Kissing Dorian is easy. He's not the tallest human in Halahrel's company—it would be a lie to say he "couldn't imagine" reaching up to kiss Cullen, because he had, but the point still stands—while still being tall enough that the elf has to lift his head a bit. It feels masculine in the way that hard angles and soft lips feels masculine.
And yet...
Dorian smells like something spiced and sweet but tastes like something dark and heady, if darkness, physical darkness, had a taste. It's a quick kiss when they return from Redcliffe, but enough to give Halahrel a taste—ha,ha—of what future kisses will be like, and leaves him wanting more of them.
Except...
He hopes he'll get used to it. Dorian looks so happy, and it's not an unpleasant sensation, but he has no idea how to bring it to the other man's attention. So instead, he becomes determined to practice. Dorian makes fun of him for so somberly asking for more kisses, but Halahrel has always been a rather...dedicated fellow when it comes to learning his partner's body.
Because, well...
He'd never expected kissable humans to have facial hair.
"Mm?" Dorian's voice reverberates through their locked lips, making Halahrel shiver a bit. The tone of the noise shifts up a bit, compared to Dorian's usual moans, which he's discovered tend to be pitched lower, and so he pulls back a bit, breaking the kiss. They are sprawled on the Orlesian silk sofa in Halahrel's quarters, his knee between Dorian's legs and Dorian's hands resting on Halahrel's hips, devilishly low but not quite low enough. It is hard to disentangle himself from such an embrace, and Dorian doesn't seem very inclined to let him do so, and so Halahrel contents himself with balancing himself with both hands above the human.
"What's wrong?"
Dorian gazes at him through hooded eyes, a self-conscious smirk playing at the edge of his lips. "I could ask you the same question, Hal. And I will. You keep twitching."
Halahrel flushes and surreptitiously glances downward at where he'd hoped there'd been enough groin padding, but Dorian catches the direction of his gaze and bursts out laughing.
"I meant—oh, sod what I meant; this is much more amusing." His look of sheer mirth at Halahrel's embarrassment is too much to handle. The elf leans in to shut him up, to block the expression, and Dorian eagerly meets him through muffled chuckles. For a moment, they are both lost in each other again.
Almost.
"Okay," Dorian says against Halahrel's lips. "Okay, you're doing it again." This time, he is the one to pull back. The self-conscious smile is back. "You'd better explain what I'm doing wrong to make you wriggle so."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Halahrel says with a concerned frown, and while it's true that he doesn't know what gave it away, he has a feeling he knows the why.
"It's not just now; you're always doing this whenever you steal me away. You sort of...twitch, wriggle, I don't know. You seem...uncomfortable." Dorian's face has that faint look of detached amusement that he gets in situations like these, and his hands have frozen on Halahrel's hips.
"It's...uh, it's sort of silly," he hedges.
"I'm all ears." Dorian seems to have grown fond of the expression, he can't help but notice.
"I'm trying...I'm trying to get used to, uh..." How to put this politely? "I've never kissed a man with a mustache before," he blurts out. Very polite.
Whatever Dorian was expecting him to say, it clearly wasn't that. The self-conscious expression has been replaced by incredulity. His eyes widen, his mouth open a little in surprise, but he recovers quickly. Dorian isn't one to be rendered speechless for long. His hands unglue themselves from Halahrel's hips and work themselves up his back.
"Surely you've kissed men before, yes?" he asks. "You don't strike me as some...curious beginner. No offense."
"None taken."
"Then you've felt stubble before. What's the difference?"
Halahrel grins. "You forget that I'm Dalish."
Amusement seems to have brought back the earlier mood, given that Dorian's eyes darken. "Believe me," he murmurs, running a finger slowly over a long, pointed ear, "I haven't forgotten." In response, Halahrel bites back a light moan, but he can't stop his eyes from slipping closed, or goosebumps from rising along his arms. Dorian laughs, a dark and promising sound.
Halahrel opens his eyes to glare, shifting from on top to a side-by-side cuddle. Dorian moves accordingly, wiggling over to give the lanky elf enough space and wrapping his right arm around the Halahrel's shoulders. His fingers trace little circles on their resting place on the Inquisitor's shoulder.
"So what does being Dalish have to do with anything?" Dorian asks. Halahrel blinks, then recalls the previous question.
"I spent my life with other elves. I wasn't one to trade with humans, so I didn't really have many opportunities to, well, you know. I had relations with the elvhen. As I'm sure you've noticed," he juts his chin for inspection, "I don't have a beard. And neither did my partners. Elves don't grow beards."
Dorian laughs again, though the sound is brighter. "And here I thought you were as handy with a razor as you are with a sword!"
"I probably wouldn't know what to do with one."
"Oh, we're getting off track, and it's all my fault," the mage tuts. "So what you're saying is, you've only kissed elves, and so my mustache, what, tickles? And that's why you've been writhing around?"
"I haven't been writhing—"
"You have so. And not in a sinfully enjoyable way, either."
"I can writhe sinfully!"
"Of course you can! You have been! Just, as I said, not in an enjoyable way. Sinful in a bad way."
Halahrel, more than a little peeved, sits up out of Dorian's arms and turns to face his accuser. The space would be cramped, were Halahrel any larger, but despite his facility with a maul, his frame is still less than imposing. "Dorian," he begins, his voice deep and disapproving.
"Oh, come now! Don't be like that," Dorian complains.
"Are you just embarrassed that—"
"I'm not shaving."
"And I'm not asking you to," an exasperated Halahrel replies. "I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable. You asked why I seemed distracted, and I answered. It doesn't mean I like you any less, or want to kiss you any less. It's just different."
Dorian leers up at him from his reclining pose. "Well, I certainly wasn't implying my charming good looks had lost their sway over you."
Halahrel smiles back and relaxes down to the sofa. "Don't let Mother Giselle hear you say that."
The brief moment of tension passes, and the two soon become diverted by other conversation topics. But Halahrel can't help but notice that Dorian touches the edges of his mustache a little too often.
"How do you get your hair to do that, Dorian?" Blackwall inquires a few days later while the merry brigade traipses through the Fallow Mire. "Magic?"
It's a fair question, given the eternal damp weather that defines the bog, and Halahrel doesn't need to turn around to know Dorian's impeccable styling has been marginally affected by the rain. But only the Inquisitor feels the thunderclouds to suddenly leave the sky and gather directly around Dorian's mood. He feels a great pity for Blackwall.
"With proper grooming and hygiene," Dorian snips back. "Perhaps the three of you should get acquainted."
There is a stunned silence, one that not even Sera interrupts. Halahrel's friends had been less at each other's throats as of late, and so Dorian's outburst appeared to have manifested itself rather suddenly. Halahrel guiltily sneaks a glance backwards to see Dorian gazing into the gloomy distance with a frown, smoothing his mustache with thumb and forefinger.
Dorian has been avoiding him. It's obvious.
Every time Halahrel walks up the library stairs and reaches the top, Dorian's back is to him. He knows from the start that it is intentional, that Dorian has started to recognize the elf's footsteps. He avoids his gaze when he passes by, and so Halahrel does pass by, with nothing more than a small smile and a nod that Dorian curtly returns.
They were never together, Halahrel reminds himself. Occasionally they flirt and kiss a little, and if that is to end, so be it. But it still hurts a little—a lot—because he'd liked Dorian, had been fairly certain Dorian was his friend, and it just is so frustrating that Dorian's become insecure about his mustache of all things.
He doesn't have anyone to talk to. Neither of them do, really. It was different back in the clan, and Halahrel can't help but miss his friends and fellow hunters from before. Not that any of them would approve anyway—a human Tevinter magister?
An altus, Dorian would've reminded him. Not a magister.
So, instead of talking it out like the adults they've been pretending to be, the silence continues. It makes the problem seem a lot worse than it is, Halahrel is aware, because the longer Dorian acts slighted, the longer Halahrel will give him space, which will make the other man think he has reason to feel slighted...It will not go anywhere good.
The main hall's renovations are still underway, so mealtimes usually entail each person taking his or her meals with the usual group of common allies. Soldiers eat with their friends; the mages tend to clump together; and the Inquisition's inner circle splits between the tavern and the Keep itself. Halahrel tends to eat in the Keep, but lately he has taken to dining in the tavern with Sera and Iron Bull. They both have a feeling something happened between him and Dorian—at this point, everyone has this feeling, he's sure—but they say little about it because they seem to like him.
The hard part is sneaking back to the Keep after dinner. He has discovered a convenient route through the kitchens that takes him in the underbelly of the fortress before emerging outside Josephine's office, but even so, he must be seen in the main hall to head up the stairs to his own room.
One night, Iron Bull loses patience with him. "If you and whatever the thing between you and the Vint is doesn't get resolved soon, boss, we're gonna need a new necromancer to bring with us," he warns. Halahrel levels a steady gaze at the qunari, contemplates lying, decides against it, refuses to look abashed. Iron Bull scoffs at the look, cutting off the Inquisitor's reply before it fully manifests. "Don't give me those puppy-dog eyes. Put your—hey, put your mug down. Get up and leave, and go talk to him. It's been a hostile work environment."
Halahrel laughs, a little awkwardly. "Well, since I'm no longer welcome here..." He makes to rise.
"Don't get your knickers in a twist," Sera pipes up. There's a condescending note in her tone that Halahrel is pretty familiar with by now. "Yeah, so what, we want you to grow up and talk to your man. Don't have to have such a piss-poor attitude about it."
He looks around, a little self-conscious about how the pair is treating the leader of the Inquisition in a public place, but his friends seem to take it as his considering "growing up and talking to his man."
"Get out of here, boss," the Bull says over a mugful of something that burns Halahrel's nose even from a few seats over. He smirks at him in what is probably meant to be an encouraging expression, and Halahrel makes his exit.
But...
Okay, maybe he is being childish, he considers, sitting at his desk in his quarters. Alone. Not having talked to Dorian. Maybe he is. But Dorian has been, too. They deserve each other, apparently, and at the same time, if they can't resolve something like this easily, maybe they deserve this ending. He buries himself in leftover work, reviews requisitions and writes reports of the various tasks he has been performing for the people of Orlais and Ferelden. The night mountain air blowing in from his open windows turns chillier, and he realizes the hour has grown late and the pile of work on his desk diminished. He stands and begins closing the windows, thinking how lovely the word "bed" sounds, when someone begins speaking from the stairs.
"So it's all very nice, this flirting business," the familiar voice drawls, "but I'd say the whole 'avoiding each other' thing makes it run sour." Dorian, leisurely footsteps muffled by thick carpet, strolls across the floor with a determined expression. It is this expression that catches Halahrel by surprise, keeps him from jumping to the defensive; it is not an angry one, and even though he can catch hurt glimmering in Dorian's eyes as he draws closer, curiosity and the aforementioned determination reign supreme in his face. "I'd hoped to ask you if I could speak to you in your quarters were you to pass by, but it seems you've become quite good at eluding me." He stops, planting his feet a little ways apart as if preparing for a blow, and a little distance so that Halahrel is not suffocated but close enough to feel polite. It almost seems a little rehearsed.
He can't help but laugh. "I thought you were avoiding me." Dorian looks about to object—this admittance is not in his script, it would appear—but Halahrel continues. "I guess we were so worried about intruding on each other's privacy that we missed the point completely."
"Oh, no, Hal. Intruding on your privacy is exactly what I'd like to do at the moment, as evidenced by my presence in your quarters. So since I have you alone and defenseless," and something in the way Dorian says that makes Halahrel's senses come alive in a delightful manner, "I'd like to ask the reason why you had such an odd thought."
The elf blinks. "Because you were. Avoiding me, that is. Ever since, you know, our discussion about my experience with human men." He's trying to choose his words carefully. He hopes Dorian knows. Talking with him now, after days of silence, feels like the coffee Leliana made for him after his first bad hangover: he hadn't known how terrible he was feeling until the scent, the desire to taste overwhelmed him.
Dorian laughs, bringing Halahrel's attention to his mouth. His eyes dart back up to the other man's face quickly before his distraction is spotted. "'Experience with human men,'" he echoes. "You are referring, of course..." He gestures to his lips—no, his mustache, and Halahrel must drag his eyes back up once more—and takes a step forward. "I admit your fixation may have thrown me for a loop—"
"My fixation," Halahrel repeats, affronted.
"Or what-have-you. It doesn't bother me anymore. It was merely...unexpected, and I confess I didn't handle it with much grace." Now Dorian has arrived back at his script. He looks much more comfortable, despite Halahrel's own discomfort that Dorian seems to have planned talking to him about human facial hair. "But now I see that it was unworthy of me. You are my...friend, and it is unfair of me to lose patience over something with which I obviously should have patience."
"Patience."
"Is something wrong?"
Whatever Dorian must have expected his reaction to be, the frown Halahrel can feel twitching at his eyebrows does not seem to be the most desired one. The mage looks a little nervous now, given the light, uncertain smile he now sports, and staring at him now, when he is vulnerable after an apology, Halahrel's argument dies in his throat.
"Not really." He forces his features to even out. It's a stupid thing for him to even get offended about—the fact that Dorian was offended, that is. Might as well just see where this goes.
"Yes. Well. As I was saying, it's not—forget it," Dorian suddenly cuts off, his serious expression dropping to one Halahrel can't quite read. "I don't think I can do this with you...standing there."
"With me—" Halahrel stares at the man, dumbfounded. "How do you want me?"
A faint smile. Halahrel fights the urge to take back his words, but Dorian interrupts his thought process. "Turn around," he says. "I can't look at you when you're, when you're like this."
There is a beat before the elf obeys, his arms crossed as he stares at his bookshelves. It is a strange request, and he turns over Dorian's descriptions of him—"standing there;" "when you're like this"—silently while he waits. He hears a deep, shaky intake of breath.
"Fasta vass," Dorian whispers, just audible, and then he hears long strides of booted footsteps making their way towards him. He doesn't turn around, even as he feels Dorian inches behind him, can sense the mage's arms reaching for but not quite touching his own. But he knows he himself is breathing a little more quickly, his blood racing a little faster in his veins, his fingernails digging into his crossed arms.
Dorian's voice, usually smooth and silken, now sounds ragged and thick as he says, "I can't properly apologize to you when I see the stubborn line of your mouth. I can't apologize when your back is to me and I can't read your expression and am imagining..." He exhales a laugh, a familiar promising sound, and his breath on Halahrel's neck makes his skin come alive. "But I definitely can't look at your face when all I'm thinking about are the ways I want to ravage you."
"Dorian—"
"Here is my proposal," he murmurs. "We dispense with the chit-chat, and move onto something a bit more...primal. We can always talk later, if we're both done with the bad behavior. Though I suppose it really depends. How bad does the Inquisitor want to be?"
Halahrel's heart is working overtime, his pulse a staccato in his own ears, and he's pretty sure he knows where to his heart is directing its blood. "You have a funny way of playing up the 'hard to get' vibe," he tries joking, slowly turning to face the cause of his racing heartbeat. Dorian is upon him immediately, relief plain in his face before he cups not-quite-gentle hands around the elf's face.
"Now I'm gotten," he replies quickly, and Halahrel has no time to respond before Dorian's lips meet his.
Dorian's skin is exquisite. Halahrel likes seeing the contrast of his own tan fingers splayed against the dark expanse of Dorian's chest as he pushes him onto the bed. At least, once he can tear the buckles and clasps off of the robes the other man used to be wearing. Dorian laughed at his struggles, saying, "What, is that another thing you have to 'get used to'?" and while Halahrel is sure his irritation was made apparent through a bite to a neck that made a gasp interrupt the chuckles, the comment wasn't sincere enough to spoil the mood. He never had the knack for picking locks his friends in the clan had, preferring the less subtle art of smashing things into tiny bits, but Dorian had stopped him from solving the buckle problem in his usual fashion by undoing the fastenings himself. The robes fell to the floor with a clunk and now lie abandoned by the bed where Halahrel is ministering to the new, delightfully unexplored skin the fallen robes have revealed.
Except...
It's not unpleasant. It's not unpleasant by any means, and he hopes Dorian knows it. His chest is smooth and twitches each time Halahrel runs a finger or tongue over it, and for the most part, free of that human trait that caused the problem in the first place. The dark wisps of hair that run from Dorian's bellybutton and trail under the silky underthings he wears, however, are quite obvious. Far from perturbing, however, he finds them...alluring. They're like a map, a distinctive quality that encompasses who Dorian is, human and everything.
He runs a cautious finger over the line, feels Dorian's belly tremble as the mage fails to suppress a breathless laugh. The movement, from where he sits perched on the very underthings he was admiring earlier, feels rather nice against his leggings, and he leans forward to slant his lips against Dorian's, hoping to elicit a similar movement by grinding his hips forward ever so slightly in rhythm with the kiss.
Dorian's fingers slide through his hair, occasionally pulling at blond locks, occasionally dragging nails against scalp, and it doesn't take long before Halahrel's own shirt is clumsily unbuttoned. He breaks the kiss and yanks it off, throwing it somewhere unseen before Dorian rakes one hand through his hair again and another scratching at his back, and the kiss intensifies as they lie with their chests flush against each other.
Halahrel can feel every inch, every angle of Dorian's body from this position. His toes brush against the very bottoms of Dorian's calves, the muscles of his own chest unyielding against Dorian's slightly softer one, their hardnesses straining against fabric. His own arms coil around Dorian's neck while his fingers slide through the black hair only a little different from what can be found elsewhere on the other man's skin.
He can feel foreign fingers unlacing his leggings with more dexterity than he expected, and he shudders each time they brush against the bulge through the cloth. Dorian tugs at the waistband, and the leggings get pretty far over his arse until they catch where their hips slide against each other.
Halahrel hides his face in Dorian's neck and laughs. "I hope you won't become unaroused when you see me try to get out of these."
"Unaroused, watching you peel off those skin-tight things while I watch from your bed?" He lightly drags his fingernails over Halahrel's newly exposed skin, and Halahrel can just tell he's smiling at the shiver that action evokes. "Perish the thought."
He's fairly certain the movement will be a lot less sexy than Dorian thinks it will be, but at least the sentiment is nice. Rolling off his lover to the side feels worse than that one time Sera set ice on the floor on the exact spot on which he usually stepped out of bed, but it is necessary. He is quick to remove himself of the offending garment and is ready to leap upon Dorian again, but the man's pout makes him stop, one knee on the bed.
"What?" Now is really not the time to be asking questions, but he'll be damned if Dorian doesn't look disappointed about something.
"You give the worst strip-teases I've ever seen," he sulks.
"The worst—" Halahrel frowns, not having to try very hard to act offended. "There is no way to take these off in a non-ridiculous fashion."
"Perhaps I could consult you in your wardrobe? Just a thought."
"Oh?" Halahrel clambers onto the bed properly this time, flashing a grin as he reaches for Dorian again. The mage, despite the mockery in his voice, pulls him back, pressing eager kisses against his neck, chest, stomach..."What would you suggest?"
"For starters," Dorian replies against Halahrel's skin, "we would get rid of these." With no more warning than this, Halahrel's smallclothes are torn from his body thanks to deft Dorian fingers.
"So I'd go comma—fuck!" Halahrel's reply is cut off by an embarrassingly moan-y curse as those same fingers glide along the underside of his length with something that suspiciously feels like a healthy amount of magical lightning. His hips jerk, eyes widen, and he can swear to all his gods that he's never seen anything as smug as the expression Dorian is sporting.
"Hm? Sorry, didn't quite catch that."
He's going to kill this man.
"I'm not repeat—fenedhis!" A new light jab of sparks, this time as the accursed mage pumps once and imbues the magic carefully in his palm. Maybe Dorian will kill him first. He's never, not once, even briefly entertained the thought of allowing magic in sensitive areas, but now that his eyes have been opened to the experience, he's sure he'll be entertaining the idea—and being entertained by it—quite frequently in the future.
Well, Halahrel may never have had a shot at harnessing any magical ability, but that doesn't mean he can't wipe that look off Dorian's face. Enjoying the most pleasurable handjob he's received in his life won't stop him from reciprocating.
"Dorian," he says, pressing a hand on his chest to get the man to stop. Evidently, the utterance sounds too much like a moan and the gesture too much like a caress to yield much. He shifts his hips out of the way of sparking hands, much to the chagrin of the hands' owner, but neither of them complain when Halahrel grabs a fistful of Dorian's hair and pulls him into a long, bruising kiss. He reaches down, lower and lower, until he finds that familiar trail and then, lower still, under the silk to hard and hot and Elgar'nan's rage, the hair really does continue in abundance, doesn't it?
No matter, he thinks as Dorian's tongue slides into his mouth. There's something embarrassingly exciting about the differences in their bodies. They're reminders of the forbidden yet so right, reminders that they have worked through these differences despite their ancestors' terrible history. Well, not that the Tevinter Imperium and elvhen warred over differences in how much hair each race had, but—
Dorian curses against his mouth, and the thrusting of his shaft into Halahrel's hand brings his mind away from such stupid distractions. Somehow they have shifted to their side, each mouth and right hand otherwise occupied, and he finds that staying undistracted is not such a challenge after all. He's fairly certain Dorian's silky underthings rip a little at the seams in his haste to get them off, but Dorian doesn't seem to care. He'll probably get berated for that later, but for now, the mage is sufficiently placated by the enthusiasm. Free of its silk constraints, Dorian's length is free to Halahrel's attentions, but he falters a bit at the size of it. He doesn't have any other human member with which to compare it, so there's a good chance Dorian's is the standard package—ha, ha—but that doesn't really help Halahrel feel much better about the size of his own. Not that he was planning to boast about it or anything.
"You'd better have a good reason for stopping, lover," Dorian murmurs into his ear, sending a flicker of some wave of magical pleasure through his fingertips to the base of Halahrel's shaft. The elf shivers at the touch, gripping Dorian's shoulder a little more tightly than is probably comfortable.
"No good reason at all," he manages to say. "I'll make up for my mistake."
"Wonderful," Dorian responds with a purr, gently nipping at the lobe of Halahrel's ear, and Halahrel can feel the teeth curve into a smile as he moans. "I accept penance only in the form of the highest pleasure." Halahrel stares, and Dorian gives an amused and delightfully deep laugh at the concern in his eyes. "It appears I need to be more blunt," he continues, alternately nipping and sucking at Halahrel's neck every couple of syllables. "Your cock. Inside me. Preferably soon, or I won't be long for this world."
Halahrel's mind goes blank except for the very, very pressing thought Dorian has instilled in it. The part of him that is aware of itself fumbles for the bottle of hazelnut oil in his nightstand drawer, and as soon as the smooth glass is in his hand, he returns to his lover newly invigorated. Dorian laughs against his mouth, but Halahrel is quick to shut him up, to replace the mirthful sounds with curses and groans.
Indeed, "bed" is a lovely word, a dim corner of his brain recalls.
Their bodies roll together like storm clouds. Hands, smooth or callused, search for purchase in tightly-gripped silk bedsheets or weave through locks of hair when they are not exploring or interlocking or splaying fingers against chests. Their mouths have started out feverishly pressed against each other, but quickly the need for air overcomes the need for contact, and so their eyes lock before either one of them can become embarrassed as their breath comes out in hot pants and swears.
Sweat makes Dorian's skin slick, and Halahrel can feel beads of his own trickling down his back. The space the lovers occupy has a temperature that would be uncomfortable in any other situation, but for now, Halahrel can only grit his teeth in pleasure at the unspeakable warmth enveloping him. Judging by the way Dorian's nails rake up and down the elf's back, Dorian doesn't seem to mind, either. If nothing else, he is trying to give directions in between whispered curses, but at a certain point, he simply moans loudly and tosses his head back, eyes closed, and the sight of it makes Halahrel's breath hitch. It's not the idea of making love with such a beautiful creature as the man beneath him; it's not even the idea that Dorian is letting him see him like this. In fact, Halahrel is certain he himself doesn't have anything to do with what makes him press heated kiss after heated kiss against any part of Dorian he can reach. It's simply the ecstasy written all over the mage's face that sends his blood rushing.
"Hal," Dorian manages, eyes still squeezed tightly shut. Then something in his expression changes, shifts to something almost rapturous, and Halahrel feels his nerves become electrified by something much more delicious than magical lightning at the sight. Dorian gasps as he picks up the pace, eyes snapping open in surprise.
"Are you—" he starts to say, then laughs a laugh that escalates into a very unseemly moan. "Fuck, we're going to—kaffas—"
The world shatters into euphoric pieces, and Halahrel and Dorian are both lost.
"Your taste is rather...austere," are the first words Dorian greets Halahrel with as the elf returns from the tub room.
"Austere how?" Halahrel responds, clutching a washcloth to his chest. Neither of them have bothered to get dressed yet, and while the sight of Dorian casually surveying his quarters stark naked is certainly a pleasing one, he feels a little self-conscious having his taste criticized while he's not wearing anything, either. The washcloth doesn't make him feel any more protected, unfortunately.
"You seem to have a fondness for Orlesian silk, but not for Orlesian ornamentation," Dorian rants. Halahrel sits on the edge of the bed, and, still critiquing, Dorian joins him. The proximity makes him, even now, a little nervous. He can smell the sweat cooling on the other man's skin. "The bed, for all I appreciate its finer qualities, could use with a bit of flair, for example."
Halahrel feels a defense rising to his lips, but as he turns to face his accuser, he notices Dorian isn't looking at him, or even down at the offending bed. For all that Halahrel is self-conscious about his decisions regarding his first furniture choices, the realization suddenly occurs to him that Dorian's signs of insecurity are blaring through horns at him.
"You seem distracted," he says in lieu of responding to the criticism. Finally, Dorian looks at him, that same self-deprecating smile curving the side of his mouth up, but this time it doesn't hide the expression in his eyes. The image of Dorian when he first appeared tonight, feet planted side by side as if preparing for a blow, returns to Halahrel's mind.
"Sex will do that. It's distracting." The flippancy doesn't quite make it into his tone.
"I heard a rumor."
The human sighs deeply. "Very well, you've rooted me out. There is something I want." He pauses, chewing on his bottom lip before speaking further. "I'm curious where this goes, you and I. We've had fun; perfectly reasonable to leave it here, get on with the business of killing archdemons and such." Each word Dorian speaks makes Halahrel's heart clench in anticipation. When he trails off once more, the uncertainty evident in the silence, the trepidation releases him.
"What do you want?" he asks when Dorian is clearly expecting some sort of response. The Keeper had always found fault with him for hedging a question, but she had never really properly understood. He remembers Cassandra snapping at him for apologizing to her at Caer Oswin, and he hopes his attempt at sympathy does not produce the same ire in Dorian.
To his relief, Dorian remains pensive, and that self-conscious smile reappears. "All on me, then?"
"Should it be all on me?" He can't help the rhetorical question. Perhaps it is unfair, posing such a question to a man clearly worried, clearly vulnerable. He hopes Dorian knows it's not out of cruelty that he asks, but giving the thought voice seems awkward at this point.
Another sigh, and Dorian's eyes, which had rested on Halahrel's face steadily, now flit about uncomfortably. "I…I like you," he says carefully. "More than I should—more than is probably wise. We end it here, I walk away—all your embarrassments about facial hair kept secret with me."
Shoving Dorian halfway off the bed with a much-more-powerfully-muscled arm was not, perhaps, the most socially correct thing to do in such a situation, but this Halahrel can't restrain, nor the disgruntled scoff that rips forth.
"Ouch!" Dorian pouts a bit, rubbing his arm and regaining his balance. "I bare my heart to you, and this is the sort of reaction I get?"
"I clearly enjoyed myself, didn't I?" The elf sports a frown on his face, but his tone is light and joking enough—he hopes—that Dorian will be motivated to continue. When he does not, Halahrel adds, "Would it please you to hold my—such a secret over me after all this?"
"Well, I didn't say I'd be pleased. But I'd rather it be now then later. 'Later' might be dangerous." He's not looking at his face anymore, that much is certain. Halahrel's silence poses the question. "Walking away might be…harder then."
If looks could break hearts. Halahrel only sees the expression because he is looking for it, not because Dorian is looking at him at all, and the pain on the other man's face is just tangible. "Dorian," he says. A little too quickly, a little too casually, Dorian meets his gaze. The previously noticed pain has been all but wiped from his features. "You should know by now that I'm looking for more than just fun. I'm far too boring to just want fun." Dorian doesn't even quirk a smile at that; his mouth is open in shock. "Speechless, I see."
"I was…" He pauses, then looks away again. Halahrel is beginning to crave the contact of his grey eyes. "I was expecting something different. Where I come from, anything between two men is about pleasure. It's accepted. You learn not to hope for anything…more. You'd be foolish to."
Hope, not quite successfully hidden in Dorian's voice despite his previous utterance, is what makes Halahrel gently take Dorians' face in his hands and press a kiss against his lips. "Let's be foolish, then," he offers, what he hopes is a confident smile gracing his features.
"Hard habit to break," Dorian says quietly, his eyelashes fluttering against the elf's cheekbones.
Halahrel's smile grows. "I'm pretty good at breaking things."
"Hopefully not everything," Dorian mutters under his breath, and then they're kissing in earnest again, and Halahrel can feel Dorian's hope and excitement and fear in every press of lips against lips.
"Care to inquisite me again?" the mage asks after some time, making Halahrel laugh breathlessly. A grin slashes across Dorian's previously somber features, color rising to his cheeks, and there's nothing self-deprecating at all in the expression when he adds, "I promise to be more specific in my directions this time."
"Show-off," Halahrel says, but he pulls Dorian back down to him again.
He doesn't notice that Dorian's mustache feels rather perfect against his skin.