"The one with the ponytail's pretty hot," Caelyn drawled. She was leaning against the wall, an image of unconcern – but then again it was easy for people to ignore the Inquisitor when she stood next to Dorian. It was like displaying a partridge next to a peacock.
Caelyn had this uncanny ability to blend in with the environment that he envied, but then again, everything about their friendship was uncanny. If someone had told him a year ago that he'd be consider a female dwarf his confidante, the next best thing he'd have to a sister, he'd have scoffed at them and called them out for being utter lunatics. Yet the unthinkable had occurred after the whole debacle at Redcliffe, and if the plucky little woman knew how she had him wrapped round her pinkie finger...
Here he was, in the arse-end of the south, hunting down demons, helping a ragtag rabble close rifts, and poking through ancient ruins. Of all the things… Tongues would be flapping in Minrathous. Let them.
The clash of practice swords brought Dorian back to the action, and he appraised the selection of soldiers the Commander was putting through their paces. One thing that could be said about his current predicament was that there was certainly enough talent.
Dorian allowed himself to smirk down at Caelyn. "Nah, the blond one's got nicer abs."
"Which one?"
"Well, I'm not about to go and make it obvious by pointing like a daft apprentice." Dorian let slip a little mock-annoyance into his tone.
"Oh." Caelyn gave a little snort. "You mean the Commander."
"No, not…" But of course he looked. As in really looked. Why had he never noticed the way the man's ass curved in his breeches… The way his shoulders strained under the padded tunic...
Caelyn caught him looking, and started snickering. "Oh, Dorian, have you had a thing for the Commander you haven't let on yet? Oh pray, do tell."
"Not at all," Dorian said, yet his face grew warm, despite his best intentions. "I meant that other strapping young lad there sparring with the big bear of a woman."
"Right you did." The grin Caelyn flashed at him was positively malicious.
# # #
"Back for more?" Josie said as Cullen took his seat at their accustomed table inside The Herald's Rest.
"A man needs a chance to defend his honour," Cullen said as he started shuffling the cards. "This time I'm dealing the first round."
"As I recall, Curly," said Varric, "that didn't help last time either."
"It's a fresh pack of cards, unmarked. There will be no cheating this time." Cullen arched a brow. For a moment he caught Dorian's eye but then seemed engrossed in the shuffling again.
Dorian and Caelyn traded a glance, and the Inquisitor smirked. "I give him eight rounds before he's in his smallclothes."
"Six," Dorian said. "Want to bet on it?"
"You wish," Caelyn shot back.
Cullen cleared his throat. "And there are new rules."
A groan went up round the table.
Sera yelled, "Oi, blondie, just 'cos you got all nekkid las' time don't mean you gets to change the rules on us."
"Hear me out," the Commander said, and held up a hand.
"What could possibly be more thrilling than seeing you in your name-day suit?" Dorian called out, amid hoots of laughter.
Cullen's blush was rather fetching, and the good-natured ribbing continued while he dealt the first hand. Apart from stuffy old Solas and prudish Viv, it was a full complement of the inner circle this evening, and Dorian could feel the undercurrent buzz that things were going to get out of hand well before midnight.
"New rules," Cullen said.
"Is that a command, Commander?" Caelyn leaned forward, chin rested on her hand as she blinked up at him in mock innocence. "You have my undivided attention."
Cullen blushed again, which elicited fresh catcalls and laughter. How utterly charming. The Commander had faced a behemoth at Haven and demons at Adamantine, yet came undone when surrounded by friends. Dorian's heart went all squishy at the thought. Oh, yes, he'd definitely ascribe the terms "squishy" and more than just a little bit "warm" when he thought of the Commander.
Cullen attempted an approximation of a serious glare levelled at the Inquisitor, and with a perfectly straight face said, "Yes, your worship, that is a command."
More laughter ensued. A few of the inner circle howled back, "Yes, Commander!" and the tavern's other patrons stopped their conversations to cast curious gazes in their direction.
"Your worship –" Dorian turned to Caelyn, with an exaggerated wink. "We still don't have the new rules."
"A good point," Caelyn said. "Spit it out, Commander."
Cullen, evidently needing a little Fereldan courage, gulped from his tankard then began, "New rules. Instead of folks forfeiting garments, the winner chooses someone to subject to a truth or a dare."
A moment of silence descended on their table.
"Ohh, errr," Sera said. Whatever thoughts were going on behind that elfy face, they were happening at high speed.
Dorian cringed inwardly. This was not going to end well.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Varric was drawing curlicues with an index finger through a puddle of spilled ale, but his smirk suggested he was undoubtedly taking notes for future novels.
Next to Dorian, Josie giggled. "Really, Cullen?"
The Commander paused in the middle of dealing. "What?"
"Are you certain of this? The worst that can happen with the existing rules is you'll have another frantic dash back to your room…" Josie's dimples stood out as she beamed at him, but there was nothing innocent about the way her eyes glittered.
"Curly's obviously trying to capitalise on the fact that his time as a Templar was so uneventful," Varric added.
"As if," Leliana said with a soft snort, but then she picked up her cards, and her expression turned thoughtful.
Dorian was less than impressed with the hand he'd been dealt, but he'd go a round or two and see who'd be on a winning streak. Predictably, Josie had the first honours to pick on Caelyn, and she made a great show of deliberating the Inquisitor's fate.
"After all," she said, feigning innocence, "it is only seemly that our illustrious leader sets an example."
"Why am I not going to like this?" Caelyn muttered.
"Oh, knowing Josie, you'll like this a lot," Dorian said. Secretly, he was vastly relieved that he wasn't on the receiving end. Yet. His time would still come, for sure. He nudged Josie lightly, and whispered the idea that had sprang to mind so that only she could hear.
Josie straightened, and said, "I dare her worship to sit on Varric's lap for the next round. Or suffer a forfeit."
Caelyn's blush was most becoming, but Varric nearly choked on his ale.
"What?" both of them yelled nearly simultaneously.
Josie merely raised one perfectly plucked brow. "Commander's rules."
Cullen sat back with a smirk, clearly enjoying that he was not the affected party. Yet.
Knowing Josie or Leliana, for that matter, it was only a matter of time before he ended up in a predicament of epic proportions.
"You heard me," Josie said, and gestured for the Inquisitor to get up. "I've seen the way the two of you've been eyeing each other."
"Bianca's feelings may get hurt," Varric objected.
"C'mon, get on with you," Sera said then made wet kissing noises, which resulted in the rest of the table howling their encouragement.
Caelyn, blushing furiously now, slipped off her stool and gingerly made her way to the other dwarf, who shifted so that she could deposit herself on his lap. The roar of approval nearly raised the eaves, but the pair took everything in good grace. Dorian noted how Varric's hand rested almost protectively on the Inquisitor's hip. Hmmm.
The next few rounds missed Cullen too, for some reason. Whether this was by accident or Josie's design, Dorian had no idea, but judging by the quirk of Josie's smile, which didn't waver whether she had a good hand or not, he suspected it was the latter. Trust her to lull her quarry into complacence.
Various inner circle members had their turn. The Iron Bull had to offer a truth, which involved sharing how he'd lost his virginity, which seemed so preposterous, Dorian was certain there was no way the tale was true; and Sera preferred a forfeit and had to down a concoction the Iron Bull mixed up. Consequently, she ended up beneath the table, and from time to time could be heard mumbling to herself about too many breeches. By this stage, no one saw fit to remind Caelyn that she was still sitting on Varric's lap. She looked far too comfortable. Cassandra had Dorian sing a children's nursery rhyme in falsetto, which although silly and had resulted in Krem actually crying with laughter, yet wasn't nearly half as bad as what Leliana made Cassandra do, which involved an abortive balancing act that resulted in a large-scale drenching in premium dwarven ale.
All the while, Cullen grew louder and, dare Dorian describe him as cockier, as the ale flowed and shots of spirits did the rounds. The man should drink more often and strip his usually maudlin demeanour.
It was after the Orlesian menthe that Josie struck. Granted, they were all a bit squint by then, and it took Dorian a moment to register Josie issuing a command to the Commander.
"... go and kiss Dorian. And nothing chaste about it either. We require an improper display of affection."
Deathly anticipation settled on the group. Dorian blinked owlishly back at the others and at the shocked Commander.
"Oh," said Dorian.
"Is that it?" Cullen said. He staggered to his feet and the Iron Bull had to reach over to steady him lest he topple over.
Was he outraged by Josie's suggestion? Would he actually do it? The Commander had certainly put away prodigious quantities of drink to overcome his strait-laced reservations, Dorian surmised. His face was flushed, and his usually guarded expression had been dropped a long while ago; Cullen seemed much younger
"Well, Dorian?" Cullen held out his arms.
A few sniggers came from round the table, along with a "Well, shit," from Varric.
For once Dorian felt like squirming under the table. Of all the occasions he'd secretly fantasised about what he'd do to the Commander, if given half a chance, he'd not expected this…this spectacle, for lack of better description. All those eyes, some sharper than others, following his every move.
He had a reputation to uphold. Dorian rose then crooked a finger at the rather drunk Commander. "If you want this fabulous piece of Vint arse, Commander, you had better come over here to fetch it."
Catcalls, foot stomping and applause nearly deafened him, and for a moment he feared that Cullen would back down, but the man's Fereldan courage held, and he picked his way around the tables and chairs. What, and not even a blush? How brazen.
Dorian felt curiously numb – and maybe it was just the drink making him stand there like a poleaxed druffalo – as Cullen approached. The next he knew, the man's mouth was hot on his own and what had initially seemed to be a sloppy kiss mutated into something much more, that involved a whole lot of tongue and the rasp of the blond man's stubble on his chin. There was a tangled urgency about their coming together, which drove all rational thought from Dorian's mind.
Cullen's armour dug into his chest, but he sneaked a hand round to grip him by the hip, and was pleased by how the man shifted at his touch, as if inviting this contact.
They broke apart, to rapturous cheers, both breathing heavily, and Dorian found his seat quickly lest he betray his unsteadiness. The reality of what he'd just done seemed to have slammed into Cullen, because even as he staggered back to his place, his face was aflame, and when Bull slapped him on his back, he nearly went down.
"I didn't think he had it in him," Josie said to Dorian, her smile hidden behind a lace kerchief she used to ostensibly dab at her upper lip.
"For once, I'm rendered speechless," Dorian announced in general, and placed hand on his chest while fanning himself with the other.
More laughter followed, and Cullen seemed far too focused on gathering the scattered cards.
"Well, that would make a change," Cassandra said.
Yet, Dorian noted, there'd been a subtle shift in the dynamics around the table. Whether it was the late hour, Cullen's unexpected act of exhibitionism, or perhaps even Josie's quiet diplomacy that perhaps she'd gone a bridge too far with the Commander this time, things quietened down, and no one passed any remarks when Cullen declared that he felt a headache come on and that he needed to retire.
By that stage, Dorian had to admit that the round of ale he'd imbibed on top of the usual Orlesian dry red, was not agreeing with his constitution, so he made his own apologies and removed himself to his suite.
Yet even as he paused on the walkway overlooking the forecourt, he chanced to glance toward the tower room where lamplight made thin gashes of gold against the darker stone. The Commander was still awake. Almost unconsciously, Dorian brought the fingers of his right hand to lips that still tingled with the aftertaste of that kiss. The ghost of sensation lingered, Cullen's peculiar insistence – a man who had, up until now, not given any indication that he might willingly indulge in particular pleasures.
If anything, the Commander had struck him as the sort who didn't partake of any carnal pleasures, and though Dorian had joked with the Inquisitor about what he'd like to do to the Commander should he have the opportunity, he'd never in his wildest imaginings considered that such an encounter might ever be spun into existence.
This dog end of desire left him slightly breathless with the possibility, and if it weren't for the fact that his head was fuzzy and he already felt slightly nauseated by the variety of drinks he'd consumed, Dorian would have braved a chill, Frostback night to go knocking on the Commander's door. However, whatever Fereldan courage Dorian had imbibed earlier, had fled.
It had been a moment of folly, nothing more. Josie had been an evil, blighted bitch for suggesting Cullen's dare in the first place, no doubt at Caelyn's instigation – if he knew that twisted little dwarf's mind.
Cruel, heartless women, toying with him like that. This evening had not so much been engineered to once again put the Commander in a compromising position; it had been contrived to torment the blighted Vint so that they could cackle about it like mad hens the following day.
"Go to bed, you're hopelessly inebriated, Dorian Pavus," he mumbled to himself as he turned his back on the view and drunkstumbled to his rest.
# # #
Dorian surfaced at noon, and mercifully the sky was overcast, yet his eyes still felt singed by the brightness. Every small movement he made sent dull blades slicing through what remained of his grey matter. He considered remaining abed, but he'd promised Caelyn he'd look into some obscure texts that may shed light on an artefact they'd retrieved from the Emerald Graves.
Why oh why had he promised to complete his research today, of all days?
For that matter, why had he agreed to drinking that Orlesian menthé on top of the vile concoctions Bull had set before him?
And then there was the memory of Cullen's very public indiscretion. Dorian wanted to curl up and die of mortification yet simultaneously whoop in a most indelicate fashion. The Commander would never, ever, under ordinary circumstances, have been so brazen. Hard liquor had a way of making people drop their inhibitions, which suggested that the Commander may possibly have been amenable to their, ahem, connection. Yet by equal measure, hard liquor also made usually reserved people do things completely contrary to their natures.
Fereldan courage indeed. More like Fereldan foolishness.
He should not get his hopes up.
Feeling like a doddery old man, Dorian made it to his nook in the library without disgracing himself or seeing any of the inner circle – for which he was eternally grateful. He doubted that his constitution was strong enough to cope with even a mild ribbing. Dorian requested that a servant fetch him some tea and perhaps dry toast, and settled down with his research – anything to keep from dwelling on the fact that his head felt as if it were stuffed with mouldy straw that was a breeding place for flaming salamanders.
However, once he'd gotten comfortable in his armchair, Savian Almestius' A Treatise on the Stylistic Developments of Ancient Tevinter opened at the place where he'd last stopped reading, Dorian felt his eyes grow heavy.
Just a little rest…
Yet when he awoke, it was dark outside, and the library was hushed and near deserted. At some point, the dusty old tome he'd been perusing had slipped from his fingers, yet someone had carefully placed it on the small table next to his armchair, and had even pulled a blanket over his legs to ward off the chill. Fiona probably. Bless her little pointy ears.
Dorian still felt like nug dung. Dry nug dung. Scrap that, he felt as if he'd been eating nug dung, and he grimaced as he stretched, his skull still thudding with dull pain. And his tongue cleaved to his palate. The cup of tea and toast he'd ordered stood untouched next to treatise, hours cold and, judging by the chill in the room, possibly frozen.
Yet sounds reached him from the Great Hall, echoing in from the mezzanine section. Dinner was served in Skyhold; he should make his way downstairs even if he wasn't feeling his usual fabulous self.
"Scale of the dragon, Dorian me lad," he muttered. Surely a glass of Orlesian red would do the trick. So he paused long enough, and checked himself in the small mirror that he kept in his nook for exactly that purpose, that he was as well groomed as possible – all things considered. A few judicious kohl lines, dabs of scent at pulse points and throat – a rare Antivan musk from his little stash of cosmetics that he'd secreted away in a drawer – and Dorian felt more or less ready to face the others.
After a last grimace in the small hand mirror, he tidied up his workspace and made his way to the hall.
Fiona was still at her desk, and looked up as he reached the stairs. "Feeling better, Dorian?"
"I've never felt better," he returned, and favoured the elf with the kind of devastating smile guaranteed to make her blush.
"Could have fooled me. I heard things got a little...rough...at the Herald last night."
"Nothing that I couldn't handle."
"Uh-huh."
Her grin was knowing, and she waved him on, and he couldn't help but wonder what else she'd heard. Dorian didn't dare ask. All of Skyhold must be buzzing, all while he'd been missing in action, so to speak.
Judging by the remains of people's meals, the main course had been served a while ago, and Dorian hastened to the main table where the inner circle was seated. Caelyn, Leliana and Cullen were poring over a document spread out among the plates and goblets, clearly absorbed in whatever they were discussing, but there was space on the opposite end of the table, where Varric was deep in conversation with Dagna.
Sera shifted up so he could sit down. "Guess I missed the show, huh?" She arched a brow at him.
"What show?" Dorian asked, with an absolutely innocent expression.
"You and the Commander, K-I-S-S –"
"Enough now," he snapped. Under any other circumstances, he might've enjoyed needling Cullen, and would have flaunted his little triumph for all it was worth, but his head still ached dully, and he was in no mood for the woman's taunting. "Your voice has a particular pitch that cuts right through me, and my head is still tender. So please, please, for the love all that is unholy. Shut. Up."
"Oooh, someone's all sensitive like got his knickers all in a twist, yeah?"
"Well, someone wasn't the first to fall once the Iron Bull started issuing certain forfeits now, did they?"
"Pfff! It was a tactical retreat."
"You're horrible. Shut up."
Sera cackled but mercifully turned her attention to the person sitting on her other side, which left Dorian trying to get the attention of a server.
"Please tell me you're at least feeling some sort of lingering after-effects from whatever Bull forced down our throats last night," Dorian asked Varric once he'd placed his order.
"Now-now, you know a dwarf never admits defeat when it comes to certain battles. I have a reputation to uphold." Varric smirked at him over his tankard.
Dorian narrowed his eyes at Varric. "You may be wearing your game face, but I can see the remnants of a punishing headache lingering. Your eyes don't lie."
"Dream on. Misery likes company." He put down his tankard and leaned forward. "So, you've been scarce today."
Dorian affected a nonchalant shrug. "Research, kept me busy."
"Uh-huh." That knowing smirk didn't so much as twitch.
"No. Really." Dorian happened to glance back down the table towards where Cullen and the others were. His heart gave a little lurch of disappointment. Cullen's seat was empty. He hadn't even caught a glimpse of the Commander departing. Caelyn and Leliana were now engaged in an animated conversation with the Iron Bull that involved much disagreement over the actual size of a dragon they'd taken down in the Hinterlands.
"Looking for someone, Sparkler?" Varric asked, his amusement clear.
Dorian shook his head. "No."
# # #
Since Dorian joined the Inquisition, Cullen had existed on the periphery of Dorian's world, an appealing if not somewhat imposing individual to appraise in such a way so as to not to make his interest too keenly observed. Yet the disastrous kiss that night in The Herald's Rest had demolished an invisible, unspoken barrier in Dorian's mind. He was accustomed to keeping his interest to himself, especially here, among the southerners. After all, he was the hated Vint, and especially with all the tensions stirred up by the Venatori, he was careful lest he inadvertently cause upset.
Granted, there were certain types of upset in which he revelled, but at present, he understood it would be wiser to err on the side of caution. At least until this entire business with Corypheus was laid to rest and he had a better idea of how to move forward. Not that he had any immediate plans to return to Tevinter.
Dorian had not flown south expecting to afflict his senses with an object of fascination, and now, since that night, it appeared that the Commander was doing his utmost to avoid Dorian. Which didn't help his own feelings one whit when he replayed that scene in the tavern over and over again.
Perhaps, in his drunken state, he should have gone knocking on the Commander's door but no… Rejection then would have stung worse than this carefully choreographed dance of avoidance.
At least this way, he could still pretend that everything was as it ought to be. Or as much as it could be, because every time he happened to see the Commander, either at meal times or in passing, the man either made excuses to leave as soon as possible, or turned tail and vanished in a manner that was conspicuously abrupt.
It wasn't even Dorian's imagination, because even Caelyn, who wasn't exactly always the most aware of social dynamics, had even noticed the Commander's hasty retreats whenever Dorian was present. And if Caelyn had noticed this, then this awkwardness was surely a juicy bone of discussion whenever folks were certain Dorian was out of earshot. The fact that no one had sought to discuss it with him didn't help him in his predicament either.
In his wilder fantasies, Dorian imagined himself barging into the Commander's tower room to demand some sort of explanation, for surely the longer this continued – the furtiveness, the knowing glances from others, the more difficult it would be to resolve the awkwardness resulting from that one, drunken kiss.
Perhaps then Cullen might glance up from his desk, amber eyes wide in horror, and terrible, hurtful words would spill from his mouth, and Dorian simply couldn't face that response from that noble, beautiful man who, when discomforted, had an adorable way of blushing, of unconsciously reaching to massage at his neck whenever he was uncomfortable.
By all rights, Dorian shouldn't feel such an interest for the erstwhile Templar – of all things – but as they said, opposites attracted, and there was no way to predict when and how such impossible things came to be.
# # #
"Come walk with me on the battlements." Caelyn had sought him in the library – normally the last place in all of Skyhold that the Inquisitor would be caught dead. Yet she stood right in front of his chair, drawn up to her full four feet and five inches, and looking like she meant business big enough to floor the Iron Bull.
Dorian snapped the treatise closed and peered up at the Inquisitor. "I have two more pages to go, and another five monographs to corroborate my theory, and you want me to subject myself to an excess of fresh air?" His words had come out much sharper than he'd intended, but they'd been said, and there was no way he could jam them back past his lips.
Caelyn's expression went from relaxed to pinched in an instant. She approached until she leaned on his chair's armrests until her forehead was nearly pressed against his. "Dorian. You've been moping. For three days now. It's quite unlike you."
He sighed heavily and sank back into his chair. "Yes, I'm moping. What of it?"
"Come, walk with me. Now. I guarantee it will be better."
"What's it like out there?"
"Brisk."
"Isn't it always?"
As if in answer, a gust smacked the windowpanes and rattled them in their frame.
Dorian eyed Caelyn. "Are you sure about this?"
"Look, we're – you included – are off to Val Royeaux tomorrow to go see about some matters of Josie's, and I'm not going before certain, erm… Other matters are resolved."
"And this other matter would involve me?" Dorian suppressed a groan.
"Yes."
For some reason, Dorian's stomach twisted itself in knots. He had a very good idea what this little walk would entail. Caelyn could be blunt if she wanted to, and his avoidance of her – especially since she was often conferring with the Commander – would have been obvious. Two could play at that game. As he'd suspected, the battlements were not the ideal place to be this afternoon. The breeze bordered on being best described as a shrieking menace, and though the sky was its usual near-cobalt blue – the sky was always a deeper hue at this altitude – the chill quickly robbed any exposed skin of its warmth.
"Very picturesque," Dorian said to Caelyn as they made their way to a lookout point. "See, even your sentries look like they'd rather be elsewhere than admire the view."
"We're not here merely to admire the view, Dorian."
"We're here to talk, I know, I know." He pulled his cloak tighter to his body. "So say what you want to say and make it quick. And yes, I know, it's probably about the Commander."
"How perceptive of you," she said. The wind whipped her brown curls loose from her braid, and he wondered if it didn't annoy her. Yet she stood with one hand resting on a crenulation, just able to see over the wall.
"Well, what is there to say? He's obviously feeling discomforted. So he's avoiding me. I feel rotten, because yes, he's a very nice man and I feel bad on his behalf because clearly he did not intend to lead anyone on and –"
Caelyn's laughter stopped him mid-sentence. "Maker's breath, Dorian, you're babbling."
"Well, what am I supposed to do? You've clearly brought me out here so I can confess my deepest, darkest secrets so that you and Leliana can connive and speculate to your hearts' content over glasses of dessert wine later while you plot to take over the world. I might as well babble and get it all off my chest so I can stop freezing my fabulous delicate bits off."
"No, Dorian, I brought you out here so that you can go babble your deepest darkest desires at Cullen." She turned and looked meaningfully at the closed door of the Commander's tower room.
"What? You have clearly taken leave of your senses."
"Dorian, I'm about to spend a week or more in your company while travelling. I do not want to see your long face during this time while you bemoan the fact that you didn't take advantage of this opportunity."
"It's a very pretty long face," Dorian added.
"Indeed it is, but I'll need your full attention when we go."
"And if I'm nursing a broken heart."
"Then you're nursing a broken heart, but at least you'll be able to move on. Closure is good. And so is travel, in that instance."
Dorian narrowed his eyes at her, his thoughts darting to the next conclusion. "You've already spoken to him, haven't you?"
"Mmmaybe." Little dimples quirked in her cheeks. Absolutely adorable on a small child, but on the diminutive Inquisitor it just made her look positively evil in the nicest possible way – the kind of wickedness that he approved of wholeheartedly. Only now he was on the receiving end.
Wild hope flared. The mere fact that Caelyn was willing to play go between to this extent suggested…Cullen might actually be amenable to some sort of...liaison.
"He didn't lose his composure when you spoke to him earlier, did he?"
"Oh, he blushed a lot more than usual, and he has the most delightful stammer when he's nervous, but no one's able to resist my charms. Not for long at least."
"You didn't have to do this, you know." At that moment, Dorian hated himself for having lacked the nerve to press his suit sooner. This would never have been the case back in Minrathous. Yet he was in unfamiliar surrounds, among strangers who had little love lost for Tevinter.
"Dorian, I consider you my friend. I hate seeing you suffer like this, and Cole agrees that we should do what we can help." Caelyn placed a hand on his forearm and squeezed lightly. "The Maker knows I have few enough friends as it is."
"You know that's not true," Dorian countered. Oh great, she's brought Cole into this too.
She rolled her eyes. "Please. It's 'your worship this' and 'Inquisitor' that or 'ma'am' and even 'mistress'. Only a year ago I was resigning myself to the fact that I was to eventually be married to some overweight merchant from Kirkwall and I would have to set aside whatever other … activities … I had in mind. And now this. Herald of fecking Andraste. Maker's tits, Dorian. I didn't ask for this. So please, just humour me on this."
A faint crackling pull to the air emanated from Caelyn's left hand, and her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly as she cradled the offending limb.
"Is it hurting you?" Dorian asked, concerned.
"No more than it usually does when my emotions run high." Caelyn did seem a bit paler.
"Want to go back inside? We can take a look and –"
"Dorian," Caelyn warned. "You're trying to sidestep the issue. The anchor isn't going anywhere, but we are, and the longer you leave this other matter unresolved…" She pointed at the Commander's tower room.
The closed door may as well have been a sheer rock face barring his way. What in the blighted hells was wrong with him that he could face down demons, darkspawn and enraged dragons, yet couldn't force himself to knock on a man's door?
"Fine!" he huffed, and pulled his cloak closer. Not that it did any good to keep out the chill.
"I expect a full report up in my quarters afterward," Caelyn said. "I have a Fereldan peach brandy that requires tasting."
"Yes, your worship," Dorian shot back, even if his grin felt pasted on. He could do this. He had to. Caelyn was right. If he had to spend a week or two away from Skyhold leaving this loose thread undone, by the time he returned, things might have settled into permanent unravelment.
"'Your worship' my arse," Caelyn said, and shooed him onward then turned and sauntered back to the rotunda.
He was tempted to follow, but straightened as much as he could bear to in the autumnal chill, and closed the distance between himself and the Commander's tower room. The mere fact that Cullen may already expect him, made this entire situation ten times worse. That he possibly welcomed this intrusion was an entirely different thing. Dorian paused, his fist poised on the cusp of knocking. Caelyn would kill him if he backed down now.
Well, maybe that was a slight over dramatisation of her response… Dorian took a deep breath, and brought his fist down.
The Commander's muffled "Enter" from the other side cemented the inevitability of what was to follow, and Dorian summoned his pride to make a grand entrance.
"Good afternoon, Commander," he said, sounding to his ears far more jovial than he felt.
"Dorian! I –" Cullen half-rose from his seat, his expression stricken.
"I do admit this is a bit awkward, isn't it?" Dorian remained close to the door. Wary.
Cullen's complexion had turned rosy, and there was that little quirk of him scrubbing at the back of his neck. Thoroughly discombobulated. Adorable. Dorian couldn't help the small smirk that quirked his lips.
"I didn't… What I mean, the other night, it was all a bit hazy."
Dorian held up his hands. "No harm done."
"Then, well…" Cullen sagged into his chair and cradled his head in his hands. "I've really made a thorough hash of it all. I never meant to turn things into such a public spectacle."
His sigh was so woebegone, that Dorian took that as his cue to insinuate himself into the chair before Cullen's desk.
"Let's talk about it then," Dorian said, surprising himself with the sudden sunburst of bravery that suffused him, despite his hammering pulse. "Man to man. Instead of us continuing this dance."
Cullen hissed a breath and peered at him through the cage of his fingers. His blond curls were in delectable disarray. "I'm not good with this sort of thing."
Dorian smirked at him. "And here I'd thought that with all those years of Templar training, you boys would get up to all manner of things in the dormitories."
"It's nothing like that!" Cullen huffed and sat up. "Well, I mean, things happened, but I –"
"Were too busy being hard on yourself. Oh, dear me, that did come out sounding all wrong." Dorian allowed himself a chuckle, and Cullen's blush turned a more fetching shade of crimson.
"It's not like that at all!" he countered.
"Well, then what was it like?" Dorian leaned forward, chin on hand, and levelled what he imagined was a painfully frank gaze at Cullen.
"I've never thought that…" Cullen shook his head.
"You'd kiss a boy and like it?" Dorian offered.
The Commander covered his eyes with a hand, shook his head then puffed out a breath before he was able to return Dorian's gaze. "Yes."
"And girls?" Dorian asked.
Cullen's expression grew pained. "There were a few times, back in Kirkwall, when I had…opportunities. But with all the upheaval, I've simply not had...time…to pursue… Anything." He sighed. "And nothing has ever felt...quite right."
Silence clawed at the space between them, and this time Cullen's warm amber gaze did not flinch away from Dorian's. Years of isolation, denial and, yes, hunger, were lodged there. All hidden behind the man's mask of efficiency and sheer, bloody-minded discipline.
The poor fool.
"And now?" Dorian asked.
"And now I don't know anymore. I wish I could write off the other night as a moment of madness brought on by excess, but then I'd be lying, wouldn't I?"
"I don't think anyone will think ill of you for it. After all, you had a perfectly valid excuse." No, Dorian, don't grant him egress from this dialogue. He pinched the soft skin on the inside of his elbow hard. It was either that, or kick himself, which would be so terribly ungainly considering the present company.
"I don't want to lie," Cullen said.
Dorian sat upright, hands palm down on the desk. "What do you mean?" His heart beat so hard he feared it might burst up and out his throat. Are my ears functioning? Is this man saying what I think he's saying?
"I've… I've never had to admit this to anyone before and I'm not all that good at saying what I feel, what I really mean." That awful silence resumed. This time Cullen stared resolutely at his desk.
"Then don't say it with words," Dorian said, hoping against hope that he was reading this situation correctly. "At least not at first. The words will follow."
Cullen glanced up, and his expression was so unbelievably broken that Dorian had to bite back a gasp.
"I don't think I know how, Dorian. And, to be honest, I'm not even sure I know where to begin."
Dorian stole his hand across the desk until he rested it on top of Cullen's. The man did not pull away, and a small flash of triumph burst inside Dorian.
"Then let me show you how. Now about that kiss, Commander..."