Work Text:
Bronte
He turns the name over in his head, imagining how it would feel on his tongue and sound aloud after so long. Dresses are—fine, and yeah, maybe it doesn’t fit him as well as Dorian does, but Bronte isn’t a bad name.
So—maybe it won’t be that bad, being Bronte again. Maybe he’s just overreacting. It was fine when he was younger, before. Like Laudna said: it’s just a big performance.
So when Imogen reaches out, Dorian brushes her worries away, his voice cold and distant. “It’s fine. It needs to be done.”
He ignores their whispers of concern while he digs through the chest of bland, generic masks and follows Eshteross upstairs.
Finally, out of his friends’ earshot, the world slows and fills with a faint buzzing as Dorian lifts his head. He feels an echo of surprise at the steadiness of his voice as words leave his mouth. “Do you have any gowns?”
Eshteross pauses, opening his mouth to say something before he cuts himself off and instead gives a sharp nod. Walking down a different corridor, he disables another trap before showing Dorian to a wardrobe.
The looming presence of the orc behind him mixes with the fuzziness clouding Dorian’s senses.
He should be used to this. This isn’t anything new. It’s just—He didn’t expect it, here, with this group that calls him Dorian instead of a name that had never fit.
He takes a shaky breath before opening the doors and rifling through the clothes inside. Clothes for Bronte. Not for him. Not Dorian.
Too gaudy. Too bright. Too suggestive. Too short.
Objections to various dresses drift to the front of his brain until—
Hm, they would like that, wouldn’t they? Perfect for a Wyvernwind daughter.
Like moving through molasses, Dorian kneels, sets his pack down, and pulls out the chiffon outfit he wore at the Byroden pageant so long ago. He grasps it in his hands, and the world sharpens.
A strangled sob breaks the quiet of the room as Dorian’s eyes fill with tears, and he grips the fabric in his fists hard enough to hurt.
It has to be this way.
Dorian tilts his head upwards, blinking away tears, and lets out a pained exhale.
Looking down at his clenched fists again, Dorian balls up the chiffon and his handmade mask and throws them in the back of the wardrobe before turning to face Eshteross. Head still ducked, Dorian swallows as the orc scans the gown draped over his arm.
“Ready?” Eshteross asks.
Dorian huffs a wet, broken laugh and meets Eshteross’ gaze with a pinched face.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”