"I liked it," he says as they leave. Verity slides on his hoodie, but leaves it unzipped, and slings his mat over his shoulder, along with the small bag he'd brought with him. "It felt good to not think about anything outside the room for a while. This is easier for me than sitting and meditating," he admits.
At least if he's moving - even if it's slow movement and holding poses like yoga - he has something to focus on that isn't thinking. Maybe it's cheating, but he'll take it.
Orym nods in understanding. "I'm the same way," he agrees. "I can only really clear my mind if I'm concentrating on doing something with my body."
The gym isn't closing yet, so there's no locking up. Orym leaves the equipment closet keys at the front desk, and they head out. It's cool night for late spring, but not cold. Most places in Abdar's Promenade are open fairly late, mostly shops, restaurants, and bars, so the street is still busy. Orym makes a righthand turn.
"Yeah, it's what I do to pay the rent these days." He gives a half shrug, lifting the shoulder that isn't holding his bag. "I like it. And it keeps me in good shape for doing stuff like aerial in my free time."
Verity stays close so he can follow Orym without having to walk behind him.
"What did you do before?" The question is out of his mouth before Verity can stop it. It doesn't occur to him until a heartbeat later than maybe they don't know each other well enough to ask about Orym's past.
He is curious, though. And if Orym doesn't want to say, Verity knows better than to push.
The question doesn't surprise him. It was where the conversation was leading, and it's far from a secret. Keeping his eyes on the street ahead of them, he answers simply, "Danced. I was a soloist with Emon Ballet Company. Retired six years ago."
Professional dance in a company like Emon Ballet is hard on the body; most dancers have short careers once they go pro, so retiring at his age isn't unusual. But that wasn't why he left when he did. I couldn't keep performing after my husband died. He's said that to a lot of people by now. The simplest explanation possible, and it still hasn't gotten any easier. But it obfuscates the uglier truth; he hadn't just lost the drive to perform. For a while, he lost the drive to do anything at all. He still only dances ballet when he's alone.
"A lot of ex-company dancers go on to work at the big ballet schools, but that wasn't for me. I needed to take a big step back from all of it."
Now is the time to say it; get it out there, like he usually does. All it would take to find out that he was married is searching his name or glancing through his social media. Will's imprint remains on every part of his life, and he wouldn't want it any other way. It's best that anyone he's interested in hears it from him rather than discovering it on their own.
"Will, my husband--he died suddenly right before the spring season. Dancing was such a big part of our lives. I couldn't do it without missing him, and it hurt too much. So I had to stop."
That's a lot more than he normally says. He knows it's awkward; Verity definitely hadn't meant to stumble over the biggest tragedy of his life when he asked him what he used to do for work. But it's not something Orym can avoid sharing. Everyone who knows him knows this. The basics, anyway.
Before he can ask about the retiring - Orym seems too young to retire from anything - the other man continues on. A step back. A husband who died. Verity's eyebrows draw together.
"I always hate how small this sounds, but... I'm sorry, that must have been--I understand why that would make you stop."
If dance reminded him constantly of his husband, of a partner who no longer stood beside him, the grief must have made it unbearable. Sorry never seems like enough, but Verity has yet to come across something that better encapsulates the empathy he offers. Before he can stop himself, he quietly adds, "May his memory be a blessing."
It's something he's said to countless others in their time of loss and grief, something that tries to reach toward the impact of the life gone rather than gesturing toward the absence of it. Will might be dead, but his memory very clearly lives. So, Verity hopes it's a blessing, that it can bring Orym joy.
As he finally glances back up at Verity, Orym's expression softens with a wistful smile. "Thanks. It is." It isn't often that he feels like smiling or like sharing more when he first tells someone about Will, but Verity's quiet understanding puts him at ease. "We were teenage sweethearts who got married young. I was lucky to have him for so long. I miss him every day, but I wouldn't trade our time together for anything."
Pushing his hands into his jacket pockets, Orym comes to a stop at the next intersection while they wait for the light to change over. The place they're headed isn't too much further.
"Sorry to bring all of that up so suddenly," he says. "I know it's not something most people are comfortable hearing about." Not people he's only just getting to know, anyway. His friends are happy to listen to him talk about Will when he wants to because they care about him. He can't expect the same from everyone.
"It's all right," he assures. "I think--I think it's nice that you can talk about him, even a little."
Verity's encountered those who shun all mention of a lost loved one, and he's seen how brittle and fragile it can make them. He's glad that Orym can at least acknowledge the happy times through the sadness.
"I'm a monk," he says, a little more abrupt than he means to. Verity huffs a soft, embarrassed laugh and he can feel his face get warm. He looks down. "I mean--I follow Ilmater. I've met a lot of grieving people."
Gods, he probably could say that better. He could say a lot of things better. Verity resists the urge to fidget with the end of his braid. He realizes Orym might not even know who Ilmater is - he's not a common good in Tal'Dorei, he's learning.
At first Orym thinks Verity must be changing subject--and he wouldn't blame him--until he clarifies about his order. The name Ilmater doesn't immediately ring a bell, but from what Verity explains, he can imagine. Before he can respond, the light changes again, and Orym indicates with a nod of his head for Verity to follow him across the street.
"That's...a relief, actually," he says as they walk, glancing up at the flustered tiefling sidelong. "I was worried I'd ruined dinner." His lips curl up briefly, but it's a humorless smile. "I guess you really must have met a lot of people like me, because I don't usually. Talk about him this much, that is."
He can just glimpse their destination another block up, a stone building overgrown with vines nestled between two taller, newer-looking brick buildings on either side.
"So thanks," he says. "I'd really like to, um, learn more about you. I had no idea you were a monk? That's really cool." It explains a few things, too.
"No," he says with a little smile. "That wouldn't put me off. It wouldn't put me off if you wanted to talk about him more, either."
Verity just wants that door open, especially if Orym hasn't had the chance or desire to do that as much as he'd like to. The building they approach is charming, Verity decides. He likes seeing it tucked between more modern buildings, like a stubborn hold out.
And he can feel warmth creep into his face.
"I'm not good at talking about myself," he warns with a wry smile of his own. "But... I'll try. Whatever you want to know. I've been at the monastery since I was a kid."
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At least if he's moving - even if it's slow movement and holding poses like yoga - he has something to focus on that isn't thinking. Maybe it's cheating, but he'll take it.
"I didn't realize you taught so much."
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The gym isn't closing yet, so there's no locking up. Orym leaves the equipment closet keys at the front desk, and they head out. It's cool night for late spring, but not cold. Most places in Abdar's Promenade are open fairly late, mostly shops, restaurants, and bars, so the street is still busy. Orym makes a righthand turn.
"Yeah, it's what I do to pay the rent these days." He gives a half shrug, lifting the shoulder that isn't holding his bag. "I like it. And it keeps me in good shape for doing stuff like aerial in my free time."
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"What did you do before?" The question is out of his mouth before Verity can stop it. It doesn't occur to him until a heartbeat later than maybe they don't know each other well enough to ask about Orym's past.
He is curious, though. And if Orym doesn't want to say, Verity knows better than to push.
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Professional dance in a company like Emon Ballet is hard on the body; most dancers have short careers once they go pro, so retiring at his age isn't unusual. But that wasn't why he left when he did. I couldn't keep performing after my husband died. He's said that to a lot of people by now. The simplest explanation possible, and it still hasn't gotten any easier. But it obfuscates the uglier truth; he hadn't just lost the drive to perform. For a while, he lost the drive to do anything at all. He still only dances ballet when he's alone.
"A lot of ex-company dancers go on to work at the big ballet schools, but that wasn't for me. I needed to take a big step back from all of it."
Now is the time to say it; get it out there, like he usually does. All it would take to find out that he was married is searching his name or glancing through his social media. Will's imprint remains on every part of his life, and he wouldn't want it any other way. It's best that anyone he's interested in hears it from him rather than discovering it on their own.
"Will, my husband--he died suddenly right before the spring season. Dancing was such a big part of our lives. I couldn't do it without missing him, and it hurt too much. So I had to stop."
That's a lot more than he normally says. He knows it's awkward; Verity definitely hadn't meant to stumble over the biggest tragedy of his life when he asked him what he used to do for work. But it's not something Orym can avoid sharing. Everyone who knows him knows this. The basics, anyway.
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"I always hate how small this sounds, but... I'm sorry, that must have been--I understand why that would make you stop."
If dance reminded him constantly of his husband, of a partner who no longer stood beside him, the grief must have made it unbearable. Sorry never seems like enough, but Verity has yet to come across something that better encapsulates the empathy he offers. Before he can stop himself, he quietly adds, "May his memory be a blessing."
It's something he's said to countless others in their time of loss and grief, something that tries to reach toward the impact of the life gone rather than gesturing toward the absence of it. Will might be dead, but his memory very clearly lives. So, Verity hopes it's a blessing, that it can bring Orym joy.
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Pushing his hands into his jacket pockets, Orym comes to a stop at the next intersection while they wait for the light to change over. The place they're headed isn't too much further.
"Sorry to bring all of that up so suddenly," he says. "I know it's not something most people are comfortable hearing about." Not people he's only just getting to know, anyway. His friends are happy to listen to him talk about Will when he wants to because they care about him. He can't expect the same from everyone.
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Verity's encountered those who shun all mention of a lost loved one, and he's seen how brittle and fragile it can make them. He's glad that Orym can at least acknowledge the happy times through the sadness.
"I'm a monk," he says, a little more abrupt than he means to. Verity huffs a soft, embarrassed laugh and he can feel his face get warm. He looks down. "I mean--I follow Ilmater. I've met a lot of grieving people."
Gods, he probably could say that better. He could say a lot of things better. Verity resists the urge to fidget with the end of his braid. He realizes Orym might not even know who Ilmater is - he's not a common good in Tal'Dorei, he's learning.
"I only mean... I don't mind."
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"That's...a relief, actually," he says as they walk, glancing up at the flustered tiefling sidelong. "I was worried I'd ruined dinner." His lips curl up briefly, but it's a humorless smile. "I guess you really must have met a lot of people like me, because I don't usually. Talk about him this much, that is."
He can just glimpse their destination another block up, a stone building overgrown with vines nestled between two taller, newer-looking brick buildings on either side.
"So thanks," he says. "I'd really like to, um, learn more about you. I had no idea you were a monk? That's really cool." It explains a few things, too.
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Verity just wants that door open, especially if Orym hasn't had the chance or desire to do that as much as he'd like to. The building they approach is charming, Verity decides. He likes seeing it tucked between more modern buildings, like a stubborn hold out.
And he can feel warmth creep into his face.
"I'm not good at talking about myself," he warns with a wry smile of his own. "But... I'll try. Whatever you want to know. I've been at the monastery since I was a kid."