#and then i copied it here and woosh it expanded. oh well

[tootiredmotel]

I have this vision of Dorym in my head and it's like. Ok. It's nighttime, and they're sitting on a bench. Dorian is playing his lute, a soft melody. He's concentrated as hell, kinda leaning toward the neck of the instrument, focused on his chords. He doesn't want to mess up, not with Orym listening.

There's a blanket of stars overhead, some trees behind them, warm light from nearby buildings. Assuming Dorian is right-handed, Orym sits on his left, in the direction where Dorian is leaning. He sits real comfy, one leg up on the bench, the other folded underneath. He's facing Dorian. His arm is on the back of the bench and he's resting his head on his hand, watching and listening intently and enamored. (With the music, of course.)

Dorian can't really remember the lyrics to the song, but he starts mumbling the melody, a scattered word here and there that kinda feels right. Orym is flushed red. When Dorian does sing through a few verses— his voice heartfelt, smooth as silk, and so very Dorian— Orym sighs involuntarily. He tries to disguise it as a yawn.

Dorian stops playing immediately. "Are you tired?" he asks. "We can go inside, if you want."

Orym thinks about it, examining the genuine concern and care in his friend's eyes, in his tensed expression. Orym wishes he had the guts— the will— to reach forward and run a finger down Dorian's cheek, ease some of that tension.

He doesn't. Not quite yet. "No," he says instead. "Play another one. Please."

Dorian smiles, licks his lips, and turns his attention back to his lute. The wind that perpetually blows through his hair moves it out of his face, allowing him complete, unobstructed focus. He eases into another song.

Orym is powerless to do anything but drink in the moment, hanging onto Dorian's every move, note, strum. He can't take his eyes off of him.

Dorian plays until his fingers ache, and even then, he wishes he could continue. Anything to make Orym keep smiling like that.