Chapter Text
"Would some company help?"
Thara Celehar let his mind to repeat the words over and over again, its cadence familiar and pleasant, the tone of voice tentative but certain.
Iäna had said those words to him a week ago in his opera box after a beautiful rendition of Zhelsu, and the memory of it refused to leave Thara's mind for all that he tried. Thara had mentioned, after the opera was over and they were chatting as they always did, that his night terrors had been particularly relentless as of late. The circles under his eyes corroborated this as well, making Iäna more worried than he should have been. That's when his friend made the offer.
"Would some company help?"
He had refused, of course, as he should. There was no space in his life for that anymore, and he wouldn't drag anyone down into his problems. But the offer still made him stutter his negative in a rather unconvincing way, and Iäna looked at him knowingly, enough so that Thara had thrown himself into his work deep in the bowels of the City Morgue and ignored the moribund butterflies in his stomach that threatened to come alive again.
"Othala?" Called a voice from outside the room.
"Come on in, Dr. Tomasaran," he was nearly done anyway. The tables were clean and his case for today done and safely tucked away in a refrigerated drawer. He started discarding his gloves, "I told you, there's no need to call me Othala, unless you'd prefer I call you Othalo instead of doctor."
Dr. Tomarasan opened the door, peering inside curiously but finding nothing to see.
"Ah, yes. Dr. Celehar, then, er…"
He looked around the now clean metal tables and drawers, making sure he hadn't forgotten anything at the end of his shift.
"Yes?"
"Someone left a note for you in the front desk. I brought it down for you."
He took the note from her and knew at once who it was from, for he had no other friends who would resort to such an old fashioned and theatrical form of communication when telephones were so readily available. The front desk of the Amalo Department of Medical Examiner had a line where one could leave messages easily, although the only messages he ever got were work related.
The note was written in paper thick enough to feel fancy, and sealed with blue wax. The seal had the shape of a smiling mask. Thara sighed. No one else in his life had such a flare for the dramatic.
He realized Dr. Tomasaran had entered the room to prepare for her own nightly shift and was watching him attentively. He thanked her and asked if she had any cases for the night already, and she said she heard talk of an altercation in the streets of the Airmen's Quarter, and that there were unclaimed bodies on the way.
"Nothing too gruesome, I hope," she said.
He agreed and bid her goodnight, then went to change into his own clothes, shedding his gown and scrubs. Out of habit, he brought his best coat, dark blue with gray embroidery, since usually he would be headed to the Vermilion on a Thursday such as this. Now he hesitated, opening the note carefully.
"Half of my cast has bronchine and cannot perform tonight, possibly for the whole weekend. The opera is canceled, but if you wish to meet I will be glad to dine together. There is a new teahouse near my flat, The Golden Pony. It has that dumpling soup you like, if you'd be willing to try it out. My treat.
Yours,
Iäna Pel-Thenior"
Thara blushed at the ending, folding the note back up and packing it safely in his bag. He should not go, he knew that, he was getting too close and it was a dangerous game, trying to stave off his desire while becoming closer and closer to Iäna. Still, the thought of returning to his dreary apartment and be made hostage by his dreams made Thara take the tram to Cemchelarna at once.
The Golden Pony was a unique teahouse, at least in Thara Celehar's opinion. The space was dimly lit and cozy, and the tables and booths were hidden from view by beautiful curtains and ornamented folding screens with vintage motifs of weeping willows and elegant ladies. Though he couldn't outright see the patrons he had a feeling most of them were couples on dates just from the atmosphere alone. After he gave Iäna's name at the door a maître d' walked him to a table veiled behind a rosy curtain with purple adornments. He pulled the curtain open, revealing his friend, who looked up in surprise but opened a bright smile.
"Thara! I didn't know if you would come, but I am pleased you have. Come, sit," he said motioning to the seat in front of him.
Iäna wore gold rings and red gems on his ears and braids, the kind that looked beautiful with his ash-gray complexion. His wine colored suit had small black pearls delicately sewn on its coat. As always, he was a very handsome man. Thara felt his cheeks warm up and sat down, distracting himself with accommodating his bag.
"When I heard there would be koshvolot…" he trailed off.
"So it is not my company, but the food that brought you over?" he heard the teasing tone in Iäna's voice for what it was, although there was a tinge of worry there.
"You knew exactly what you were doing, mentioning it to me," he responded slyly.
Iäna laughed loudly, agreeing, and they exchanged pleasantries and talked of mundane topics until their soup arrived.
The koshvolot was warm and rich, with dumplings that softened in the broth and dissolved in his mouth. He closed his eyes to enjoy each bite, and found Iäna staring with barely disguised intensity each time he opened them back up. There was also sorcho that went so well with their meals that he drank more than he should.
"It is the season for bronchine," said Thara, "and all respiratory issues alike. Still, how unlucky that your singers should all get it at the same time."
Iäna rolled his eyes, "Their celebration last Sunday after the show was a bit too intense, I fear. The weather, all of them together eating and drinking, and then it must have spread even more during rehearsal."
Thara assented. It was common enough in a city like Amalo, where the air quality was an ever growing concern, and the cold was relentless when it came.
"You escaped it, though?"
"Not a cough, not a sniffle," said Iäna proudly. "I hardly ever get sick." He paused, taking a sip of his sorcho, "What about you?"
"I am not that fortunate," Thara explained the sessiva he contracted at his first job at a morgue in Lohaiso, and how it changed his voice forever into the low, gravely tone he had now. "It is ruined now, though I have come to accept it."
"I wouldn't call it ruined."
Thara looked away, hoping his cheeks didn't betray him even more. "In any case, I do often catch colds, but nothing else more serious than that."
"That and the insomnia," commented Iäna lightly.
Thara nodded,"Yes. Although that is more of a… "
"Occupational hazard?"
He huffed despite himself. "Perhaps." He saw Iäna's mouth open and close, ready to stop himself from commenting. It was Thara's chance to change the subject, though he couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, he met Iäna's eyes. "You can ask me about it."
"I don't mean to pry."
"I don't mind your prying," said Thara. The sorcho had definitely gone to his head, he thought, to answer in such a flirty manner.
Iäna smiled, "If you say so. Well, I just wondered how it felt like. Can you really hear them?"
"When I touch them I hear their voices, sometimes. There are images, memories, even scents. Ah, but the cases I take are rarely of people who were lucky enough to die peacefully, in their sleep or of old age."
"Is that why you have nightmares, are they trying to talk to you?"
Thara shook his head, "The nightmares are not a part of my ability, necessarily. It is more their stories we uncover from their bodies, why they arrive there, unclaimed, lost, abandoned that… get to me, I suppose. The violence they faced out there that remains unchallenged, too." he winced, certain he had killed the mood. "Even though I know there will always be more and more, what else am I to do? It is my calling."
Iäna's hand reached out, covering his own. Thara kept his eyes low on the table, but didn't move his hand even though he should. The warmth spread from his hand, and he knew he was flushed.
"You give them as much dignity as possible. You know that, right?"
"I do my job," Thara shook his head.
"You are too humble. Are they still very bad? Have you been sleeping at all?"
"Bad enough," Thara tentatively raised his gaze. Inside his mind a voice told him he was wrong to do this, to pursue this conversation once again, but he found that his lips moved quicker than his self-control, "I'm sure I look it, too."
Iäna's mouth opened and closed, as if calculating what he should say. He settled for squeezing Thara's hand before letting go of it and taking another sip of sorcho. Then, he said finally, "My offer still stands, Thara."
Perhaps it was the sleep deprivation itself talking, but Iäna's offer felt more tempting than last time. He was a tall man with broad shoulders, and Thara imagined resting his head on his chest, feeling his warmth and comfort through the night. Before his inner voice could dissuade him, he let a small, broken response out.
"If it's no imposition…"
Iäna's smile was almost blinding.
It was the second time he visited Iäna's flat, coming only once before when his friend had to change before heading back out. This time he was taken on a tour of the place—which was not huge—but of a very respectable size for one occupant. The living room was the only room he was already familiar with, with its large desk of messy notes and the friendly faces that decorated his wall.
The small kitchen seemed nearly untouched, though nice and modern, and the bathroom had a bathtub that had Thara questioning his choice of a career. His own very small apartment had a standing shower almost too small for him to use, and he ended up more often than not attending the public baths.
Iäna's bedroom was their last stop, and the sight of it made Thara glad he chose to stay in Cemchelarna that night. The bed was big enough for two Iänas, which meant four Tharas could probably fit in it. The pillows looked soft and inviting. He yawned involuntarily, and Iäna looked at him with amusement.
"Maybe my help isn't necessary after all."
Thara allowed himself a small smile, shaking his head. "Nonsense."
Suddenly, Iäna moved closer to him bringing his hands tentatively to Thara's shoulder and squeezing. His golden eyes seemed to search for something deep into Thara's.
They had been dancing around each other for months now, and even if his need to rest was imperative, he saw no point now in denying Iäna the truth of his desire. He might regret it later, but only for a night, Thara looked back into Iäna's eyes and held his gaze.
"This doesn't have to be anything more than just help from a friend," said Iäna quietly. "Tell me, what do you need?"
Thara covered one of Iäna's hands with his own. He was never good at initiating any sort of romantic encounter but hoped his message was clear enough. Iäna brought him closer, hugging him gently. Thara had been right in his assessment that Iäna was warm, and felt entirely perfect to serve as a pillow for him.
"Tell me in words, Thara, so that I have no doubt."
His voice sounded terrible to his own ears as he answered, "I would hope to call you more than a friend," Iäna's nose touched his hair gently, and Thara felt gutted, "But it is true that I am exhausted, and that today… well… I know it is hardly what you expect…"
"I wouldn't mind just sleeping, and seeing that you are comfortable tonight."
Thara hid his face in Iäna's chest, burning with embarrassment. Despite having a hard time believing that was enough for Iäna to be satisfied, Thara agreed. He went to the bathroom to change into simple sleeping clothes, soft pants and a large shirt that Iäna lent him. He let his hair go from it's long braid, but tied it in a loose, low pony that would allow him some comfort.
When he came back, Iäna was already in his own sleeping attire, a pair of blue pants and a sleeveless shirt so tight on his body Thara could see more than he had ever seen of his friend. He was indeed a large man—and used to some form of exercise—as his shoulders and chest attested to, but his stomach was neither flat nor muscled, and Thara had to rip his away away from the softness he found there lest it became obvious how hopelessly attracted he was to him.
The idea of merely sleeping next to him felt like a torment, but on the other hand Thara was exhausted, and knew there was nothing else he would be up to in that state. The room beckoned him in, and Iäna settled down on the bed, raising the sheets so that he might slide in.
"Do you mind if I read?" asked Iäna turning off the light and on a small bed lamp with a soft gold flow. "I could read aloud to you, if that would help."
The idea was quite tempting. Thara's head hit the pillow, and he nodded, almost involuntarily, as his own tiredness caught up to him.
Iäna began to read, in a calming tone, something about ancient elven operas and their music, and it was delightfully boring, so much so that Thara's sleep came quickly and soon he was out, snoring softly by Iäna's side.
Every night they came, and this was no exception.
He couldn't tell where he was, or what time it was, but Thara Celehar knew he was about to experience great pain. His entire body jolted, his breath coming in gasps as terrible images of lost children and bruised women flashed across his mind. They talked, they always did. They said his name and their mouths contorted into shapes mouths shouldn't make.
For a moment he was sure they were real and were there to take him, to demand justice of him, to plead for mercy Thara couldn't give.
"Thara…"
He gasped as hands reached out to him, grabbed him, pulled him in all directions.
"Thara-"
His body shook forcefully, and they were gone. He blinked rapidly, disoriented in the darkness.
"Thara?" The voice startled him, but soon a warm hand came to rest on his shoulder gently, "Thara, I am here. What can I do?"
It took but a moment for him to remember where he was. His lips felt chapped, and his heart still rattled violently in his rib cage, but he finally gasped that he needed light. Iäna turned on the bed lamp. His hand came back to Thara's shoulder, stroking it gently.
By necessity more than anything, Thara asked to be held. Iäna complied, enveloping him in warmth. He nestled his face on Iäna's chest once more, breathing deeply and found that the weight of his arm and body around him helped more than he imagined. He felt safe once more.
"Better?" Asked Iäna. His voice was tired, but gentle.
"Yes."
They stayed like that silent and mostly still, though Iäna's hands stroked his back gently. After a few moments, Thara felt the last remains of his fear slipping away, and was once again asleep.
Restful sleep had eluded Thara for so long that when morning came he felt more relieved than embarrassed, although he still felt extremely embarrassed.
He turned down the chance to use Iäna's bathtub in the morning, but drank strong orchor with him as they talked about the weather of all things, both skirting around the intimacy they shared. Thara, because it was overwhelming, and Iäna for Thara's sake.
The one thing Iäna made sure to mention was that later in the day he would be informed if the entire weekend was indeed canceled or not, and if it was, Thara was welcome back to his place. He said it as nonchalantly as he could, and Thara tried his best to nod accordingly.
He left Iäna's flat but not before he was hugged, and his cheek kissed. Iäna's lips left his face burning, so much so that when he arrived at work several people asked him if he was sun burnt. He felt quite silly, a 30 something elf like him, blushing so fiercely over an innocent kiss on the cheek, but he knew that before Evru he had been a romantic at heart, and that apparently his grief hadn't entirely killed that part of him.
He had a mountain of paperwork to do which he welcomed, since the work was distracting enough to keep his thoughts in line until lunch at least.
When his lunch hour came, Thara made his way to the Chrysanthemum where his friend Anora had a regular table and welcomed him at least twice a week.
He found Anora reading quietly in his corner table and his friend's eyes brightened to see Thara joining him for lunch. They ate sandwiches and drank bitter tea while talking of nothing of import.
When their meal was done and they were paying up, Anora took another look at him and ventured, "You are looking well. Not great, mind you, but in better spirits than when I last saw you."
"Is it really necessary to specify well but not great?"
"No, it isn't," laughed Anora, "I merely meant that whatever you're doing, you should keep at it. Perhaps great is just around the corner. I think I even saw you smile."
His ears fluttered, "I do confess to feeling better than usual, yes. If I can keep doing it… well…"
Anora raised his eyebrows curiously, but Thara changed the subject to work as they made their way out, and Anora didn't object.
This time when he returned to the Department there was a message left for him, written in the front desk's lady hand on a notepad. Less dramatic, but more efficient, thought Thara.
"The entire weekend has been canceled, officially. - I.P.T"