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Erin finally had a perfectly good bed, and he couldn't sleep for the life of him.
He was exhausted from coping with the perils of their voyage, and by all rights, he should have fallen unconscious the moment his head hit the pillow. But his soul channels were still sore from overchanneling, and pushing, and pushing. Alinua had healed the worst of his damage, but she could only do so much before his soul barrier reasserted himself—especially given the time delay before they'd reunited with her.
Not that Erin would diminish what she had done. No, he was acutely aware of how much he owed her. Alinua had gotten them out of the mess Erin had gotten them into. She had managed to ally herself with, arguably, one of the most powerful nature gods in the world and secured them safe passage, and she had fixed the worst of their damage. She deserved nothing but gratitude and a good long rest, undisturbed, for as long as Erin could manage. Hopefully she was slumbering now, one room over in this rickety little inn.
Erin, unfortunately, could not get similar respite.
He clutched the edge of his quilt and stared up at the ceiling, frustrated, as his body whined at him and his thoughts raced and spun and tangled. They would need to see about stocking up on what they could tomorrow. What if the paladins found them in this town? They would need to be on guard for that. They needed to chart a path from here to the soul-shaper monastery that would evade them. But how? Where were they most active? How could he get this information? How long could they rest here? What would they do if one of Helm's infamous blizzards swept through and pinned them in place?
Erin turned over, restless.
He had almost died in that bubble, down in the ocean. Almost snuffed out, just like that. Would it be better, more convenient, if he had died down there? It would eliminate the threat of the Void Dragon. And no one would have to carry him anymore. But no, no, he shouldn't go there, shouldn't let that spiral continue. He did want to live, he did. He wanted to believe that he could solve the Void Dragon problem with his newfound friends and the right plan.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
He needed to tell Tess that she'd made the correct decision in leaving him behind all those years ago, in escaping his father and finding her own way without him. That she couldn't have brought him along, it wouldn't have worked, he would have burdened her. He needed to tell her he loved her, he was grateful to her for being here, and—and he hated it too, hated that she was putting herself in danger for him. He needed—he just needed to talk to her. At some point. More than what little conversation they'd had in that cave. Not while she was resting, though, of course. She'd be asleep now, wouldn't she?
A headache throbbed at his temples.
Damn it. It was one of those nights.
Erin groped for the lonely lacrima on the bedside table; his fingertips found cool, finely engraved stone, and he tapped it. A pale light suffused his room. Shadows lurked in the corners, but his simple cot and the writing desk across from it were thrown into sharp relief. Erin considered his journal, awaiting him patiently on the desk, but a pang of pain lanced through his temples, and he balked at the prospect of trying to focus on writing. No, tonight was not a journaling night.
He groaned and kicked off his dingy sheets and quilt. He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose, then stood up. Floorboards creaked beneath his feet, and Erin stepped into his slippers posthaste. He'd never understand how Falst could walk barefoot all the time. It would drive him mad.
Erin sighed, then trudged out the door and down the hall, toward the little common area in their set of rooms. This, he surmised, would be a sit-up-with-a-warm-drink sort of night. He'd get some liquid in his system and hope for the headache to fade. Perhaps some hot brew. This inn had complementary hot brew, didn't it? He thought? Hadn't the gruff fellow at the front said something about that?
He reached the end of the hall... and found, to his surprise, that the common area was already lit.
The lacrima on the low table gave off a brighter, warmer glow than Erin's own nightlight. A couple of patchy chairs and a long, worn-looking couch clustered around the table. A kitchenette occupied the far wall, and a familiar figure stood in front of it.
Dainix?
Dainix's hair hung loose and wild down his back. As Erin paused in the doorway, wrongfooted and feeling slightly like he was intruding, Dainix turned to him, a hot water kettle in hand. He looked as tired as Erin felt, with a shadow like a bruise under his eye and a weary slump to his shoulders. His expression was peculiarly... flat. Like he was too exhausted to feel much else. But before Erin could apologize for disturbing him, Dainix mustered up a wan half-smile and said, "You too, huh? I'm making tea, if you want some."
Tea. That was what the innkeeper had said. Not Erin's top choice, but certainly not an offer he'd sneeze at. "Tea sounds excellent, thank you," he said sincerely.
Dainix's smile evened out into something a little more real. "I'll pour a second mug."
And with that, he grabbed a chipped ceramic mug from the shelf and dropped a scoop of leaves in it. He added the hot water and passed the mug to Erin with the tea still steeping, the dried twists of leaf unfurling, the water slowly tinting green.
Erin cradled the mug in his hands and let the warmth seep into his fingers. It was a nice feeling, the warmth, though it didn't negate the persistent ache in his head. He sat down on one side of the couch and watched as Dainix prepared a mug for himself. He kept watching, slightly awkward, as Dainix came over and sat down next to him. Steam rose in hypnotic ribbons from their twin chipped mugs. Dainix's hands nearly dwarfed his mug. Erin's... decidedly did not, though the mug didn't feel overlarge.
Dainix considered the mugs and said, "It'll need a few minutes to steep."
"Ah. Yes." Erin absently rubbed the side of his head. "This might be hypocritical, but may I ask why you're up so late?"
Dainix shrugged. "Couldn't sleep. Too much on my mind." Dainix gave him a sideways glance. "Guessing you're up for similar reasons?"
"Mmnh. I suppose." Ruefully, Erin said, "Ordinarily, the quickness of my mind is an asset, but when I would, in fact, like it to stop for the evening, and it doesn't... well. It becomes more of a double-edged sword." He sighed. A fresh throb of pain went through his temples, and he set down his cup to rub them. "It's not only cerebral, though. I'm still sore from the overchannel, and now I have this blasted headache."
Dainix straightened, a thoughtful frown breaking through his mask of tired. "Is it tension-based?"
"Ugh... the headache?" Erin let his hands drop. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. I used to suffer from them chronically, as a side effect of hypersensitivity to magic in my surroundings, or as a consequence of overchanneling. And I did overchannel in a rather spectacular fashion recently." He grimaced. He reached for his tea—surely it had steeped enough, now—and took a sip, focusing on the peculiar flavor of leaves and the sensation of hot liquid sliding down his throat. It tasted strong enough, he supposed, though he suspected it could be stronger and greatly improved with another minute or two. He continued, "But it could be tension as well. Or dehydration. Or fatigue. Or no cause in particular. Difficult to say."
Silence. Dainix seemed to be taking a minute to process what Erin had said, or perhaps to formulate a response. "One of my squadmates used to get stress headaches," he said at last. "I could try to massage some of the tension away, see if that helps?"
Massage had never been one of Erin's go-to treatments—not when the family doctor could provide a sleeping draught or painkiller guaranteed to file the sharp edges off of his pain. Medication worked efficiently, with less physical labor, and more reliably. But Erin had not packed his doctor, nor had he recovered his pain medication from the wreckage. He tried to imagine Dainix's hands kneading the aches away. He couldn't.
Instead, he recalled how Dainix had carried him back in the woods: thick, muscled arms scooping him up with brusque efficiency. How those same arms had coiled around his ribs, secure and determined and painfully tight, as together, they leapt into the sea—as Erin screamed while Dainix didn't, even though Erin knew he feared the ocean.
They'd certainly been in close quarters for a while, but that had been for tactical reasons in the context of a crisis. Dainix's offer now felt oddly intimate and personal, in comparison. Erin wasn't accustomed to much physical affection or touch, aside from Tess and his mother.
But then, perhaps Erin was overthinking this. Perhaps it wasn't personal to Dainix. This was the man who'd bearhugged him within hours of meeting him. Perhaps... his massage idea would help?
Hesitantly, Erin said, "We can try it. Thank you."
"Sure thing. Let's see if it works before you start thanking me." Dainix scooted closer and cradled the back of Erin's head in his palms.
Erin hadn't noticed how warm Dainix was during the Rakhn crisis. Like a hearth fire. Fitting, Erin supposed, given his Crucible powers. His touch felt gentler now, too, more careful. Strange, but pleasant.
Sturdy thumbs probed the base of Erin's skull and kneaded it, targeting some muscle group Erin hadn't even realized he had. "My squadmate almost always carried tension here," Dainix murmured. He pressed his thumbs in a little more firmly, rubbing a path along something in there.
Something, Erin realized, that was decidedly unhappy. Having pressure applied there felt strange, a bad-but-good kind of feeling. A pain that felt like relief.
Dainix asked, "How's this feel? Any better?"
"I'm not sure," Erin said honestly. "It's certainly distracting, and... and I do think there's something there. But the headache is more in the sides of my head, I think."
"Hm. Massage can take a while to work." Even so, Dainix shifted his focus to massaging up the back of Erin's skull, behind his ears, and over and along his temples. Exploratory finger pads slid through Erin's short hair, pressing lightly against his skull. They traced a path back and forth, back and forth. This felt like a simpler kind of pleasant, rhythmic and comforting.
Erin could still feel his headache, but it felt, perhaps, a little less. Or perhaps the peculiarity of being massaged was diverting his attention. The closest comparison he could think of was his mother brushing hair off his forehead when he was unwell, and he hadn't experienced that for some years. It had always felt nice when she did that. But he was far beyond the age of having his mother pamper and coddle him.
Wys, he missed her. He should probably check if Tess had called her, and if not, figure out together what in the world to say. He didn't want to trouble her with the mess he'd gotten into. He just wanted her to know he was... well enough, by certain metrics.
Dainix's thumbs brushed his neck. "Feels tense here," he murmured. "Do you mind sitting in front of me, giving me a better angle so I don't have to twist to get to you?"
"I—on the floor?" Erin pointed to the rug between Dainix's feet.
"Yeah, that'd work."
"Well... alright." He scooted off the couch and settled, cross-legged, in the space between Dainix's calves.
Dainix rubbed circles in the nape of Erin's neck, and oooh, that felt lovely.
"I feel like I'm being spoiled rotten and giving you nothing in return," Erin confessed. "I don't suppose you have anything I can help with?"
The fingers paused. "I'm alright."
"Aside from any mental anguish or whatever else is keeping you up on this dreary evening?"
Dainix actually chuckled, albeit faintly. "Aside from that." His hands resumed the massage.
The two of them lapsed into silence. Erin leaned against the couch and let his head tip further and further back, letting the tension ebb. The longer Dainix carried on, the less odd it felt to accept the pampering. He felt less bothered, his aches fainter and more ignorable. His thoughts felt slower... fewer? Fewer thoughts. His eyes slipped shut. The tea mugs sat, cooling and forgotten, on the table.
Dainix's voice brought him back from the brink. "It's good to see you relax. And I don't think helping you feel less pain is spoiling you, for the record."
Erin opened his eyes. "Pardon?"
"Alleviating pain isn't spoiling a person."
Erin blinked and looked up at Dainix. Dainix's face appeared upside down, lips pressed together and bangs dangling as he leaned over him. "You're doing considerably more than easing my pain," Erin countered. "This feels divine."
Dainix mustered a smile at that. "Good." He targeted the base of Erin's skull again. "You've been pushing yourself hard."
"Well, we all have."
"...Yeah. Guess so." Dainix's hands shifted to Erin's shoulders, pressing down through the soft fabric of Erin's nightshirt, and it was all Erin could do not to melt beneath his touch. "But you looked like..." Dainix trailed off. "You were obviously in pain the entire time we were in the bubble, and you seemed familiar with it. And... you said you've had chronic headaches? A history of magic hypersensitivity and overchanneling?"
Erin tensed up.
Dainix picked up on it immediately. His hands stilled. "Sorry, I think I just undid some of that tension removal by asking."
"It's... it's alright." Erin almost left it at that. He could have. Dainix still sounded tired, and like he would simply let this go if Erin didn't elaborate. But after the boat fiasco, and the Rakhn fiasco, and Dainix's willingness to work with and protect Erin even after all his mistakes, Erin felt like he owed Dainix something.
So he told him baldly, "As a child, I was bedridden more often than not due to malformed soul channels and their side effects." He stared straight ahead and did not look up. He didn't dare. He didn't want to see... whatever he expected to see in Dainix's face. He didn't even know. He didn't share this weak point with most people other than Tess and Al.
Erin made himself keep talking, keep pushing past the instinct to bury his vulnerability, to hide the ways in which his body had once felt so frustratingly frail. "Minor shifts in magical atmosphere gave me terrible headaches, and any efforts to channel more than trickles were painful—and I was too open to the elements, too liable to channel by accident and hurt myself. So yes, I have a history of chronic overchanneling and illnesses related to that.
"That's why I'm acquainted with the soul-shaper monks: I sought them for treatment. I rushed the treatment near the end, and... and my error had physiological consequences. And thus, I require these sealing tattoos." He drew back one of his sleeves and showed them off for emphasis. Intricate, inky black lines covering his forearm like a gauntlet. Elemental runes hidden in the ornamentation, nigh indiscernible even to Erin's eyes. He knew where to find the sigils more by muscle memory than anything.
"That's... a lot," said Dainix quietly. "And it explains a lot. I'm sorry, Erin."
Erin sighed, reached back, and patted his hand. "No need for that. I coped, and I'm obviously not bedridden anymore. Please, put it out of your mind." He leaned forward, out from under Dainix's hands, and grabbed his mug. The beverage was lukewarm. Erin took a sip anyway. He frowned. It didn't taste half as good without heat.
Dainix made a noncommittal noise, then reached around Erin and grabbed his own mug. He stared at it blankly for a minute, his expression distant.
"Dainix, what—" began Erin.
But before he could say more, a spark flickered in Dainix's iris, and the patterns on his skin glowed orange. The tea steamed and bubbled.
Erin had seen a few too many lab experiments go awry to not see where this was going. He scooted away, even as he tried to warn him. "Dainix, I don't think the ceramic—"
CRACK.
The cup split. Jagged pieces of ceramic clattered against the floorboards. Tea gushed over Dainix's hand. It drip, drip, dripped from his fingers—and, to Erin's alarm, so did a dribble of blood. A piece of the mug had embedded itself in Dainix's hand.
"Shit," hissed Dainix. He plucked the piece out, then set it on the table with a noise of disgust. "That was stupid."
"Your hand." Erin reached out. "Let me—"
"No," said Dainix sharply. "It doesn't need it."
"But I can fix—"
"We have first-aid supplies," Dainix snapped. "You said you were still recuperating. Don't."
Erin stopped short, bewildered and stung.
Dainix heaved himself up from the couch, cradling his hand close to his chest, and strode over to the cabinet where they'd stashed their first-aid supplies for the night. With a few muttered curses, he withdrew a bandage. His back was turned to Erin, so Erin couldn't see his face. But his shoulders slumped, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet again. Regretful. "Sorry. I appreciate that you wanted to help." He started to wind the bandage around his hand, slowly and clumsily. The mug had, Erin gathered, pierced his dominant hand.
Erin shoved past the sting and confusion and said firmly, "I still can, with the bandage. Please."
Dainix hesitated. Then, wordlessly, he held out his hand.
Erin took his hand, peeked beneath the bandage, and winced internally.
The shard had left a deep gash in Dainix's palm, and blood welled up from within, sluggish and dark. The bandage already had a red stain blooming across it. That looked like it hurt, particularly given the location of the injury. Hands were a livewire of nerves and sensation; Erin knew from unfortunate experience that pains there felt more intense. Sure enough, when Erin accidentally brushed the edges of the wound, the hand twitched, and Dainix breathed in sharply.
"Apologies," said Erin. He delicately placed the bandage back over it, then continued winding it around. As he tidily tied the ends in place, a hint of red made it to the outer layers. Erin frowned. "Frankly, this looks like it could use more than a bandage. Either stitches or a magical healing seems warranted."
Dainix quickly drew his hand away. "It's fine. It'll heal as-is."
"Really, Dainix, if you'd just let me—"
"No, Erin."
Frustration bubbled up, hot and pressurized. "Stop treating me like some useless, fragile little boy! I know my own limits!"
Dainix's eye widened. His hand curled defensively in front of his chest, and the beginnings of a retort formed on his lips.
A familiar, rough voice sounded behind them. "You guys, we have a godsdamned lacrima."
Both of them whipped around, startled.
Falst stood at the hallway entrance, his hair tousled and a lacrima tucked under his arm. His pupils trapped scraps of light. A twitch of his ears and a flick of his tail betrayed his impatience as he strode into the room. He took one look at Dainix's bandaged hand, narrowed his eyes, and held out the lacrima—a small Life one that Erin recognized from his personal supply.
Erin would have felt exasperation at Falst's continued insistence on taking his things without asking, but he was too relieved to be presented with a solution. An obvious solution that he ought to have thought of himself, but in his defense, it was an ungodly hour of the night, and he was not at his best. "Thank you, Falst," he said. "There you go, Dainix. You can be healed, we can ask Alinua if she might charge it in the morning, and I won't be even inconveniently discomforted in the process. Tactical problem-solving at its finest."
Dainix stared at the lacrima blankly. Then, sluggishly, he accepted it. It took three full seconds for it to activate, for glowing green tendrils to creep out and worm their way into his hand. It took less time for the heal to complete, and Dainix handed the lacrima back to Falst with a trace of charge left. "Thanks," he whispered. He didn't sound relieved. He sounded defeated, and sad, and Erin couldn't for the life of him understand why.
Erin didn't know the right thing to say. But he took a wild guess and told him firmly, "If I deserve to have my pains alleviated, so do you."
Dainix opened his mouth, then closed it.
Falst frowned. "What happened, anyway? I woke up to this snap-crack sound, smelled blood and leafy water, and heard you two raising your voices."
"I did something stupid," said Dainix flatly. "Tried to heat my tea mug with my Crucible powers and forgot the ceramics out here aren't like back home." When Erin and Falst both stared at him in confusion, Dainix explained, "The potters in Raua all make their mugs resistant to sudden temperature changes. In a population of ninety-five percent fire mages, everyone wants the convenience of grabbing their mug and being able to instantly reheat its contents. We like our food and drink warm."
"Fascinating," said Erin. Then: "Don't beat yourself up for that. I've seen Tarren do far worse in a laboratory." Erin didn't mention that he himself had done similarly ill-advised things in a laboratory, though, in his defense, he usually had Tarren egging him on. He kept talking, trying to reassure Dainix. "I don't know the particulars, but you're clearly not feeling your best. You wouldn't have been suffering insomnia with me if you were."
"So that's why you're both up," said Falst. He reached out and touched Dainix's elbow, and something in his expression gentled. "Hey. You've been feeling like shit since Caliban, huh?"
Erin blinked. Caliban. That—if he recalled correctly from the incredibly barebones briefing Kendal and Falst had given him, Caliban was the god of the ignans and the one who had gotten them to bring Dainix's inert rock form into an active volcano. And had tricked them into stealing the fireseed. Because they wanted Dainix to absorb its power for... something. Some greater machination that none of them yet understood.
Dainix simply looked at Falst, neither confirming nor denying.
Falst spoke again, suddenly fierce. "That weasel's not gonna stop you from going home. We'll get you that treatise on soulfire, then we'll kick Caliban's ass if we have to."
In that moment, it clicked. Oh. Ohhhh Wys, that's what's bothering him.
"Falst," Dainix said with a hint of frustration, "Caliban's the god of my people—"
"—and they have precisely zero control over your free will!" exclaimed Erin. "No more than the Void Dragon has over mine. Less, I would argue! They can never possess you. They can't control you in any way, merely hope you go along with their wishes! Which you certainly don't have to!" He stared up into Dainix's face, into the gaunt weariness and the bruise-like shadows and the sadness that threatened to crack it. Gods. The poor man had been feeling hopeless for days, hadn't he? Pushing himself along, quietly, privately miserable while doing what needed to be done?
No more of that. He would banish that despair.
"As Falst said, we'll peruse the treatise at the monastery, which will likely provide you with answers," said Erin briskly. "If the treatise does not have enough information, we can do further research in Asera after our quest to rescue Vash. Regardless, we will get you home. I would appreciate it, of course, if you stayed with us until we have dealt with the Void Dragon, as your ability to counter it is immeasurably valuable, as is your military expertise. But you're not obligated. And you've no obligation to that god who, from the sound of it, has been discourteously deceptive at best. If Caliban needs you for something, they'd damn well curry your favor by respecting your wishes, because frankly, we have more firepower than they do. Literally and figuratively. You have mine as well."
Falst glanced up at Erin approvingly, then pointed at him and said to Dainix, "Yeah. All of that. Fuck Caliban."
Dainix stared at the both of them as if they'd suddenly grown second heads, or sprouted wings, or something.
Then, to Erin's horror, tears welled in Dainix's eye.
The man gave no warning whatsoever before he seized both Erin and Falst and drew them into a hug, tucking his head somewhere between them. Erin had never imagined himself being squished up in a hug alongside Falst, of all people, but here they were. Dainix's hair tickled Erin's face. His breathing was unsteady. His hold was tight and desperate.
This was... well. A bit outside of Erin's realm of expertise. He wasn't sure what to do. But Dainix seemed to need something. Comfort of some kind, and he seemed to find it in physical contact. So Erin let the hug continue, and he patted Dainix's back sympathetically.
Falst's tail flicked against Erin's shin. But he, too, stayed. He let himself be held. He let Dainix cry on him, alongside Erin.
Eventually, Dainix drew back. His face was blotchy, and he sounded clogged as he said, "I'm sorry. Thanks." To Erin, he added, "And I'm sorry, I didn't—I don't consider you fragile, or helpless, I just... I didn't want you to slow your recovery or make you suffer for my sake. I would've felt badly. Uh. Worse, I mean."
Erin took a breath. If Dainix could forgive dreadful mistakes, Erin could forgive a mere slight. "It's alright."
Dainix asked tentatively, "Is your headache better?"
Erin blinked. He touched his temples. "Yes. Astonishingly so. Your massage seems to have banished it."
Dainix cracked a smile. "Good."
Falst looked confusedly between them. "Wait, what?"
"I was suffering insomnia in part due to a headache," Erin informed Falst. "I'm going to add painkillers to our supply-stocking list. But Dainix hypothesized that it was driven by tension and that massage might make the muscles relax enough to ease it. He kindly offered to provide one, and it did, in fact, help."
Falst's brows arched, but all he said was, "Huh. Okay." After a moment's thought, he added, "Tension tracks. The past several days have been shit."
Dainix snorted.
Erin chuckled humorlessly. "They really have. For all of us, I gather."
"Yeah," agreed Dainix quietly. He sounded clear but wrung out, and perhaps still down or haunted by his worries. Decidedly still tired. "I'm... I'm not ready to go back to bed yet." He reached for Falst's hand and twined their fingers together, and Falst's cheeks darkened. Erin tried to ignore an errant, inexplicable pang of envy as Dainix asked, "Please, sit with me a while? If you don't mind."
"Y-yeah, sure."
Erin presumed Dainix wanted Falst, and Falst only. He hadn't missed how close those two had grown, and how quickly, ever since their misadventure with the ruins. He'd never seen Falst more distraught than when Dainix had volunteered to accompany Erin in the death bubble—not to mention, of course, how Falst had braved an active volcano to save him. And Dainix, well, he wore his emotions and his warmth openly, and anyone could see how profoundly he cared for Falst.
Erin sighed internally and turned to leave. He'd been up long enough. It had been a good distraction, to have some company, and he owed Dainix for banishing the headache. Perhaps his mind would cooperate now and stay calm enough for him to drift off, or perhaps he could journal for a while.
Before Erin could walk away, warm fingers closed around his wrist. "You too, Erin," said Dainix. "Unless... I understand if you want to get to bed."
Erin was taken aback. He had never gotten the impression that Dainix felt particularly close to him, nor wanted to be, at least no more than anyone else. And most people, well, didn't. They respected Erin for his status, perhaps. His mental acumen. His magical abilities. That didn't translate to liking him as a person and wanting to be friends. Tarren and Tess were both exceptions to the rule, and as kind as Kendal and the others were, he'd presumed they only traveled with him for tactical and altruistic reasons.
Dainix's gentling hold and sad, warm eye suggested otherwise.
"Well... yes, I suppose I can stay up a while if..." Erin trailed off and looked hesitantly at Falst.
Falst frowned at him as if to ask, what are you looking at me for? But he affirmed, "Yeah, you should stay."
"Alright then. I—I'm going to grab a book, if we're just going to be sitting. I'll be right back."
Dainix let him go, and Erin practically ran out of the room.
Erin retreated as quietly as he could to his bedroom. He found his satchel and deliberated for a minute over which book to bring, then settled on bringing the entire bag. Why not all the books? All the books were good. Perhaps Falst would be interested in some of his more advanced spellcarving tomes. Perhaps it would be a pleasant change to pre-emptively offer Falst the book before the rascal could steal it. Erin slipped the strap over his shoulder and tiptoed back to the living room, feeling oddly excited at the prospect.
He found Dainix and Falst cuddling on the couch. Somehow, Dainix had coaxed Falst into curling up against his side, and he'd slung an arm around Falst's shoulders, his chin resting on Falst's head. Falst's pupils were blown wide, his expression uncharacteristically soft and his cheeks slightly darkened. Their hands were still intertwined.
The second Erin entered the room, Falst's ears pricked, and he straightened. Dainix lifted his head, offered Erin a faint smile, and let go of Falst's hand to stretch out his arm. Come here, it seemed to say. Open invitation.
Erin hesitated, then felt ridiculous for overthinking, then overthought a little more and took a seat on the couch cushion next to Dainix. Close enough to be sitting together and to let Dainix sling his arm around if that's what he meant to do, but not close enough for their sides to brush.
Dainix tugged Erin closer immediately, not in a forceful way, but assertively enough to inform him that yes, actually, Dainix did want him right here and did want to snuggle, if Erin didn't mind.
Erin breathed out and let himself be cuddled—let Dainix's arm coil around him, let himself lean a little into Dainix's side. It was odd, but not unpleasant. Dainix felt warm and solid, and Erin felt… protected, perhaps? Sheltered? Cared about?
"Hey," said Dainix softly. "Found your book?" He glanced at the bag, and his brow furrowed. "Uh… Books?"
Falst watched Erin closely. His ear twitched.
Erin cleared his throat and said, "I brought my collection in case either of you would like to read as well. Falst, I have this tome on advanced stone spellcarving that you might find of particular interest. It digs deep into the foundational theories and building blocks for spell composition, as well as adaptive spells." When Falst didn't immediately respond, Erin continued, "Alternatively, I have one on water that—"
Falst made a noise of exasperation, and his tail flicked. "Oh my gods. Okay. Give me the stone one and shush. It's, like, one in the morning."
"And here I was trying to be generous," said Erin indignantly. But his indignation was more performative than anything, and he readily passed Falst a gray textbook thick enough to bludgeon someone over the head with.
Falst mumbled a thank-you, opened it on Dainix's lap, and leaned in, his eyes flicking intently over the tiny, densely packed letters.
Erin pulled out a similar tome, this one on water, and cracked it to a random chapter in the middle. Spellcarving wasn't his first and most instinctive tool, but given the tremendous utility of lacrimas for powering devices and serving as a magical source in magic-poor areas—and, of course, given the course requirements at Asera's Academy for the mage track—Erin quite liked the subject and felt it important to understand. He had read this book before, of course, but it had been several sindahlans since he'd reviewed it. It was interesting enough to be useful and to keep his mind on it and occupied, but it should be dense enough to tire his mind, as well. If his mind were sufficiently exhausted…
Dainix gave him a light squeeze and leaned ever so slightly toward him, peering at the book. "These are a little beyond me," he murmured.
"You would have no trouble if you started with the basics," Erin assured him. He kept his voice pitched low and soft, like Dainix's. "I'm starting in the middle of a later chapter."
Without looking up, Falst added, "Yeah, I—or Erin maybe—can point you to some stuff."
"Maybe later." Dainix yawned. "But thank you. Really." He gave Erin another squeeze, then fell silent. His hair tickled Erin's cheek. His hold felt relaxed. Comfortable. A far cry from the near-crushing firmness he'd had on Rakhn.
Erin allowed himself to melt into it. He hummed his acknowledgement and kept reading, and they all fell into a companionable silence.
Gradually, Erin's eyelids grew heavy. His mind slowed. He glazed over the same paragraph three times without processing it. He realized, then, that he probably ought to go to bed. But Dainix was warm and comfortable and leaning on him slightly, and something about having Falst around—Falst, with his sharp hearing and nose and mind—reassured Erin as well. He could linger a while longer... let himself drowse, just for a minute...
At long last, sleep dragged Erin under.
Dainix was stuck.
Erin had fallen dead asleep, his head pillowed on Dainix's shoulder and his breathing slow and even. His hands rested on his open textbook, pale fingers splayed over paragraphs of dense, nigh incomprehensible text. He... Dainix understood that he wasn't fragile. Dainix knew better than to treat him like he was helpless, after everything they'd been through, after everything Erin had done. But Dainix still felt a kind of... He just wanted to protect him, a little. He couldn't forget Erin's suffering in the bubble as he tried so, so hard to keep them both alive, to get them out of what they'd gotten into. The tension in his back. The sweat beading his skin. The stark, mortal terror on his face.
None of which were present now, thank Jiya.
It'd probably be better for Erin to sleep in a bed (actually, for all of them to sleep in beds), but Dainix didn't have the heart to move him.
Falst, too, seemed close to falling asleep, though he wasn't there yet. Falst wasn't limp, but he was quiet, and he hadn't turned a page in several minutes. His tail brushed Dainix's calf. His head rested on Dainix's chest, his ear over Dainix's heart—as if he were listening to it, seeking reassurance that Dainix was alive.
Dainix remembered Falst's terror, expressed as anger and frantic yelling and claws hooking onto his cloak. He remembered, before that, Falst hunched on volcanic soil, his voice small and cracking apart as he said, I thought you were dead. The memory kept playing on repeat, making Dainix's heart twist painfully in his chest.
That was a big part of why he was forcing himself to keep functioning, instead of lying down and giving up. It was tempting, the idea of just... not dealing with anything, anymore. Let himself be lost to the ocean, put out of his misery. But he couldn't do that to Falst. Nor to Erin, now. Not when he remained so determined, so ferociously optimistic and hopeful, despite the apocalyptic threat riding in his soul and emblazoned on his chest.
Dainix wished he could muster that kind of hope.
He was so, so, so tired. And yet, when he'd tried to sleep alone, he'd wound up staring blankly at the wall. Thoughts spiraling down, down, down.
Dainix took a breath. He grounded himself in the bodies pressed up against him: their warmth, their weight, their solidity as he cuddled them close. It helped, a little. Having them here. Holding them like this. He clung to their voices in his head: Erin's confident declaration of will and promises, Falst's fierce fuck-you to Caliban. Dainix almost snorted. Caliban probably wouldn't take kindly to that, if they overheard. Dainix didn't care. He might actually say it to their face, next time they met. Fuck you. Caliban deserved it.
It felt kind of good to say. Or think, anyway.
Fuck you, Caliban.
He still didn't feel great. But he felt better than he had before. He could lean on his friends' hope until he found his own. He'd get up in the morning, and he'd keep helping. For now, he could stay here, with them. He could close his eyes. Maybe he'd manage to doze off. And even if he didn't...
The night would end. Eventually.