Solas dragged the brush against the rough side of the rotunda, smearing black streaks across the dull grey of the fresh plaster. Part of the wall was already covered with murals, a surreal retelling of the Inquisition's story.
Of his story, he amended, as the content of the frescoes predate the Inquisition's official formation. They document his choices, good or bad, a record that will easily survive him. Presuming they don't fail and Skyhold falls – even then, he supposes, he will die first. It isn't a particularly comforting thought. He doesn't much like the depictions, dark, shadowy figures underlining the grim reality of this desperate, fatalistic venture, but he cannot deny the artistry involved. They are nothing like the fine, delicate paintings he has seen in Val Royeaux and the numerous estates they have tromped through, but he does not think that means they are any less skilled. He has seen Solas planning this new piece for weeks, evidenced in the stack of careful studies and half-finished sketches neatly piled up on the desk – it seems wrong, for art to be so clinically organised – and Ellias knows Solas would not have begun this unless he was certain of the outcome.
He leans against the doorway and watches as Solas brushes colour onto the walls with single-minded determination. The low table behind him was littered with glass jars, each coloured some different hue, and he rotated between them with certainty. There was nothing organic to the process, no trial-and-error attempt to find the perfect shade, as if he was simply revealing the colours hidden underneath rather than placing them on himself. Could the man never let himself be wrong? He painted like he approached life; careful, studied, always sure of himself. That easy confidence attracted and irritated Ellias in equal measure.
There was definitely something arousing about the effortless way those long, talented fingers swirled the brush across the wall.
"Inquisitor."
Solas does not turn to greet him, and he wonders how he is so certain of who lurks at his doorway. The mark, he assumes. It flares briefly green as he flexes his hand, one of the few symbols missing from the murals on the wall.
He doesn't reply, content to let the minutes slip by in silence. If Solas is conscious of having an audience he does not show it, attention never wavering from the image in front of him, not even glancing at him when he turns to select another jar or clean off his brush.
"Ir abelas, Inquisitor, but I must finish this before the plaster dries."
Undoubtedly a dismissal, but Ellias pays it no mind. Skyhold is his, now, and there is no place he considers off-limits. If Solas wants to chase him off it will mean abandoning his project for a precious few moments, a dangerous risk when the smallest mistake will render the whole thing ruined. Unsurprisingly, he chooses to ignore Ellias instead.
Ellias just watches. Solas is in motion almost constantly, moving from side to side as he blocks in broad swathes of colour, setting the canvas for more delicate detailing. The shapes, currently, are meaningless, and it is only because he has peeked at the sketches that he can mentally fill in where Empress Celene will rise to escape the shadow of Corypheus at Haven, the splash of cobalt that will eventually form her gown. The intricacies of the Game stripped down to paint on plaster.
Recognisable shapes begin to emerge as Solas dwells longer on each part, roughness turned to delicate precision. The brushes get thinner and longer, only serving to highlight those damned fingers even further. Ellias creeps closer, scaling the scaffolding effortlessly, until he hovers behind Solas. Curious, he picks up a jar and peers inside. The colour is jewel-bright, fresh and glistening, a stark contrast to the muted tones of the previous murals. Probably dulled as it dried, he decides.
"Do you mind?"
Caught up in his own thoughts, Ellias did not notice Solas turning back to the table. He hands over the jaw with mute apology, annoyed that he feels like a scolded child. Irritably, he picks up another jar and pokes his finger in, coating it, before dragging the digit down the inside of his forearm. He is surprised at how faint the colour is, more water than paint.
Hoarding his stolen jar, he retreated back to the doorway. The paint dries quickly and so he reapplies it, slowly building up the colour, absently tracing Andruil's markings down the pale inside of his wrist. He evens it up by painting the other one too, then the outside of his arm, stopping only when the sleeves of his tunic hide the rest from view. They used to do this as children, pretending at vallaslin with sticky, staining berry-pastes and whatever other dyes they could find. Ellias smiles wistfully at the memory as he tries to ignore the sharp pang of homesickness. He will never see his own children play similar games, or watch them obtain their own vallaslin in truth.
He flushed as he realised how much of a child he is being and returns the jar to its proper place before Solas notices the loss. Ignoring the paints, he focuses on the elf's face instead, mesmerised by the careful concentration splashed across it. His head is tilted to the left, brows drawn slightly together, and occasionally the very tip of his tongue is visible as it pokes out of the side of his mouth. It reminds Ellias of things better off forgotten.
It has been months since the kiss in the Fade. Ellias, always impulsive, had seized the opportunity, although Solas had surprised him by kissing back just as fervently. For a few, glorious moments he'd allowed himself to hope.
It hadn't, of course. Solas had pulled back, declaring it a mistake, and smoothly extracted himself from the situation. It was as if Ellias – quite literally – had dreamed the entire thing. There was no awkwardness, no embarrassment, just a return to the friendly banter and casual flirtation that Ellias fell into with all of his companions. It had been a kiss, not a grand declaration of love. If Solas didn't want it then Ellias would not force the issue. He'd entertained himself by tumbling an Inquisition scout instead, a fling that had lasted a handful of weeks and easily banished all thoughts of apostate mages.
And yet. The Solas that had kissed him back had been hungry, domineering, taking control as Ellias had found himself on the back foot. He'd said they shouldn't, not that he didn't want to. He'd caught Solas watching him when he thought Ellias wasn't looking, eyes dark and predatory. Creators help him, Ellias wanted him, though his pride would not let him entertain a second overture unless he was certain the result would be different.
"Is there anything that you're not good at?"
Ellias speaks the words mostly to himself, not expecting an answer, though he is watching carefully enough to see the aborted half-smile that twitches at the elf's mouth. No modesty lost there. Solas is now kneeling on the wooden scaffolding, filling in what will become the Empress's halo of blades, so Ellias takes the opportunity to stand by him, thigh to shoulder. Satisfying to look down on him for once. And then, before he can stop himself, he reaches out to touch the coloured panel in front of him.
He can feel Solas stiffen angrily next to him. "Sorry, sorry," he chirps as he dances backwards, warding off any verbal expression of displeasure. "I was just curious."
He is unsure whether that is truth, half-truth, or lie. He likes forcing a reaction in the other man and the desire may have been born from wanting to irritate instead. In penance he fetches the next colour Solas needs, following the threads of the puzzle enough to discern the pattern. He is rewarded with a surprised arch of an eyebrow and a questioning look.
They fall into an easy pattern. Solas paints while Ellias exchanges jars and washes brushes, delicately blotting them dry to prepare them for the next use. Minutes bleed into hours and he eventually wanders off to fetch some lunch from the kitchen, finger food that can be eaten without needing to take a break. They eat in companionable silence and Ellias revels in the warmth of belonging in this quiet moment.
It won't last. Someone will fetch him soon, pull him away on some important errand or another. His life is filled with the reality of being Inquisitor and he knows he is neglecting work to be here. They were leaving for the Emerald Graves in the morning and he hasn't even managed to read through all the reports delivered in his last absence. Josephine, he suspects, will be haunting his evening. All the more reason to enjoy the little free time he has left.
He balances a clean jar of water effortlessly as he climbs the ladder to rejoin the other. The paint on his arms has smeared, Andruil's sharp arrows smudged to meaningless colour, and somehow he's ended up staining the waistband of his tunic. In contrast, Solas is spotless. It seems unfair that is capable of painting in long sleeves and a cream tunic without getting at least a little messy.
Well, that was easily rectified.
With a smirk, he dips one of the cleaned brushes into the darkest jar and sweeps it along the back of Solas's tunic. The colour is not pigmented enough to leave more than a dirty smudge, but even that is a huge improvement.
Solas ignores him, continues to concentrate on his own design.
Emboldened, Ellias continues. He trails the brush upwards until it dances across flesh instead of fabric. Even Solas is unable to repress a shudder as something wet is pressed to the back of his neck and Ellias relishes the small victory. He pushes further, curling the brush into swirls, meaningless shapes as he wonders what Solas would look like with vallaslin. He would have dedicated himself to Dirthamen, he thinks.
He draws back and Solas relaxes, though Ellias cannot resist one final, playful swipe of the brush, trailing it along the topside of his ear. Solas's soft exhalation sends a jolt of arousal through him as he realises, too late, that this is perhaps too physical, even for him. It is not fair, to either of them, to engage in this when Solas has already shut him down. He is glad that Solas is still staring intently ahead of him, so he will not see how Ellias blushes, a mix of embarrassment and shame. He abandons the brush with as much care as he can muster before hastily making his escape.
It is only when the door shuts behind him that Solas drops his pretence of single-minded focus and closes his eyes, dragging one hand wearily down his face.