Cullen found everything about the Winter Palace uncomfortable.
The company of Orlesian nobles with no concept of personal space, the over-seasoned food, the insistence on bubbly drinks that hurt his nose, the ill-fitting uniform… He huffed as he adjusted the belt digging into his waist, only to bump his elbow against the table to his side. As droplets of champagne swished over the gold-rimmed flutes and splashed on the polished wood, Cullen reasonably decided the placement of the furniture was also in poor judgement.
He glanced up and away from the disapproving stares, only to make eye-contact with a masked noble standing too close.
"You have lovely hair, Commander."
Cullen's nose wrinkled when he caught the stench of wine on the man's breath, and his eyes sought the massive clock across the room. What was taking the Inquisitor so long?
"Thank you," he managed tersely.
The noble inched closer, and Cullen crossed his arms, bumping into the table again as he attempted to reclaim his space. He smelled the noble's mouth open again, but the dreadful anticipation disappeared when he heard his name and title in a familiar Orlesian accent.
"Ser Michel." Cullen nodded gratefully.
The former chevalier had been spared the red and gold uniform donned by the Inquisition's leaders and instead sported a finely crafted ceremonial armor. Cullen appreciated the refined look, especially amidst the extravagant fashions saturating the ornate ballroom.
"May I have word, Commander?" Michel lifted two flutes of champagne in his hands. "Alone?"
"Please," Cullen said eagerly, giving a quick glare to the intrusive noble.
Michel handed Cullen one of the glasses and took the noble's place at his side.
"Would I be correct to assume this is your first Orlesian soiree?" he asked kindly.
Cullen smirked into his glass. "I suspect that's fairly obvious."
"Nobles love to pretend like their Game requires secrecy and complex strategy that takes years to master, but the most effect moves can often be the most simple." Michel gestured to two noble ladies across the balcony. One of the young women pressed her chest out as she caressed the arm of her companion. "Sometimes it's preferable to make your intentions clear."
Cullen met Michel's glance, a stifled eagerness warming his neck.
"Ah—"
"Indulge me," Michel asked, stepping in front of Cullen. Michel lifted his hand with the flute, flicking his wrist subtly to indicate that Cullen should do the same. He followed suit, and Michel wrapped his forearm around Cullen's, their arms interlocking at the elbow.
"Drink," he said, leaning forward.
Cullen bought his glass to his lips as Michel did the same with his own, the movement pulling them closer to each other. He took a small sip, less fussed with the way the bubbles irritated the roof of his mouth, and met Michel's eyes as they unlocked their arms. Michel stepped forward, their chests almost touching, and whispered in his ear, "Perhaps if this doesn't deter your admirers, a proper dance will."
"I shall keep that in mind," Cullen replied, not even tempted to mention he didn't know how.
Michel bowed with a smile, excusing himself to attend to other duties. Cullen smiled back.
Maybe not everything was uncomfortable at the Winter Palace.