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The first orders that Dorian gives Dariax do not come from a conscious thought.
They’re just simple requests that come from an innocent place. Get me some breakfast. Let me see your spear. Can you heal me? He doesn't even notice Dariax never denies him anything until, one day, he asks something from Orym and he does say no.
He does not mean to ask Orym, but he doesn’t look back before talking and he thinks it’s Dariax walking behind him (it's dark, and he just sees a shadow that’s shorter than him). Dariax is always around him so it was just easier to assume. A mistake, he can admit; but judging by Orym's face, not as minor as Dorian would've thought.
"You move your ass and get your own dinner, Dorian."
"Sorry, Orym," he says, and then, not thinking at all, "I thought you were–"
"Dariax? Yeah, I guessed as much." He says, exasperation bleeding into the words. "He is not your—", he sighs. "That he actually doesn't mind doing stuff for you should not be a reason for you to take advantage of him".
That shuts Dorian up for good. He stays there for a minute, not answering, and Orym must mistake his surprise for contrition and says, as if he needed to defend his argument further. “Think of how you would feel if I was giving you orders all the time,” and leaves.
Still trying to process the first part of the conversation, he ignores the way that would make him feel. Because Orym does not usually give orders but he doesn’t need to, his deadpanned statements being usually enough to get the same result. His presence is a tangible entity inside the group; and specially as a satellite around his own relationship with Dariax.
No, he can’t think about Orym before disentangling Dariax’s mystery first. The point at issue: he does not take advantage of Dariax. He may make requests. He may receive, but that doesn’t mean Dariax is not an adult that cannot say no. That doesn’t mean that he even could take advantage of him.
Or does it?
In the next few days, he actually starts paying attention to himself and the way Dariax and him orbit each other. The first thing he notices is that he has gotten used to Dariax being eager to hear about whatever he needs, he can’t deny it. It’s just so easy to keep going, to ask him for little favors and watch how he does them that he actually has to stop himself sometimes, because he has to be careful not to overdo it when Orym is around and aware. Which is not an easy task because the fucker is silent as a leaf that falls in the middle of the forest.
The conclusion of his little experiment is more than a little mind-blowing, because of course it's convenient for Dorian that Dariax obeys him, and it comes easy to him to request mindless things and get them, but Dorian knows it's not that. It's not that at all.
Of course from the outside he seems to be in advantage during these interactions, but what he asks is not actually important—it’s the way Dariax looks at him when he accomplishes the little errands. His eyes shine in a way that makes Dorian's heart flutter in his chest. There is a specific, special smile, almost shy and thoroughly hopeful.
Did I do it well, Dorian?
Sometimes, Dorian wants to take Dariax apart little by little to see if that way he would be able to understand him. Where are you from and who hurt you and who loved you and how are you like this. In battle, he is resilient and trustworthy and dives head-first into danger in order to protect them all. Dorian is happy that they have him on their side. Without him really realizing he has ended up loving these strangers and allowing them to make a home in his heart. He doesn’t know a lot about Dariax, about his life before; for all the stuff he says, he is always careful to talk in a way that both his family and his life previous to their encounter is a blank page in Dorian’s knowledge.
Questions may be asked and they will be answered, but Dariax will end up deflecting his attention, it always feels too casual to be really truthful. Who cares, Dorian thinks, but Dorian cares, and he would like to pick at him until he knows everything, just to be aware of it, just to know how to keep him by his side. Dariax always says that if Dorian goes, he goes, but who knows how much that is gonna last.
Dorian doesn’t want to be alone again.
The spider queen knew, when he looked at him, that he would do anything to avoid going back to being alone: to the first days, weeks, months since he ran away and to being robbed and mugged and laughed at. To the hunger.
Before leaving home, he didn’t know someone could be so hungry.
His manners stank of protocol and old, rotten gold. Dorian used to think that no one could be as despised as wealthy people with no troubles, but he was fast to understand that people like him, failed ones that didn’t know anything about life, were even more hated.
It’s different with his friends. He loves them all, and even now that he remembers the week before starting his adventure, he knows it happened way too fast, but that doesn’t make his feelings less truthful.
The clearing he discovers is small but it’s located far enough from their camp. He can’t see him yet but he knows Dariax is going to appear behind him in a couple minutes. They both know their little routine by heart by now, the little gestures and nods that Dorian suspects at least half the group has at least some clue about. It’s not a secret, but Dorian wants to preserve this—whatever name it should have—he has with Dariax just for him.
The only one he is sure knows about them is Orym. His presence can be felt close to them when it shouldn’t and it’s understable because Orym doesn’t trust Dorian and therefore he doesn’t trust Dariax when he’s alone with Dorian. Whatever Orym is thinking about these moments is not true, though. This is different, this is him sitting on a stump in the middle of the clearing and just waiting for Dariax’ noisy steps. Waiting for him to say, “Dorian?” in that small voice he uses when talking to him sometimes, like he is preparing himself for Dorian’s rejection.
Dorian smiles.
“Hi,” he says, turning his head back; if the relief he can feel coming off Dariax had a smell it would be fresh and salty, like the sea.
Once he knows it’s allowed, Dariax loses all hesitation and gets close to him from his back, rough fingers entangling on his hair and moving it to the side. At this time of the day the chilly, humid air of the jungle is cool enough when touching his uncovered neck that it makes him shiver. The fact that he can feel Dariax’ hand moving from his shoulder to his chest certainly doesn’t help. He drops his head to the front first, and then he rolls it around until he is looking up at Dariax’ face.
He moves up his hand and hooks it on Dariax’s neck. The warm light of the sunset percolates in between the trees and their leaves and Dariax’s hair seems impossibly red. “Do you want me to,” Dariax says, and moves his hand in a way that emcompasses the little space they’re occupying. Dorian thinks about it, about letting the magic fog surround them. He loves that they can communicate at this point like that but it also scares him a little.
“No,” he answers. “No, it’s ok, you’ll need to concentrate on that and—,” and I don’t want you to concentrate on anything but me, he wants to say, but there is no need. Dariax smiles and says “Ok!” in that endearing voice, like the important part of the exchange is not what he needs to do (or not to do) but instead the fact that the decision doesn’t come from himself.
Not saying anything aloud, he pats his own knees. There are a lot of different positions that work with the height difference but his favourite is the one where Dariax is on top of him, making everything easy and accessible for his hands to claim. He sits down on his thighs, all easy smiles like he were not already hard under his pants. Dorian wants to know if that happens a lot. If it happens sometimes when Dorian touches Dariax’s shoulder lightly when he comes with that light on his eyes; did I do it well, was I good, and Dorian wants to tell him you were, Dariax, you were good, stay with me and be good to me and I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again.
Dariax’s sturdy weight on top of him focuses and fixes him to the stump and the ground. It’s a good height—Dariax’s toes reach the floor just enough to help with the pressure and movement but leaving Dorian the control he wants. The moment Dariax settles, his mouth goes to Dorian’s neck. Since the first time they ended up together, he keeps going back to it, loves the skin there, too smooth, and Dorian loves to let him have it, to feel his beard go over it just after his tongue. At the same time he looks up to let him have it his way, a rustle in the trees above them makes the faintest of sounds.
It may be a bird. It may be a fucking monkey because they are in the jungle and everything is possible, but. It may be their little nosy halfling friend. The sudden peak of his heart rate it’s not a surprise—but the reason is. Because he expected to be ashamed at being watched, or offended by the distrust, or just plain pissed off but the truth is that there is lust behind the fog in his mind. The idea, crazy, stupid and yet plausible idea of Orym watching them fuck makes him go from semi to full hard in a second, his fingers going tense on Dariax’s thights.
It may be a bird. It may be a monkey. But if it’s Orym who’s looking at him right now with those piercing, curious, relentless eyes, he is going to give him a show to remember. He takes off Dariax’s upper clothes in a swift movement, Dariax just moving his arms up when he notices the little tug on his sides and when his mouth comes back to Dariax he licks all the way from his neck to the peak of his shoulder in a long stripe.
“Bite me there, Dariax,” he asks, and the mouth does as asked, “yeah, that’s it, soft, that’s perfect.” One of his hands goes up and down Dariax’s back and the other one moves to the front, but the lace he finds there makes him groan in frustration. Dariax chuckles, “sorry,” and his hands leave Dorian’s shoulders for a second to help him unlace it, swift and fastly. Warm comes from inside, and, when Dorian takes him with the whole hand and presses for a second, Dariax whines.
“You always sound so good, Dariax.”
Shame is not something that’s easy to coax from Dariax, but, sometimes, some kind of praise will do. He drops his head on Dorian’s shoulder, forehead touching his neck. Dorian abandons his underpants to lick his own palm and then comes back with a vengeance, moving his hand slowly, the other one caressing his side, the hair on his chest, the way his skin folds onto his legs.
Short of breath and blushed up to his eyes, Dariax asks, lips still on his neck, “Can I touch you, too?”
Dorian makes a mean twist with his wrist and feels Dariax going on his toes, trying to find some purchase that could help him follow the movement; a moan leaves his mouth and goes straight to Dorian’s skin.
“I want to but, can I—” he asks. Another rustle of leaves, maybe closer, he’s not sure. “Can I ask you to do something for me?”
Dariax raises his head. They can see each other well enough; the sun has already set but there will still be a good half an hour of light. He looks at Dorian. One thing that Dorian actively likes about this is that even if they do not talk about it, there is no lack of clarity. Dorian asks, and Dariax could say no, and Dorian would accept it. Because this is fun for him but half of it is Dariax’s look after, shiny and accomplished and sure of himself.
“Yeah,” he says, smiling. The same smile he would show when asked about anything else, an endearing, brilliant thing on that pretty little face of his. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want to see you,” he says.
“Dorian, it’s still light. You can already see me.”
Dorian laughs. He takes Dariax by the shoulders and pushes lightly, until he needs to put his own hands on Dorian’s knees behind him. Like that, Dorian can see everything: his face, almost his height, the way his chest shines with a thin layer of sweat and goes up and down in time with his breathing. He can see his muscles tensing behind the skin, he can see his cock, hard and thick and a drop of pre-cum that leaves the tip and makes a valiant effort to go down the shaft. Dorian takes it with his thumb under the watchful, intense stare and, when he actually licks it he sees how Dariax has to bite his lip in order to muffle a whine that still is able to leave his throat.
“I want to watch you,” he repeats, and this time around recognition makes its way into Dariax’s eyes and the flush already on his cheeks can be seen going down into his chest.
“There isn’t much to see. I’m just. I’m just me.”
“Just you?” Dorian asks. He takes back his hand to Dariax’s cock and moves it very, very slowly. “What is there not to like about you?”
Dariax shrugs, and he tries to sit up a little but Dorian stops him with his hand. “Are your wrists ok? Are you comfortable there?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course, I’m fine.”
“Then stay there. If you want me to watch you.” He stops for a minute and they stay there, looking at each other.
“Yes. Yes, I do want that.”
He changes the angle and puts his hand on Dariax’s thigh, moving it a little to the inside, scratching the soft meat with his nails. Dariax grunts and Dorian smiles. “Do you like that? And this?”, he says, and, as he pumps the hand around his cock a little faster, he positions the other one under his balls and touches them very lightly, feeling their warmth and the way they tighten up a little.
He suddenly remembers about the reason why he asked Dariax to do this and if he's being honest it's not that likely—he feels stupid just for wishing that Orym is really up there, looking at them.
Thought saved to consider later, he keeps moving his hand. Initial embarrassment apparently gone, Dariax looks up and full-on moans when Dorian finally finds a good rhythm with both hands. “Like that? Look at you, spirits, you're pretty like that. Just you, you say; there is nothing that feels just anything about Dariax Zaveon.”
Still moaning, he looks at him, heavy-lidded and open-mouthed and his hands going tense against his knees.
“You sound desperate. Music to my ears and gods, do I know music. I would like to have you like this until you can’t remember yourself and then some, just to keep listening to your voice.”
Dariax moves up his feet until he can propel them on the tree stump’s borders and that way he’s finally able to push his hips against Dorian’s hand.
“Please don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Please—let me finish.”
Dorian hums. “Yeah, I want you to. I’m patient, but not that much,” he whispers, smiling, and speeds up his hand, positioning the other one on Dariax’ side and watches Dariax fuck his fist, just enjoying the little grunts and the moans and his name whispered into the night, to the moons up in the sky, to the trees where his friend may or may be not looking at them but if he is he should add himself into the mix because Dorian would not mind, because Dariax is coming and Dariax coming is a sight to behold.
“Look at me, please,” he says, and Dariax obeys and he spills into his hand, jaw tense and eyes locked into Dorian’s.
While Dariax is still trying to breathe normally, he cleans his hand and takes himself into it to start pumping fast and hard, looking at Dariax, at his face and his chest and at his spent cock, already soft, and at the smile drawn on his face when he pulls himself forward and intertwines his hands behind Dorian’s neck. When he comes, he does it with his forehead against Dariax’s, lips almost touching and moans spilling out of his mouth without waiting for his permission.
Dorian is unable to read Orym. That’s the worst part, honestly, that he hasn’t been able to discern if he actually has seen them or not. If he does it, if he likes it, if he wants to see more. It’s driving him a little crazy. This zone of the jungle is too dangerous to try and disappear and steal a moment or two with Dariax so Dorian feels—frustrated. And so he takes his time looking and analyzing and trying to memorize his face. He discovers that Orym watches people a lot, that his face only changes when he laughs, that he touches Dariax, sometimes, a pat on the shoulders or a hand that lingers on the low part of his back. Sometimes, like he knows Dorian’s looking, he will glance back at him with something very close to a smile on his face.
One night, Orym wakes him up for his watch. He’s sleeping near Dariax, not together, but it’s a close thing. Orym says his name and shakes him softly by the shoulder and Dorian takes a good minute understanding why he is being woken up at ass-hour in the middle of the night.
He finally sits up and Orym waits, patiently. The night is so clear he can make his facial features with detail. “Gods,” he whispers, “you always take so much time waking up.”
There is no bite in his words—he is smiling. Dorian groans, “I don’t know how you do it. Do you actually need to sleep?”
Orym shrugs. Dariax snores and rolls close to the place Dorian has just left empty. THey both look at him, sprawled on the floor, clothes riding up and showing part of his side, face plastered and maybe a bit of drool falling from his mouth. Dorian feels something strong and powerful fill up his chest, threatening to explode. When he is finally able to look away from him he finds Orym staring at him.
Dorian wants to ask. Dorian wants to ask so bad that he actually starts and says, “Orym,” and Orym answers, “Yes?”, like he knows, like he’s waiting for Dorian to do it.
Moments pass. An unknown animal cries over in the distance, startling him and probably knocking some sense into him, because he feels stupid, suddenly. “Nothing,” he ends up saying. “Sleep well,” he finishes, and stands up, taking his lute. He watches Orym go back to his made-up bed and lay down before he turns and goes into his look out position.
At his back, Orym’s voice sounds very, very soft. “Dorian, you know I’m here if you need me, don’t you?”
Dorian wants to say so, but Dorian doesn’t like to lie. He turns his head, not enought to let his gaze meet Orym’s, and smiles a fake smile that hopes it’s enough. “Sleep, Orym. You don’t have that many hours left.”
For a minute, it’s like the forest is holding its breath waiting for Orym’s answer, but it never comes.
Dorian looks at the sky, and waits for the sun to come up.