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They’re badly burned and bleeding heavily when Dorian finally catches up to them. Orym’s not even vertical and Ashton can barely be described as standing when they’re leaning so heavily on their hammer. The absolute most that Dorian can say when he starts weaving together a healing spell out of the ambient magic still lingering in the air is that they’re both still conscious.
Punch-drunk, apparently, but conscious.
Ashton kicks a foot out to nudge Orym in the thigh and grins down at him, swaying precariously when doing so nearly throws them off balance. “That was fucking stupid,” they say in a voice that suggests that what they really mean is, That was fucking awesome.
“Very fucking stupid,” Orym agrees, summoning the will to roll onto his side so he can see Ashton’s face. Dorian is mortified to find that, far from the agony he’d imagined he’d find, Orym is grinning, too.
Stupid barely covers it, really. The monstrosity that ripped its way out of the Plane of Fire was bigger than most houses, indiscriminately hungry, and more than capable of killing any one of them. Fighting it at close range as it slipped in and out of the sand around them would have been foolish enough. Attempting an unpracticed combat maneuver that involved a little of Orym’s preternatural acrobatics and a lot of Ashton’s chaotic fey bullshit is so astonishingly unthinkable that of course they’d done it.
That it worked is no comfort at all. If anything, it makes Dorian more certain they’ll both do it again.
“You two are a terrible influence on each other,” Dorian says, slapping one hand down onto Ashton’s arm with more force than is strictly necessary, probably counteracting a little of the effect of the spell.
Ordinarily Dorian would be a little more delicate with someone who’s clearly clinging to life by the handle of their hammer, but Ashton has a bad habit of telling him to save his magic for someone else. They argue that they’ll just go walk it off, probably feel better in the morning, as if someone ever recovers from head trauma after a single night of sleep.
Dorian knows what he’s gotten himself into with Orym and Ashton. He’s familiar enough with the way the two of them together can be frighteningly competent and dangerously self-sacrificing in the same breath. They’re both sharp-witted and decidedly noble in their devotion to the care and wellbeing of other people, even if they express it in different ways. Those similarities, Dorian supposes, is what attracted Orym and Ashton to one another in the first place. Certainly, those were the qualities that finally drew Dorian in, even if they also frustrate him as much as they thrill him.
“Dangerous, reckless, you’re damned lucky, is what you are.” He’s still carrying on after Ashton is reasonably patched together again, or at least isn’t swaying dangerously in place anymore.
“You should try it sometime,” Ashton winks at him, giving Orym another nudge with their foot while Dorian kneels down next to the halfling’s crumpled body.
Dorian’s hand is shaking no less when he drops it on Orym’s bare shoulder, feeling the spell release and spread, knitting him back together a little. The burns fade to the shiny pink of fresh skin and the worst of his head wounds stops bleeding. Orym doesn’t protest when Dorian lifts him by the shoulders. He blinks into the light, then winces and leans over to the side, gagging a little.
“Concussed, as I thought,” Dorian sighs, sliding his other arm under Orym’s knees and lifting him into a proper princess carry.
This time Orym does protest, especially when Ashton starts laughing so hard it nearly throws them off balance again. “I can still walk,” he slurs, even though he’d probably go directly off one of the nearby cliffs if Dorian put him down.
“Let him try,” Ashton snorts, hauling themself upright and taking two staggering steps of their own. “Want to see him eat shit.”
It’s a whole thing, getting the two of them back to the tavern where they’re staying. The Roc and a Hard Place is comfortable enough despite the name, but it’s built into the cliffside and the winding staircases drilled through the rock that were no trouble before are exhausting when Dorian climbs them to their shared room. It isn’t that Orym is heavy, because he isn’t, but Dorian is tired just thinking through the list of things he’ll have to do as soon as he puts him down.
“You can both sit down,” he says darkly when Ashton kicks the door closed and leaves his hammer in front of it as an extra safety precaution. Orym’s eyes are drifting half-shut, head lolling into Dorian’s shoulder like he’s about to fall asleep until Dorian lays him out in bed and taps him on the cheek.
“I’m sitting down.” Orym sounds petulant, like he does when someone wakes him up in the middle of the night, rolling to the side and pulling a pillow toward his head. “Just like you said.”
“C’mon, Orym. Shake it off,” Ashton says with swagger, fingers slipping over the buckles of his vest and failing completely at the fine motor control needed to get it off.
“You too,” Dorian commands, even though he thinks his voice sounds a little too high when he does, pushing Ashton down onto the bed beside Orym and pointing a finger at him threateningly. He unstraps the instruments from his back and sets them beside the fire, where he’ll clean and tune them later, after these two have fallen asleep, or else he’s throttled them for terrifying him. Again.
“He’s the one that’s really fucked up,” Ashton says as if he hasn’t just fallen backward onto the bed to stare aimlessly upward, the refracted lights from behind the glass in his head shimmering like a kaleidoscope on the ceiling. “Let me sleep a while, it’ll–”
“If you say it’ll be fine in the morning–”
“–be just fine if you don’t hover.”
Next to him, Orym pats one arm out, searching for Ashton and smiling when his fingers slot between theirs. “He’s worried. Let him get it out of his system. It’ll be over soon.”
“You two are–” Dorian inhales deeply, pushing his breath back out between his teeth. “Orym, I thought you were the responsible one.”
No, he actually hadn’t thought that, not when it comes to fighting. While Orym is careful in every other aspect of his life, he can’t be trusted to even speak up when he’s about to collapse when it comes to a fight. That’s what Ashton’s good at. But then Ashton comes up with ideas like the one he had today and–
“I’ve never said that,” Orym reminds him from the bed with a laugh, all the seriousness knocked out of him. His breaths sound uneven because he bruised every rib on one side, but Orym never complains about pain. “You said I was the responsible one.”
Dorian’s about to do the verbal equivalent of hitting himself in the face by arguing that at least one of them has to be, that Dorian himself doesn’t have an especially strong record with good sense. Luckily, he catches himself before handing Ashton that ammunition to tease him with later and instead starts unlacing Orym’s boots for him.
Next to his shoulder, Ashton heel-toes their own boots off and, apparently finding it easier to manage the buckles of their clothing while prone, pushes off the bottom half of their jumpsuit. Ashton doesn’t wear underwear, so Dorian’s about half a foot from their bare erection before he’s even gotten the first of Orym’s laces undone.
He isn’t sure he’d have noticed if he weren’t already kneeling this close, because the very idea of being aroused at this moment is too absurd to be entertained. Not when Dorian is thinking how he’ll need to check Orym’s concussion before he falls asleep, that he’s forgotten to send for a fresh basin of water for them all to bathe, and all before he finally tends to his own gear and collapses into the bed to sleep long past sunrise.
“Uh.” Dorian looks up at the two of them on the bed, but Ashton doesn’t look particularly bothered by their arousal. His head is turned toward Orym’s, mumbling something in a hush that makes Orym’s entire body shake with a suppressed laugh that bubbles out of him on a delay seconds later. The lights on the ceiling continue their frenetic dancing and Dorian remembers that’s not actually normal, not unless Ashton’s having a particularly vivid dream or they’re swept up in the heat of battle.
Usually Ashton is just in a great mood after a fight, but sometimes the lingering mix of untapped arcane energy and battle high redirects elsewhere, at least until Ashton can work it off. Dorian’s seen the two of them go off to be alone and assumed it was just to spar, at least until he said something one day and Orym explained that he occasionally administers a different sort of relief.
But that was before, when Orym and Ashton were their own thing. This is the first time it’s happened since Dorian went tumbling into love with both of them at once. Miraculously, rather than being rebuffed, the three of them forged something entirely new, like rearranging a duet for a trio.
Loosening Orym’s second boot and finally pulling them both off to set on the floor beside the bed, Dorian clears his throat. “You need a hand, Ashton?”
Alarmed, Orym sits up on his forearms a little too fast. Dorian sees him blink his eyes shut for a long second to combat the sudden rush of vertigo, his weight swaying back before he gathers himself. Perceptive as he is, Orym needs only a second to realize what Dorian is talking about. His pupils are blown so wide that there’s a bare ring of emerald visible, but Orym’s gaze lands immediately on Ashton’s – well, raging hard-on.
“Oh,” he says, glancing up quickly at the lights coming off Ashton’s head. Orym scoots one elbow against Ashton’s arm. “You want us to help take care of that?”
“Fuck.” Ashton sits up enough to look at their own dick and flops back down. “We’re both so fucked up I thought it might be fine if we just left it alone.”
Orym’s eyes are still fixed on Ashton. “Give me a minute and I’ll–”
“You are concussed,” Dorian interjects quickly, falling back onto his heels and looking up at both of them: Orym still in his chestplate and breeches and Ashton entirely naked, half-rolled to one side with a grin on his bruised mouth. “And so you are not doing anything but resting.”
“I feel fine,” Orym protests, even though he obviously doesn’t. Maybe Orym’s ignored worse headaches than this one but Dorian’s treated more than a few of them.
“I’ll take care of it,” Dorian assures him firmly, leaving him no space to argue.
He looks up at Ashton for support and finds them watching Orym with an incisive stare. There’s a moment that’s just between the two of them – Orym’s head cocked to the side, Ashton’s brows drawn together in an unspoken question. Whatever silent conversation they’re having ends when Orym drops a kiss on Ashton’s mouth and reaches for Dorian.
“C’mere, then,” he says with a warm, loose smile, lifting Dorian’s wrist to his mouth. He nudges Ashton again. “There’s slick in my pack. Go easy on him.”
“There’s no need to go easy.” Rolling his eyes, Dorian looks over Orym, allowing himself to linger on all the bruised, burned, and split skin over the reckless halfling’s body. “I’m not the one who took a running jump at a fire elemental with a sword the size of–”
“Now, now,” Ashton grins, pushing off the bed with an audible groan and staggering toward their packs heaped in the corner. “No need to make it personal.”
“It’s not personal,” Dorian grumbles back at him, pulling free of Orym’s grip. He unclasps his cape and lays it out over the chair by the fire. “I’m just saying, if anyone’s going to have the stamina to get fucked by a raging barbarian–”
“I never said you couldn’t,” Orym cuts in with a laugh, his hands moving over the buckles of his armor with practiced ease. “I’m only asking them to be good to you.”
“I’m always good to him.” Ashton tosses the jar of slick onto the bed and bends over Orym’s prone form, hands planted on either side of his shoulders. Their voice is a soft growl when they ask, “I’m always good to you, aren’t I?”
“Not always,” Orym laughs, shoving Ashton toward Dorian. The expression he passes over the both of them carries such heat that Dorian nearly forgets every sensible thing he knows of treating concussions. He’s ready to cast aside his better sense if it means that he could have Orym and Ashton working in tandem to take him to pieces. They would. They have.
Orym finishes getting his armor and shirt off in less time than it takes Dorian to shuffle free of his boots and mail, so he’s already bare to the waist when he grabs Dorian by the wrist. Ignoring another sway of vertigo, Orym pulls himself from the mattress just enough to catch Dorian with a hand to the back of his neck, pulling him down for a kiss that’s far more intense and grounding than it has any right to be when he can’t even stand straight.
“If I promise not to do anything too vigorous,” he says against Dorian’s mouth, “will you let me help?”
“You better. You’re not getting away with just watching again.” Ashton kicks aside the clothes gathered at the foot of the bed. They bend over Dorian’s back to reach Orym’s mouth for another of their rough kisses, one hand sliding up Dorian’s side like they’re playing an instrument, making him squirm as Ashton tickles each of his ribs in turn.
From this angle, it’s all too easy to imagine exactly how this is going to go: Ashton’s ragged breaths through their chest pressed against Dorian’s back, their cock pressed between the cleft of Dorian’s ass, roughened hands smoothing along Dorian’s biceps while Ashton presses their forehead against Orym’s.
Feeling a little mean, Dorian pushes his back into their hips and is instantly rewarded with Ashton’s near-instinctive thrust forward, pushing him back into Orym.
“All right,” Orym groans, his head falling back onto the mattress, either from the dizziness or the sheer effort of obeying Dorian’s command to rest rather than chasing the base promises he’s making Dorian with his eyes.
Dorian feels his cock jump from only imagining the sorts of things Orym wants to do to him, too. There’s too many things Dorian wants all at once – Ashton’s hands and Orym’s mouth – warring with the things he knows he should be doing. Their gear still needs tending, all three of them are beyond filthy, sweat-smeared dust clinging to their skin that Dorian wants nothing more than to lick off each of them in turn.
Orym inhales sharply through his nose, screws his eyes shut with the sort of determined expression that belongs to battle. It’s enough to make Dorian smile, how seriously he takes all this, and Ashton laughs, sharp and loud beside Dorian’s ear.
“Coming up with a ten-step strategy down there?” Ashton’s arm loops around Dorian’s chest, pulling him in close and grinding their cock against his ass again. “Little tactician, all the gods damned time, right?”
Dorian manages only a single, incoherent moan as answer.
“There’s not much to it, actually,” Orym says, grabbing for the slick while shimmying his way out from beneath Dorian. “Dorian, I’ll get you ready while you–”
Orym doesn’t even have the chance to finish what Dorian expects him to say – while you suck their dick? – before Ashton hisses out a filthy swear and Dorian’s face and neck flame, though he’s not sure which of them can bear the fault for that. Still laughing at both of them, Orym pushes Ashton back into the pillows and they yank Dorian down into a kiss that’s rough and insistent.
“Come on, pretty boy.” Ashton scrapes teeth along Dorian’s ear, pulling the tip into his mouth and sucking wetly until he shudders out a loud cry. “There you go, making noise for me. Are you going to be this loud when I fuck you?”
The two of them aren’t even going to give Dorian a chance to come up with a suitable response. Ashton licks their way past Dorian’s lips, swallowing up the air around them in shallow, loud breaths. There’s the soft pop of the cork from the vial and Orym’s hand skimming up his thigh, whispering soothing reassurances the way one might calm a skittish horse before saddling them.
The apt comparison makes Dorian hiccup out a giggle, thinking how he certainly is about to be ridden hard, but then Orym wraps his small, slippery fingers around the shaft of his cock and he chokes. Ashton gets one hand on the back of his head, guiding him into another kiss that effectively muffles his startled shout while Orym twists his hand around Dorian’s cock all the way from the root to the tip.
It’s overwhelming within seconds, just like it was the first time Dorian joined them in bed.
“I’m going to – Orym, you need to–”
“Now who’s supposed to go easy on him?” Ashton teases, getting a hand between their bodies and taking over for Orym, who obligingly withdraws. Ashton grabs Dorian behind one knee and hikes it up, dragging him up their body just as Ashton rolls their hips, the head of their cock sliding against Dorian’s with a deep, satisfied noise that he echoes helplessly.
Orym’s apparently gone back for more slick, because his fingertips are cool and dripping with oil when he circles Dorian’s hole. He waits just long enough for Dorian to relax before pushing past the tight ring of muscle with a single finger. It’s just like Orym to tease him in the guise of being thorough, winding Dorian up a little more to meet the energy Ashton’s putting out.
“Don’t tease me, Orym,” Dorian grits out, shoving his hips back onto his hand when Orym starts to add a second finger, somehow going slower than Dorian had thought possible.
But caught as he is between Ashton’s grip on his knee and Orym working steadily at his back, all Dorian manages to do is rub his cock against Ashton’s. The slick from Orym’s hands makes the friction feel nothing but mind-meltingly good, makes him forget to even breathe in the single-minded pursuit of doing it over and over.
“Fuck.” Ashton’s voice is a desperate rasp, both hands landing on Dorian’s hips to hold him in place while they buck beneath him. Dorian’s just light enough that they could easily throw him off with their off-rhythm thrusting, but with Ashton’s bruising grip and one of Orym’s steadying hands resting on the pit of his back, the other fingering him mercilessly, they hold him in place.
Dorian’s sure this is going to be the thing that undoes him, but then Ashton is the one who stiffens beneath him. Their climax comes out an unstifled roar, head thrown back and the long line of their throat exposed while their cock pulses against Dorian’s. It leaves a slippery trail along their belly that Dorian grinds into just as Orym adds a third finger, biting down into the vulnerable stretch of Ashton’s neck available to him to keep from crying out.
Ashton hisses between their teeth, twisting their fingers between Dorian’s hair and pulling him off their throat with enough force to sting. Their cock is still hard against Dorian’s stomach, as though their first orgasm was nothing more than throwing oil on the fire. “Probably – that feels good as fuck, but don’t bite.”
That doesn’t seem fair, precisely, given how rough Ashton usually is in bed. Dorian must be wearing his confusion openly on his face, because Ashton laughs between their labored breaths and pulls him back into a kiss.
“Biting will make it last longer,” Orym explains, positioning his fingers so he can reach the place that makes Dorian’s eyes roll back.
Making this last longer doesn’t sound like such a bad thing, until Dorian remembers that he’s only moderately less injured than the two of them and he can only handle so many rounds himself. That’s enough to make Dorian scrabble for the presence of mind to notice that Orym’s breathing has picked up, not quite panting, but certainly heavier than it should be when he’s meant to be resting.
“You’re supposed to be lying down,” Dorian manages around a moan, even as he’s pulled back into the gravitational well of Ashton’s mouth. Their teeth scrape along Dorian’s mouth and chin, searching until their lips meet.
“He’s supposed to be hurrying up already,” Ashton growls against Dorian’s mouth. The casual roll of his hips almost seems like a petty revenge for Dorian’s tease earlier, except that the light coming off Ashton’s head hasn’t stopped and he’s clearly not yet sated.
Orym just laughs while leaning forward to nip at the curved apex of Dorian’s ass, soothing it immediately with a kiss without letting up on his ministrations. “I’m in bed and I’m almost entirely horizontal,” he teases while Dorian twists between them. “I’m following your instructions exactly.”
He is, even if not in the spirit they were issued. Dorian isn’t in any state to argue with him, though, so he just allows Ashton to drag him back into another kiss. He’s torn between rolling himself inexpertly through the mess spreading from Ashton onto his belly and thighs or pushing all the way back onto Orym’s hand. If Orym folded his thumb over, maybe curled his fingers in a little more, he could probably fit his hand inside Dorian all the way to the wrist. It might be just enough for him, Orym’s wrist is about as thick as Ashton’s cock at its widest, but the thought alone sends a fresh bolt of urgency down Dorian’s spine.
“Okay,” Dorian pants with barely the presence of mind to do more than beg. “I’m ready.”
“Are you sure?” Orym asks in his maddeningly patient voice, a little smug, entirely at odds with his sword-roughened fingertips massaging tight circles against Dorian’s prostate.
“Yes. I’m already fucking ready,” Dorian grits out impatiently.
Everything the two of them are doing is just shy of enough to bring him over the edge, but the point isn’t for Dorian to be getting off. At least, maybe not the only point. Sometime after this is over, Dorian is going to have to drag himself through their evening routine, no matter what state he’s in. The baths they all badly need are going to be even more necessary.
He’s still thinking of how to order a bath when none of them will be fit to be seen in polite company when Ashton leans up and bites the corner of Dorian’s mouth, a sharp canine scraping across the swell of his lower lip. “Stop thinking so loud,” he warns, one crooked thumb tracing the jut of Dorian’s hip bone. “Orym, get a fucking move on.”
“You got it, boss.”
Orym’s hands disappear and Dorian whines in protest, even though Orym is only doing what Dorian wanted in the first place. The mattress dimples with his slight weight and, ignoring Ashton’s possessive growl on one side, Orym’s breath is right against Dorian’s ear when he speaks again.
“You want him to fuck you?”
“Yes.”
The word comes immediately, but breathy and faint, barely loud enough to hear. Dorian knows immediately looking at Ashton’s face that it’s not enough, even before Orym’s soft laugh sends another shiver along Dorian’s back.
Orym’s fingertips – wiped clean at some point in the time his hands were gone from Dorian’s body – trace along the same path Ashton’s did earlier. Between that featherlight touch and Ashton’s firm grip on his thigh, they’ve got Dorian entirely at their mercy and they’re still planning to tease him.
“Say that again for me, pretty thing?” Orym asks, his mouth hovering millimeters above the sensitive skin behind Dorian’s ear.
“Yes.” Dorian’s hips buck into Ashton’s stomach again and he swallows around his growing desperation, repeating himself over and over until his voice finally rises from a croak to a full-throated cry. “Yes. Please. Yes – gods, yes.”
“You heard him,” Orym says to Ashton, stamping a kiss on Dorian’s neck. “Give him what he asked for.”
Ashton says, “Hold on,” and it’s the only warning Dorian gets before Ashton lifts him effortlessly, turning him over so Dorian’s back lands in the mess on their abdomen.
It’s all a blurry haze after that, so Dorian slams his eyes shut and bites his lower lip to keep from shouting. He feels a small hand on his hip to steady him, Ashton’s arm locked across his chest to hold him in place while they shift back toward the headboard, and then finally the blunt pressure of Ashton’s cock pressed against him. Dorian manages a shivery Yes, that, please in the second before Ashton starts pushing in, throwing out one hand wildly in the direction he last saw Orym.
“There you go,” Orym whispers from below and Dorian’s eyes fly open to find him kneeling between Ashton’s legs. He’s still resting one hand on Dorian’s hip until Ashton replaces it with his other hand, and then Orym shifts backward to watch as Ashton’s cock disappears all the way into Dorian, nice and slow. “How’s that?”
“Told you I’d be good to him,” Ashton says, resting his chin on Dorian’s shoulder. This close, Dorian can feel Ashton’s breath hitch when he’s finally bottomed out, the tattered noise at the end of every inhale like a needy whine. He still needs this, but now Dorian does, too.
The position they’re in has Dorian stretched out over Ashton’s torso, back arched like a bow, and it doesn’t leave Ashton much room to fuck him with the intensity he expected, but the angle can’t be beat. Every slight roll of Ashton’s hips sends electric shocks through Dorian’s limbs, actual sparks gathering on his fingertips before Dorian shakes them off with a half-formed apology.
“You don’t need to apologize for enjoying yourself as long as you don’t shock me.” Ashton pauses. “Not unless I ask for it.” The smooth glide of their cock feels so good that Dorian’s thighs shake with the effort of keeping his knees from buckling under his weight. Ashton’s laugh sends a fresh shiver through him, but he adjusts his grip on Dorian to keep him steady.
He can feel when Ashton lifts their head from Dorian’s shoulder and there’s a low rumble beneath him. The sound of Ashton saying something to Orym, but Dorian can’t make out the individual words through the rushing of blood in his head. He feels dizzy with the tension between the pleasure they’re giving him and the desire for more, please, fuck me.
The fingers caressing his cheeks are smaller and more graceful than Ashton’s, but it isn’t until Dorian blinks his eyes open that he realizes Orym is reaching for him, gentling him down into his arms. “I’ve got you. C’mon.”
Dorian’s not coherent enough to do more than give a soft protest when he thinks Orym’s going to pull him all the way off Ashton. Then Ashton rolls up onto their knees and Orym folds back onto his heels, guiding Dorian’s head forward into his clothed lap, and he’s once again amazed how seamlessly the two of them work together.
His deft fingers caressing Dorian’s scalp are the softest counterpoint to Ashton’s firm grip as they push back inside him all at once with a satisfied grunt. They pause, adjust Dorian’s hips, and then nail his prostate so directly on the next thrust that Dorian sobs.
“Still good?” Orym asks, scraping fingernails down Dorian’s nape and huffing out a soft laugh when it makes Dorian shiver.
Dorian doesn’t have an answer for that – he hasn’t managed a fully coherent sentence since before Orym asked if he wanted Ashton to fuck him – but Ashton’s apparently not going to let him get away with answering with incoherent whimpers.
“Orym asked you a question,” Ashton says, pulling back just far enough that the head of their cock is the only thing still inside him, holding Dorian in place when he tries to shove back onto their dick, like they’re not the one who needed this in the first place. Maybe they weren’t, after all. “Answer him, Dorian.”
Dorian lifts his head and finds Orym’s face split with the crooked half-smile he only has for Dorian and nods. “Yes. Yes, it’s good,” he breathes, pushing up on shaking arms until Orym finally kisses him.
Distracted as he is by Orym’s sweet kisses, tracing the split on Orym’s lower lip with his tongue, Dorian is utterly unprepared for Ashton to resume the same punishing pace as before. He tries muffling his answering shriek into Orym’s mouth, but it’s no use. The noise that escapes echoes back from the corners of the room and he regrets not casting a spell for silence. Everyone is going to know and the thought makes him groan.
“You like being roughed up like this don’t you?” Ashton laughs, the raw, jagged edge of their need bleeding into their voice. “Like it when we use you the way we want?”
And if Dorian’s learned anything in the last few minutes, it’s how to enthusiastically answer a question.
He pitches forward into Orym and his orgasm overtakes him with a scream that tastes like the crackling air after a lightning strike. There’s a bluish-white shimmer at the edge of his vision when Dorian blinks his eyes open and finds himself face down in Orym’s lap. He thinks it must still be the light show from the glass in Ashton’s head, but when he turns to look, Ashton’s sprawled out on the blankets with their chest heaving and their eyes closed with satisfaction. The light from their skull has dimmed to its usual flicker.
“Hey there,” Orym says, blinking quickly when a spark jumps from Dorian’s skin to his palm, but then he just laughs and presses his nose into Dorian’s storm-tossed hair. “How do you feel?”
“Filthy.” Dorian hesitates, rolling off of Orym’s lap and onto his side. “Good.”
“Just like us, then,” Ashton quips from the headboard without opening his eyes.
“We’re definitely going to need that bath.” Groaning pathetically, Dorian reaches for one of the pillows. “Not that any of us are in any state to go downstairs now.”
“Mm, I’m concussed,” Orym teases and Dorian can hear the grin in his voice even before he turns back to see it.
“I’ll go,” Ashton offers, starting to roll up to stand like he’d actually go, naked and still bloodied as he is, until Dorian yanks him back down.
“I’ll do it. Just give me a second.” Beside him, Orym makes a soft noise, somewhere between amusement and disbelief.
No one says anything for minutes after that. The only sounds Dorian can hear are the soft whistling of desert winds winding their way through the gorge, the far-away noise of a crowd of people talking, the thrumming vibrato of a gimbri accompanied by rhythmic percussion, drums and clapping hands. There’s another sound much closer to their room, the heavy sound of two people walking in tandem, which Dorian dismisses as new travelers arriving at the Roc until the footsteps stop outside their door.
Soft whispers. A pause, then a heavy fist banging on the door.
“Hot bath for you,” an unfamiliar voice calls through the door in accented Common before its owner hastily retreats down the hall.
Ashton drags their hammer out of the way and Orym cracks the door to peek out, then shuts it again and drops back into bed, leaving Ashton to carry in the basin of steaming water.
“Guess you remembered we were going to need that bath anyway,” Ashton says, depositing the basin next to the window.
“I didn’t–” Dorian knows that he didn’t, which can only mean that someone heard and assumed…
Beside him, Orym’s whole body is shaking with mirth. Giving up completely, Dorian kicks one foot into Orym’s shoulder as helpless laughter overtakes him, too.
“You two are a terrible influence.”