Torin was saying the words, but they weren't for him. They settled inside him as rain on parched leaves, but he was not saying them to heal himself.
Aurin didn't cry, the smith wasn't sure his man could cry. The storm never leaked out around the edges, but it was moving through him. When he was given permission, a safety he needed to be given as much as the redhead needed to have the right to refuse him, he didn't fall to his knees. He might have, if this had been for him, but it wasn't.
A lot had been happening inside the man Torin had settled his devotion onto, inside and out, of late. His boy did not know all of it, and, in many cases, he only knew because he caught stray thoughts accidentally as they were drifting to sleep, or because he felt a difference. The first time Aurin had gone to Zaichaer, before, and then during the disaster that had ruined the nation and brought The Whispers to Torin's yard, something had changed. It hadn't been the trauma of the event, chaos was something too well-bred into the Bronze Fox to be phased by such. No, it had been something before, something to do with his connection to the Covens. Torin hadn't been sure, but he'd thought it might have been something good, a connection, or more than one, that helped ground the man who never stopped moving. It hadn't slowed him, if anything, the new rune that had come with whatever else had happened seemed to energize him. He traveled more now, but he always came home. In fact, due to the abilities Traversion gave him, Aurin ended up in Torin's bed slightly more often. Even in the middle of a long trip, he could appear in the smith's bed long enough to sleep, or other things.
The second time Aurin had returned from the shattered city there had been trauma there, fresh like the scent of blood in the air. There was a new wound that had partly healed into a new scar by the time Torin had seen him again. The trip had not been a long one, it did not seem as though there should have been time to gentle and soothe the type of damage that the smith's Semblance told him had been endured but he had no explanation for that.
He wanted to ask, he'd been too afraid that it might cause wounds to reopen, or old instincts to kick in to defend themselves. Aurin attacking him, verbally or otherwise, in a knee-jerk reaction to something that hurt wouldn't break them, not anymore, but it would hurt. The master more so than the servant and Torin did not see any reason to risk it. Their relationship was, as it always had been, evolving. This was mostly at Aurin's direction and with his intention, but smaller things were shifting as well, finding new places they might fit together as they both grew and changed. Torin could not describe, even to himself, what the things that were slowly, gently adjusting themselves into new configurations were, but he could feel how the confidence that his mentor had been intentionally fostering inside him was affecting his being as a whole, changing him.
So, when he was given permission to touch, even after Aurin had stood still and acknowledged his boy's love, that boy didn't seek the comfort of his master. Instead, he stepped forward, wrapped his burly arms around his man and held them to each other, chest to chest. They were both men who had grown up in the shadow of their fathers' hatred, and it had broken them. But they didn't have to be strong alone, they could support each other. They didn't need to talk about it, it could just be.
Leaning half his weight into his lover's care he lifted half of Aurin's, pressed his face into the shoulder below it and murmured,
"Take me to bed."
Aurin didn't cry, the smith wasn't sure his man could cry. The storm never leaked out around the edges, but it was moving through him. When he was given permission, a safety he needed to be given as much as the redhead needed to have the right to refuse him, he didn't fall to his knees. He might have, if this had been for him, but it wasn't.
A lot had been happening inside the man Torin had settled his devotion onto, inside and out, of late. His boy did not know all of it, and, in many cases, he only knew because he caught stray thoughts accidentally as they were drifting to sleep, or because he felt a difference. The first time Aurin had gone to Zaichaer, before, and then during the disaster that had ruined the nation and brought The Whispers to Torin's yard, something had changed. It hadn't been the trauma of the event, chaos was something too well-bred into the Bronze Fox to be phased by such. No, it had been something before, something to do with his connection to the Covens. Torin hadn't been sure, but he'd thought it might have been something good, a connection, or more than one, that helped ground the man who never stopped moving. It hadn't slowed him, if anything, the new rune that had come with whatever else had happened seemed to energize him. He traveled more now, but he always came home. In fact, due to the abilities Traversion gave him, Aurin ended up in Torin's bed slightly more often. Even in the middle of a long trip, he could appear in the smith's bed long enough to sleep, or other things.
The second time Aurin had returned from the shattered city there had been trauma there, fresh like the scent of blood in the air. There was a new wound that had partly healed into a new scar by the time Torin had seen him again. The trip had not been a long one, it did not seem as though there should have been time to gentle and soothe the type of damage that the smith's Semblance told him had been endured but he had no explanation for that.
He wanted to ask, he'd been too afraid that it might cause wounds to reopen, or old instincts to kick in to defend themselves. Aurin attacking him, verbally or otherwise, in a knee-jerk reaction to something that hurt wouldn't break them, not anymore, but it would hurt. The master more so than the servant and Torin did not see any reason to risk it. Their relationship was, as it always had been, evolving. This was mostly at Aurin's direction and with his intention, but smaller things were shifting as well, finding new places they might fit together as they both grew and changed. Torin could not describe, even to himself, what the things that were slowly, gently adjusting themselves into new configurations were, but he could feel how the confidence that his mentor had been intentionally fostering inside him was affecting his being as a whole, changing him.
So, when he was given permission to touch, even after Aurin had stood still and acknowledged his boy's love, that boy didn't seek the comfort of his master. Instead, he stepped forward, wrapped his burly arms around his man and held them to each other, chest to chest. They were both men who had grown up in the shadow of their fathers' hatred, and it had broken them. But they didn't have to be strong alone, they could support each other. They didn't need to talk about it, it could just be.
Leaning half his weight into his lover's care he lifted half of Aurin's, pressed his face into the shoulder below it and murmured,
"Take me to bed."
