempest, one that he originally scheduled for the week to follow, if only to shield his eyes and heart from the odd sense of unwanted regret.

He runs himself ragged, works himself to the bone just to feel something else than his conscience ache. 

Perhaps he shouldn’t have left that day. Perhaps he should have heeded Dorian’s advice, who told him to take it easy as he held him close, stroked his hair and kissed his lips so sweetly. Perhaps he should have just stayed, snuggled into the warm safety of his boyfriend’s strong arms.

The fact is, he didn’t, the fool that he is. So it really is no wonder that by the end of the week, Orym finds himself shivering and coughing underneath the covers, his throat burning alongside his clogged sinuses all the way up to his pulsing skull. Every inch of his body feels too heavy to move, the world around him a blur of heat and colour as he blinks groggily at the ceiling.

Dorian panics a little about it, naturally. He paces up and down, occasionally chewing at the pad of his thumb.

“I told you not to go on that mission! What with that torrential downpour out there, the wind, that storm; and you didn’t even pack a coat! Keyleth told you to postpone it but no, you just had to be stubborn,” the genasi chastises sharply, but with more concern than bite in his voice.

When Orym doesn’t find it in himself to come up with an adequate excuse or argue about it, Dorian deflates on the spot, his face falling as he regards the shivering form of the halfling curled up in their shared sheets. “I’m so sorry, that was harsh,” he says weakly, shuffling over to sit at the edge of the bed. “You’re probably feeling terrible enough without me getting mad at you. I’m so sorry.” His eyes dart out the window, where the storm bites and claws its way around the corners of the house. “I know it was that day and things are weird and different now, but you know I am just worried and well…,” the bard sighs and places a cool, gentle hand on Orym’s forehead. Not a second later, he immediately withdraws as if he’s been scorched by the skin under his fingers. “Shit, you are burning up.”

Orym forces his leaden eyelids to stay open, as he stares up at the silhouette of his boyfriend hovering over him, eyes wide and glistening with worry and affection. His movements are liquid and delicate, unfocused and blurred at the edges. He looks so pretty even through the feverish haze of whatever sickness has claimed him.

“Dor…”

Cool fingers come to gently caress his cheeks again, a soothing balm on the burning heat of his skin.

Dorian heaves a sigh, thumb smoothing over Orym’s scar across his eyebrow. “Stay here, I’ll be right back,” he says and swiftly disappears from sight to shuffle into the kitchen.

Orym can’t do much but lie there and feel the sweat accumulate on his forehead. The shivers have subsided and now the blanket on top of him slowly feels like it might smother him at any movement. He tries to wiggle himself out of the cocoon of warm wool and fleece, limbs too weak to fight against the way the fabric suffocates him. His shirt clings to his soaked chest, heaving from the effort as he tries so hard to catch his breath.

Dorian returns quickly and sets a large glass of water down on the night stand next to the bed. “You need to stay hydrated,” he says carefully, as he watches Orym try to kick the blankets off himself.

“Too hot,” the halfling manages to croak.

Dorian’s eyes flash brightly in alarm as he leans over to gently peal the layers of warmth from his boyfriend’s body. “I got you,” he reassures as calmly as he can manage and pushes the blankets to the side. Orym can just so see his forehead wrinkle as the genasi’s large hand comes to rest on his chest. “Orym, your clothes are soaked through, you’re sweating waterfalls.”

The halfling is only partially aware of how uncomfortably his shirt hugs his torso, the heat and blur of his fever clogging his usual perception skills.

“We need to change you out of these…,” mutters Dorian under his breath, before he jumps up and all but flies out of the room. Orym can only watch him leave, swift and nimble like the wind. Always so light on his feet.

Orym’s body continues to pulse and ache with steady waves of discomfort, his arms and legs not only sore from the overexertion, but heavy with sickness and fever. Whenever he tries to swallow, his throat stings like sandpaper, like thorns wrapped around his neck. He tries his best to suppress the coughing too, but it worms its way out of his lungs no matter the amount of effort he puts in.

The halfling longs to just pass out and sleep the pain away, but everything in his body prevents him from getting anywhere near comfortable enough.

After a few minutes that could have also been hours from what Orym can perceive of the world in the delirious state he is in, Dorian returns with those featherlight steps of his. In his hands he carries a new shirt, a light pair of pants and a wash cloth.

The bed dips gently as the genasi sits down next to his boyfriend. “Alright, come here,” he hums gently and pushes a hand under Orym’s lithe form to guide him into a sit. Orym can’t do much more than be manhandled into whatever position the genasi sees fit, feeling the comforting pressure of the large hand between his shoulder blades, holding him secure and steady. “Can you lift your arms up just a little bit?”

Dorian then removes the thickest blankets and tosses them aside, as Orym gathers the strength he has left to do what he’s told and lift up his heavy arms. In an oddly soothing silence, with only the rain drumming against the window and the fire crackling low on the other side of the room, the genasi strips Orym out of his sweat-soaked clothes, dropping them on the growing pile next to the bed.

Once Orym is free of his confines, Dorian produces the wash cloth and starts to gently wipe the halfling’s skin clean of sweat, grime and heat. The light fabric feels heavenly on the smaller man’s skin, cool and soothing as it glides over his arms, chest and legs. Dorian is thorough and careful, like with everything he does, eyes focused as he holds Orym and guides the damp cloth over his bare shoulders.

The halfling sighs in relief, be it only a little, his head lolling to the front to make it easier for Dorian to reach the back of his neck.

“There you go,” Dorian hums softly from somewhere close to his ear and Orym all but involuntarily shift closer to him until he can feel the familiar puffs of warm breath grazing the side of his face. “Almost done.”

Dorian throws the cloth onto the pile of clothes and blankets, before carefully rubbing Orym completely dry with a towel and slipping the clean shirt and pants on.

“Better?” he asks quietly, as he lowers the halfling back into the pillows.

Orym can only nod his head, another wave of pain throbbing in his ears at the movement. He’s too exhausted to be able to think about actions and consequences at the moment, but he is conscious enough to curse himself into the nine hells and back.

“Best is to just rest now,” Dorian continues and rubs his own temples. “Not like you can do much else.”

The genasi grabs a lighter blanket from the end of the bed and throws it over Orym, before he cups his cheek, smoothing his thumb over the heated skin and running his fingers through the mess of hair on his head. Orym melts into the covers at the light scratch of fingernails against his scalp and drinks in the sweet and mellow sound of Dorian’s rich voice as he starts to hum a calming tone. Even through the fog of sickness, Orym quickly realizes that it’s not a normal lullaby. He can feel magic wash through his veins, instantly relieving him of some of the discomfort, enveloping him whole with sound and feeling, just enough for him to finally pass out.

Or at least he thinks he passes out.

Honestly, Orym isn’t sure if he is sleeping or not. Time seems to pass quicker, but the world is still around him. He can still feel it, lights dancing, shadows stretching under the roof. The rain grows louder, roars like wolves on the hunt. The shadows on the wall smile at him, they scurry across the room like rats, then smile wider when they halt to look at him. He shudders at their grimaces, wants to speak, to cry for help, but nothing happens. He can’t even open his mouth.

Sometimes, as he flickers in and out, he finds himself in a different position, unsure how he even got there. He swears he can hear voices, but no one seems to be around.

He’s not sure how much time has really passed when he wakes from whatever state he has fallen into. He blinks against the candlelight and finds the room darker than before. He is also suddenly terribly aware of the absence of the comforting presence of Dorian right next to him.

Orym groans as he rolls to the side, eyes scanning the room, and immediately spot Dorian jumping up from the chair in front of the fire place to rush over to him with a sound of surprise that resembles a hiccup more than anything else.

“Hey,” he says and places a hand on Orym’s forehead again. “Still burning…”

Orym stares at him, through him, as he asks, “Is someone else here?”

Dorian furrows his brow. “Hm? No,” he answers, visibly confused. “No baby, just me.”

“I heard people…”

A sad smile passes Dorian’s features as he runs a finger over the bridge of the halfling’s nose. “I think you were dreaming,” he hums. “I saw you tossing and turning.”

Orym makes a noise that is somewhere between confusion and acceptance, trying not to think about it too much and revel in the voice and warmth of his favourite person near him instead.

“You haven’t eaten…,” the genasi in question remarks after a while, concern in the edges of his tone.

Orym shakes his head. “No – ’m not hungry,” he croaks. That is one thing he is sure of. In truth, even just thinking about food or the liquid in the glass next to him makes him want to puke over the side of the bed.

“But you really need to drink,” Dorian persists softly, grabbing the glass from the night stand. “Please just a little bit?”

When Orym makes a face of disgust, Dorian flinches a little, seemingly uncomfortable with forcing the halfling into it. “I know, I know,” he breathes sympathetically. “It’s important though, darling. Please, can you just try a little? For me?”

There is little Orym can do against the look on Dorian’s face, eyes all wide and pleading; and a small rational part of his fever-ridden brain knows that he needs to get some water into his system too. With a groan, he sits up and closes a hand around Dorian’s holding the glass steady, guiding it to his lips and reluctantly swallowing some of the water down. The bard watches him carefully, making sure he doesn’t spill any.

“Thanks, love,” Dorian says as Orym pulls away again. There’s a tortured expression edged into his features as Orym sinks down again with a heavy sigh that warps into a nasty cough halfway. “Is there anything you need? Anything, I’ll bring it to you.”

Orym can’t wish for much else but the quick passage of time and some more relief for his throat, head and limbs. Dorian watches him, body rigid and tense; his face a mere blur of soft colour and familiarity. So pretty and bright, despite the fear and worry in those lovely eyes of his. “Just stay,” Orym finds himself pleading, already threatening to slip into bizarre dreams again and gathers the strength left in him to bring his hand up to Dorian’s arm and hold on for dear life. “Just stay here, please.”

Dorian shifts closer immediately. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promises softly and takes Orym’s hand in his. It’s cool and strong, anchoring Orym to reality through the fog in his head. “I’m right here.”

The genasi then sits down next to him again, his scent blanketing Orym in safety as he helps his boyfriend find a comfortable position to rest in. Before Orym can even close his eyes in hopes of drifting off, he senses magic in the air around them again. A new melody, something airy and sweet like honey. A hand strokes his arms, then chest, all the way down to his thighs, willing the muscles to relax and the ache to fade enough for him to find some sleep once more. 

He passes out into more strange fever dreams. He sees monkeys in the trees outside the window, a thousand little Misters that peek at him through the leaves shielding them from the heavy downpour. He sees people outside his window again, too many to count. So many unfamiliar faces drenched in shadows. Little dragons that might have been kites fighting their way through the storm, a bird the size of his torso tapping against the glass.

When he wakes once, there are compressions on his arms and legs. When he wakes again they are gone and the very first thing he spots is Dorian passed out on the recliner.

Orym shifts into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes and catching a glimpse of the sky outside. It’s dusk, the clouds still heavy and thick with more oncoming rain. The halfling stretches his limbs and comes to the quick realization that most of the pain has all but died away overnight. His mind feels a little clearer too.

He can only guess that Dorian pumped him full of healing magic throughout the course of the night. The thought makes his heart ache in sympathy. His eyes find the sleeping form of the genasi on the other side of the room, sprawled out with one leg hanging off the chair. He’s not in his nightgown, merely stripped off his shirt and pants as if in a hurry to find some rest after playing nurse for his boyfriend.

Along with a surge of guilt at the thought of Dorian keeping himself up all night for Orym’s sake, a sudden thirst overtakes him and he finds himself reaching for the glass of water next to him, sipping it greedily to the last drop.

At the sound of the glass scraping over the wooden surface of the table, Dorian wakes immediately and whirls around, his eyes lighting up in relief as he sees the halfling chug the water down. There’re dark rings under his eyes and his face is a little puffy, his hair a tangled mess hanging in a twisted bun just above his shoulder.

He makes a move to get up and rush over, but Orym gestures for him to sit back down, flashing a tired smile. “Go back to sleep, Dorian,” he says hoarsely. “You must be exhausted.”

The genasi halts, blinking wearily and nibbling at his bottom lip. “But…”

“I’m alright,” Orym assures, forcing the cough down as he does. “I’ll rest a little more too until the sun comes up, okay?”

Dorian seems reluctant, but Orym can see that he doesn’t have it in himself to fight exhaustion either. He nods his head, rubbing his eye and cheek as he does, before crawling back onto the recliner and curling into a somewhat comfortable position in front of the dying embers in the fireplace.

When morning comes and Orym wakes for the final time, the rain hasn’t stopped and he cannot help but wonder just how long it’ll last, as he groggily watches the heavy curtain draped across the fields behind the window. The sky is grey, heavy clouds and shrouds of fog obscuring the view into the valleys below.

Orym twists his hands into the blanket and pulls it up to his chin. A shiver rattles his body from head to toe as a series of coughs rises from his lungs and burns through his tender throat.

Summoned by the sound, Dorian appears next to him in the blink of an eye. “Are you okay?”

Orym nods, still coughing and trembling as his body, now seemingly rid of the fever, has cooled down significantly throughout the night.

“Come here,” Dorian hums and wraps Orym along with the blanket up in his arms to carry him across the room to the fire that he’s already lit anew for the day. Orym presses his cheek into the warmth of the genasi’s torso, lamenting the absence of it the second he sets him down on the recliner, even though the heat of the fire rolls over him like a tidal wave.

“Do you want something warmer?” Dorian asks as he turns to add more wood to the pile. “I can bring you a jacket or another blanket.”

“Yeah, but –,” Orym mutters, watching Dorian tend to the flame with a fire iron. “Something – from your closet, maybe?”

The genasi stops in his movement, fingers gripping the tool a little tighter. Orym spots the faintest hint of purple spreading across his nose and cheeks. Although, it could just be the heat.

“Ah – yes, ‘course…”

Before Orym knows it, he is wrapped in a fir green, long-sleeved tunic that he purchased for Dorian down at the market for his birthday not too long ago.

“Winter in the hills is merciless, Dorian,” Orym had told him. “You better get something warmer than those sheer shirts, as much as I enjoy seeing you in them.”

The collar and rim are adorned with delicate golden yarn weaving into sun-themed patterns. It’s large on Orym’s body, warm and comfortable. Most importantly however, it smells like Dorian. The collar carries the rich scent of his hair oil and the ozone smell of the fancy soaps he uses clings to the rest of it; and perhaps that is all he needs to get him through another cold autumn day.

Dorian’s cheeks never lose that purple tint as he takes in the sight of his smaller boyfriend curled up in his own clothes.

“Come here?” Orym demands shyly after a short while and opens up the blanket a little for the genasi to slip under next to him. Dorian doesn’t need to be told twice, shuffling over and pressing himself against the halfling’s side. All while the fire crackles and pops in front of them.

Orym lets out a drawn-out sigh and buries his nose in the collar of the tunic, hiding the rising feeling of guilt once more. “I’m so stupid,” he mutters, feeling his lungs sting with the need to cough again. “Should have listened to you.”

Dorian shakes his head and takes his hand underneath the blanket. “No, it’s okay, I was being rude yesterday,” he says.

“No,” Orym hisses through his teeth, frustration rising up through his belly to his heart. “No, it was – it was me being a stubborn mess. And now look at us. I told you I would take care of you.”

“Darling,” Dorian coos and pulls the smaller man closer. “You know that goes both ways. You always take such good care of me, every day. Every night, just like you promised. You do so much for me…”

“Not enough.”

“More than enough,” Dorian corrects and places a chaste kiss on his cheek that has Orym heating up fast than any fire could. “You’ve helped me through some of the most difficult weeks of my entire life. I don’t know what I would do without you by my side.”

“Gods,” Orym sighs and leans into the genasi’s touch. “Same here…”

With the sweat and burn of his fever subsided, Orym finds himself drinking up every wave of warmth radiating off Dorian’s body. The genasi usually doesn’t run particularly hot, not the way Orym does at least. Most of the time it’s almost like he’s surrounded by a cool, delicate breeze. The air around him seems to always be in motion; and yet when his arms pull Orym into his lap, the halfling is surrounded by nothing but sweet-smelling heat and comfort. The halfling melts to putty in his boyfriend’s embrace, even though a small but stern voice in the back of his mind keeps stubbornly reminding him that Dorian should probably keep his distance.

They stay like this for a while, until Orym swallows uncomfortably against his swollen throat, desperate for something to ease the discomfort again.

“I think I need some water…,” he croaks and coughs, as if his body is protesting against the sudden use of his voice. He makes an attempt to untangle himself from the arms locked around his chest and get his glass from the night stand, but Dorian perks up before he even gets the chance.

“Be right back!”

Orym shrinks into himself. “Babe, you don’t have to, I was just –”

But Dorian whirls around with a bright smile on his lips and interrupts him, “While we’re at it, are you hungry? You should really eat, Orym.”

“Mhm,” Orym sighs, looking up at Dorian like he’s the last remaining lighthouse in the darkest storm at sea. “Yeah, actually. I think I could try something light. But again, I can –”

“Say no more!” Dorian chirps and claps his hands. “I’ll go get some supplies, we’re kind of out of – well, everything.”

“Dorian…”

“Wait here, don’t you move! I’ll be back before you can say Zephrah.”

On his way out the door, Dorian passes the bouquet of flowers Orym picked for him on his way back home from his latest mission on Zephrah’s memorial day; ‘pretty like the sunset’ he told him, drenched to the bone and with a sunken face that was all but pleading for forgiveness. Dorian isn’t stupid. He knows very well that Orym felt – and still feels – guilty about the whole ideal and while a part of him is slightly peeved, the bigger part of him is drowning in concern, desperate to have his boyfriend cured of his sickness as fast as possible.

He runs through the rain on nimble feet, the list of ingredients for Alma’s homemade chicken soup clutched tightly in his hand. He’s seen her make it at least ten times, so it shouldn’t be such a big deal preparing it himself, right? Granted, Dorian has never touched a spatula or a pot in his life. At least not with a successful end result to the process. What he is quite good at however is improvising, it’s part of an entertainer’s lifestyle, after all.

Shielding the list from the rain with his cloak, the genasi flies across the market, checking each individual item off dutifully and greeting as many people as he can along the way. He even gets a discount from one of the vendors, a young half-elven man who flips a silver coin back to him with a wink.

Once he’s done, he decides to quickly check in with Baernie and ask her about herbs that might be helpful for a quick recovery. Perhaps something to put in a nice hot cup of tea. That’s what his mother and nurses used to do for him and his brother whenever they were sick.

Of course, upon his arrival, he’s met with Baernie’s face twisting into an image of confusion that slowly morphs into worry and settles on something resembling slight irritation more than anything, as Dorian gives her the rundown of their situation.

“He just cannot help himself,” she mutters and gestures for him to come inside. “Come on, I’ll pack a bag of healing herbs for you to bring him.”

Dorian nods his head in thanks. “You’re the best!”

On the way home, the bundle of herbs tucked into his chest pocket and the bag of ingredients balanced in his arms, Dorian can’t help but feel a little accomplished. It’s a good feeling, a fulfilling sensation, to be a helping hand for someone else.

For 27 years of his life, he has been cared for. Cradled in a safe environment, with servants to tend to his needs, guards by his side wherever he went. A prince, protected and hidden away for his own good. He had a nurse to give him medicine, cooks to prepare an abundance of luxurious dishes, priestess to pray for him. When all he ever wanted was to discover how life works for himself.

Now, he can help someone else. Now he can protect and care for a person he’s loved like no other before. Something he has dreamed of; something he has failed at before. And perhaps it’s redemption, perhaps it’s only that for the rest of his life; no doubt, it’s part of it all.

But Orym has provided him with a home, a place to return, a voice to soothe pain, arms to fall asleep in, words to cling to when he wakes from night terrors. Hell, he’s gotten his father to laugh at his stupid puns. Orym does too much every day, and Dorian is more than happy to return the favour. Dorian wants his own two arms to be that same cradle for Orym, a stronghold to run to.

And part of all that is cooking his boyfriend a delicious soup to easy his sore throat, gods damn it.

The only issue is, Dorian notices as he passes the flower bed next to their main entrance door, he cannot cook for the life of him.

He drops the ingredients off in the hallway, before sprinting straight back into town, parchment and pen in hand, straight to Alma’s house.

Orym watches, his heart fluttering against his ribcage in a dance of adoration, as Dorian stands in front of the stove, clad in his mother’s apron that barely covers his chest, stirring the soup simmering in the large pot with deep focus. He catches the occasional glimpse of the recipe that he’s had Alma scribble down earlier today, making sure to follow the steps down to the last detail. His hair is frizzed from the steam and the kitchen a whole mess, but Dorian looks as determined as never before.

“You know, I am quickly realizing I don’t have any idea what I’m doing,” the genasi chuckles awkwardly as he brings the wooden spoon up to his nose to give the soup a good sniff. “It’s always you cooking for us or your mom bringing leftovers and you know, I had servants to make my food back home and it’s not as easy as it looks. I swear I have this feeling I’m doing something wrong and I just haven’t noticed it yet.”

Orym hums, sipping his herbal tea with a smile on his face. “You’re doing great, babe.”

The soup turns out perfect. Piping hot, mild and smooth, yet rich in flavour. Dorian went lighter on the spices for the halfling’s sake, even though Orym knows the genasi prefers his food well-spiced. Some of the dishes he’s had in the Squall truly put his spice tolerance to the test, much to the amusement of the cooks responsible and the Wyvernwind leaders themselves.

“It’s really good, Dorian,” Orym hums in contentment at the feeling of the warm broth soothing his swollen throat with each spoon he swallows down. “I think you have to cook more often from now on.”

The genasi beams, while simultaneously sinking into his shoulders. An expression that is so distinctly Dorian it has Orym’s heart swelling to about twice its normal size at the sight of it.

“I barely did anything…”

“You literally did everything.”

“It’s Alma’s recipe!”

“And you nailed it,” Orym emphasizes and shoves more of the soup into his mouth. Dorian rolls his eyes but wiggles a little in his seat, unable to contain his excitement at being praised. 

When both their bowls are empty and their bellies filled, Dorian immediately gets to cleaning the kitchen. Orym insists on helping as best he can manage, weak on his legs, but determined to not have his boyfriend stand here alone, scrubbing pots and pants all night. Dorian seems reluctant, but quickly accepts that there is no persuading the halfling otherwise, so he lets him dry off the dishes, but not without keeping a close eye on him the entire time.

Once they’re done, Dorian pours them a hot bath and adds some of his own floral oils, as well as some of the herbs from the pouch Baernie has provided him with to the steaming tub. They soak in the water for what feels like hours, taking in the mix of sweet and lush scents of flowers and forests, before scrubbing each other clean from behind their ears to in-between their toes. Dorian mimics the same motions he went through the day before, guiding the cloth along Orym’s back with care and tenderness.

It’s a near divine intimacy. Something Orym has been craving for years and is now offered so openly and freely. It makes him want to burst; burst with the overwhelming feeling of being loved even when he’s at his lowest, useless and sick and undesirable. Even then. Especially then.

Orym has all but melted once they are done with their bath, thawed, smooth and weak to sleep’s embrace.

When Dorian sets him down on the bed and makes a move to leave him there and prepare the recliner as his sleeping spot for the night, Orym makes a small, near desperate sound and pulls the genasi under the blanket with him. He meets no resistance whatsoever, as if Dorian has just been waiting for permission.

Curled into a broad chest, lured to sleep and temporarily relieved of his pain with the lovely harmony of another soothing healing spell, Orym falls asleep.

He sleeps and sleeps until the sun rises the next morning.

The next day, Orym feels much better. He’s still coughing, his throat is still slightly swollen and his nose running, but he doesn’t feel like total garbage anymore, so that’s definitely an improvement.

He spends his morning reading a book and drinking tea, snuggled into the side of his boyfriend who’s in the process of writing a new song for an upcoming show in Emon. The genasi nibbles at the end of his pen, deep in thought and seemingly stuck on a rhyme, as he keeps mumbling words under his breath that sound somewhat similar to “mystery”. Orym tries to sneak a peek then and again, smiles at a few lines he can make out, before Dorian pulls the parchment away with a cheeky smirk.

At the end of a chapter, Orym tosses the book aside and stretches. “Man, I need to keep my routine up, or my muscles are gonna rust.”

“You’re not doing any of that,” Dorian clicks his tongue at him, not taking his eyes off the piece of parchment propped against his knee. “In the state you’re in, any physical activity can be a serious health hazard!”

“Sorry, dad,” Orym blows a raspberry and smirks up at the genasi. “I wasn’t planning on going for a run through the hills, don’t worry. Not that I could anyways.”

“Better wait a few more days,” Dorian says as he puts the pen down. “Or weeks. The longer the better.”

“You’ll have to tie me to the bed.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Orym punches him in the arm and snorts which promptly triggers another coughing fit shortly after. “Alright, I’ll stay as long as you want me to, if you join me when I’m all better,” he croaks once Dorian has shoved a glass of water into his hands.

“Not happening,” Dorian hums. “You know you’re faster than a damn rabbit in full sprint. No way I can keep up.”

Orym merely pouts up at the genasi, who playfully pouts back, before placing a cheeky kiss on his lips.

“Hey,” Orym gasps-then-coughs in surprise. “I’m contagious, blue boy.”

Dorian kisses him again, this time on the cheek, at least. “But you’re so cute.”

Orym moves his face away, cheeks heated from the lingering feeling of his boyfriend’s soft lips on his. He cannot deny just how much he’s missed the sensation, despite the circumstances. “That’s not gonna help you when you catch whatever I have right now.”

“I can take it,” Dorian grins. “I’m a big, strong boy.”

Orym merely rolls his eyes again, before fighting his way up to teeter over to the kitchen on shaky legs to prepare two more cups of tea, watching the third day of endless rain pass by in front of the window.

Once settled again, Dorian sings him a few lines of the new song; Opals and Diamonds, which has Orym wondering if it’s even possible to love a person more than he does right now. In turn, Orym reads the genasi a few passages of his book, but is quickly stopped after the third coughing fit of the first page.

He is wrapped in more blankets as a result.

Only a few days later, Orym is back on his quick feet and fully recovered, yet finding himself at the bedside of a snotty-nosed Dorian, who still manages to look somewhat presentable even when he is recovering from a fever and fighting a nasty cough.

Orym presses a bowl of soup into his hands.

“Told you not to kiss me,” he chastises and brushes a strand of hair out of the genasi’s unusually pale face. “And you didn’t listen.”

“In my defence,” Dorian wheezes. “I couldn’t kiss you for like – a few days and that sucked…”

“So,” Orym says and throws a blanket over his boyfriend’s body. “Was it worth it?”

“Totally.”