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Fingers ghosted over skin in slow, reverent touches.
Propped on one elbow, Dorian lay comfortably tangled in silk sheets. Streaks of morning sunlight leaked through the windows, spilling across the expanse of Marel’s exposed back. He watched as the elf breathed soundly, his face half-buried into the pillow.
A faint smile curved Dorian’s mouth. Marel was a heavy sleeper, and the sight of him like this — unguarded and relaxed in their shared bed — still filled his chest with warmth after a decade.
Gently, Dorian let his fingers wander, as if the slightest mistake could shatter the moment. He traced the solid lines of Marel’s trapezius, following the contours of muscles across broad shoulders. His touch halted when it reached the edges of Marel’s vallaslin, the intricate lines spreading out like pale branches across his back. He followed the patterns with practiced ease, pausing whenever scars disrupted the design.
Dorian had done this countless times before. Each caress felt like revisiting a landscape he knew by heart — except there were always new marks to learn. So he lingered, tracing every newfound scar with the same devotion as a cartographer updating a treasured map.
“Vhenan.” Marel mumbled against the pillow, his voice hoarse with sleep.
Dorian lifted his gaze to find amber eyes peeking at him.
“Good morning, amatus.” He smiled, his tone velvety soft. “I trust you’ve slept well.”
Marel hummed in agreement. “Like a rock.”
Much for Dorian’s delight, he didn’t move an inch. Dorian took it as permission to continue his path, fingers brushing slowly along Marel’s shoulder blades.
“What’s so interesting about my back?” Marel asked, the drowsy words carrying a hint of amusement.
Dorian smirked. “For one, it makes for a very appealing sight in the morning.” His gaze followed the descent of his hand, tracing the dip of Marel’s spine. “And I can’t help but notice you have acquired new scars during your last travels to the South.”
Marel let out a dismissive huff. “Thought you’d have lost count at this point.”
“I haven’t.”
Dorian’s reply came out swift, and yet achingly gentle. It stirred a flutter deep inside Marel’s chest.
After a beat, Marel spoke again. “If you’re curious, I can tell you how I got them.”
Dorian paused, weighing the offer, before continuing his path. His fingers were unconsciously drawn toward a large, jagged scar carved into Marel’s right shoulder.
“Tell me about this one,” he murmured.
Marel’s lashes fell shut, allowing his memories to resurface beneath Dorian’s touch.
“An ogre,” he muttered calmly. “Buried an axe there. It aimed for my neck, but I turned just in time and the blade hit my shoulder instead.”
Dorian couldn’t help but frown as he pictured the rather disturbing scene. Seeking distraction, he moved his hand further, splaying his palm above markings mirroring a thunderstrike.
“Pride demon,” Marel grumbled, recalling the precise moment he got hit by the creature. “That lightning spell was a pain in the ass.”
Wordlessly, Dorian’s fingers drifted lower, finding a small, star-shaped scar at his waist. This time, Marel paused longer before answering.
“Poisoned arrow,” he said at last. “The wound festered quickly, but I knew how to make the antidote.”
Dorian’s stomach turned. He couldn’t decide which one unsettled him more — the sheer number of close calls, or the casual way Marel spoke of battles that might as well have cost his life. The fact that he had grown used to such dangerous situations only made it worse.
He drew in a steadying breath, pushing away the thought of how many times fate had nearly stolen Marel from him.
“Do they still hurt?” Dorian asked softly.
“Sometimes.” Marel gave a weak shrug, one eye cracking open. “Not now.”
“Good.” Dorian nodded, caressing the curve of Marel’s spine. His touch became lighter, as if wishing to soothe wounds long healed. “Because it would be an absolute tragedy to refrain from touching you like this.”
Marel chuckled low in his throat, the sound immediately easing the knot that had settled in Dorian’s chest. He shifted lazily onto his side, muscles stretching awake under the sunlight, and caught Dorian’s hand, calloused fingers closing around his palm.
“Are you done examining me?” He asked, voice still thick with sleep. “I want to make us breakfast.”
Dorian’s lips curved. “I am far from done, amatus. Although,” he tilted his head, “I might be willing to pause, should you decide to go to the kitchen shirtless.”
Marel arched a pointed brow, even as a smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Last time I did that, I burned the eggs because of you.”
“Nonsense,” Dorian countered. “I am perfectly capable of keeping my hands to myself.”
Marel scoffed. “We’ll see.”
He placed a tender kiss on Dorian’s knuckles before pushing himself upright.
Dorian remained on the bed for a moment, fully content to watch Marel move around and attach the bronze prosthetic to his left arm. Only when Marel vanished down the corridor did he rise at last, draping a silk robe over his shoulders.
Then, he followed Marel with unhurried steps, preparing himself for the long morning ahead.