Summary: Rhys has a pattern.
a/n: Writing to fill a prompt for the DA DWC: "Hey, have you seen the … ? Oh." Fiona
Upon My Return
Hoof beats resounded off stone, going hollow as the riders passed through the gates. It was one sound that could rouse Dorian out of the deepest contemplation. He leaned forward, peeking out the corner of the window. The hint of a smile graced his lips when his eyes laid upon the riders—Cassandra, Cole, Solas, and Rhys.
A lightness inflated the mage's chest as he saw the ranger and the warrior dismount. The inquisitor set his reins into Cassandra's hands after she said something to him. His face turned toward Dorian's window, then back to his friend. The mage felt his smile widen as Rhys jogged toward the keep.
He took a moment to compose himself, taking a deep breath and sitting back again with his book in his lap. It wouldn't do to appear to be looking too eager. Appearances should be kept, even if Rhys seemed to do everything in his power to disprove that sentiment. In truth, Dorian didn't mind as much as he pretended at.
When he heard the slap of leather echoing off the stone stairs, the smile spread farther and his heart warmed. Even being able to guess what was going to happen, it still thrilled him. His pulse thrummed and his skin tingled; Dorian's tongue pressed over his lips quickly, trying to lick away the prickling anticipation.
He'd only let himself think of Rhys as a fling at first. When the inquisitor told him he wanted more, it made Dorian soar. It was unexpected, surprising, and … exhilarating, despite the worry that came with it.
Calloused fingers curled under his chin, tilting it upwards. Rhys' kiss started gentle, but quickly deepened with greed. "I missed you," he breathed, sealing their mouths again before Dorian could reply likewise.
Pushing the book aside and letting it fall to the floor, he pulled the ranger into his lap. He threaded the fingers of their free hands, clutching it tightly as need rushed toward the forefront of their emotions.
Clearly unaware of the arrival in the courtyard, Fiona trudged toward Dorian's sitting area. "Dorian, have you seen the …?"
The two men separated a hair, both turning their gazes on her.
"Oh! Pardon me. It can wait," she stammered, trying to steady the massive tome she lost her grip on. Then she turned on her heel, raised one hand to her forehead, and wandered away.
"And this is one of the many reasons, I keep suggesting a bit of modesty."
"Modesty?" Rhys gasped. "This coming from the master of the opposite."
"I'll have you know I'm very aware of appearances."
The ranger tugged at the longish sides of Dorian's hair, careful not to muss it. "You just ignore them when it suits you," he said. Then started to slip out of his lover's lap. "But if that's what you prefer. I guess I could try to keep up appearances. For you."
Dorian pulled him back down, but it didn't close the distance. "You're already here. There's no appearance to keep up, now."
Rough fingertips traced the chiseled slope of Dorian's jaw. "Are you sure you'd prefer a controlled response to me making sure to come see you first when I return to Skyhold? Or perhaps I should share a tent with Bull next time we're traveling together? Surely, it would be a shame if people got the wrong impression."
"Rhys."
"No, Dorian. Don't Rhys me." He straightened, still perched upon the mage's thighs. "I love you. I don't care who knows. I'd write it in the sky if I could, scream it from the rooftop," he said, jerking his thumb toward his shoulder. "I can. Right now."
"You don't have to do that. I know."
"I realize that, but I want everyone to know. To know you're important to me." Rhys leaned toward him again, fingers tracing soft lines across his cheek. "Let me show it."
Dorian's hand squeezed his lover's. "I'm trying. It's like I mentioned. This isn't done in Tevinter."
"We're not in Tevinter."
"From what I've seen, it's not done in Ferelden either."
"I'm not from Ferelden," Rhys reminded, planting a languid kiss on Dorian's lips in a misguided attempt to end this line of conversation.