The day of Leliana's fete, Maxwell stayed well away from the Great Hall. If this party was like all the others, the revelry would eventually spill throughout the fortress, but the epicenter of the blast would rest firmly on the largest room they had. Josephine had been up at dawn, polishing and decorating every person and object that wandered through, and the Inquisitor might lose a little of his gravitas if he ended up covered in blue lilies, no matter how sweet they smelled.

Instead he spent the early morning riding with a dozen guards, patrolling the area around Skyhold needlessly. Cullen's men had been sweeping the hills continuously for days, and any fennecs, much less bandits, had been eradicated long ago, but it was something to do. Besides, Maxwell knew he looked fantastic on a horse, and the bolstering effect of sighing ladies and attentive men couldn't be underestimated, particularly for a grievously wounded ego.

Maxwell snorted to himself as he groomed his bay back in the stables, and the horse turned with a quizzical look. "Don't give me that," he grumbled. "I bet your ladies never run away from you. Horses don't even play chess."

"They also don't, you know, talk," said a voice behind him, and he turned around to see Sera giving him a wary look. "You finally losing it?"

"If you mean my mind, you can't lose what you've never had," he answered with a grin.

She laughed, and he mentally patted himself on the back. Sera had been one of his more difficult diplomatic conquests, with her distaste for his innate nobility and his love of using it. He knew she thought he was still too big for his own good, but taking every opportunity to mock himself seemed to help without sacrificing much. Beyond his own pride.

Which was in lower supply than usual, he had to admit. Dorian was still implacable and uniformly charming, and Maxwell had finally been forced to admit he was making less than no progress in his plans to get the mage into a bed he wouldn't immediately bolt out of. As someone who could usually win his chosen partners without even trying, this was very annoying. His lack of ability to simply stop caring was even more annoying. Damn Dorian and his secret blood magic.

"Did you need something?" he asked as he resumed his rubdown. "This horse won't clean itself."

"Surprised you don't have your slaves doing that for you."

Maxwell's hand stuttered, but he didn't turn around. "We don't have slaves, Sera."

"Sure, now we don't. But once we're best friends with a bunch of Tevinter assholes, stuff might change, yeah?"

"Some things. Not that."

The sound of her bow tapping against the fence wasn't exactly reassuring. "What if your boyfriend wants it? People do a lot of stupid shit when their cocks are involved."

"A man of my years does not have boyfriends," he said in his most disdainful tones. He changed to his old, eager Chantry initiate voice as he finally finished with the horse. "The Herald of Andraste is a holy icon, free of all carnal desires."

"Pffft. You have more sex than the horned guy," she said, but her voice was a little less accusing. When he turned around, she was grinning wickedly. "Varric told me you found the thing in your dresser. Where the grease used to be."

He gave her a smile that felt more like a scowl. "I did. Please bring it back," he said. The ink had come as a very unpleasant surprise during a diplomatically suggested encounter with a visiting Nevarran dignitary. Fortunately, when it came to diplomacy, Maxwell had a very clever tongue.

She only shrugged, but before he could warm to the fight, Iron Bull came around the corner. "Hey Boss," he said. "Come to the training yard."

"Is something wrong?"

"Nah. Well, unless you count Josephine sending a shirt to my tent for tonight. Not gonna happen, by the way."

Maxwell nodded. "Understood. It wouldn't be a Nightingale party if you were clothed."

"Damn straight. Anyway. You. The yard. Come on," said Bull. "There's a surprise waiting."

There was no need for his guide to point out the surprise, as Dorian was lounging against the armory wall in a full set of leather armor, holding a sword as gingerly as an Orlesian duchess held a teacup.

As Bull yanked his suddenly resistant body forward, Maxwell tried to calm himself down. Dorian was laughing quietly with a soldier Maxwell didn't know, but the soldier seemed to be enjoying whatever jokes the mage was telling him. And who wouldn't? By the familiar tilt of Dorian's head, he was definitely telling dirty ones.

But when Dorian saw the two warriors approaching, he stopped talking and threw them a crisp salute. Fortunately it was with his empty hand, even if it meant his salute was backwards. "Private Pavus reporting for training," he said brightly.

The soldier behind him sidled away at Maxwell's pointed look. Smart man. He'd probably make captain some day.

With that taken care of, Maxwell looked back at Dorian and swallowed heavily. Maker, he looked amazing. It wasn't that Dorian was thin, because no man with a body like that could be considered anything but solid muscle, but he'd never been powerful. He'd always looked like a mage.

But now he looked like a soldier. A very hot soldier. Maxwell's eyes wandered over the bulky chest plate that emphasized the cut body beneath it, then followed all the way to the skintight blue leggings with glinting metal greaves over top of them. He'd obviously dressed himself, because there was no way a page would have left the gap that was drawing Maxwell's gaze exactly to the wrong place.

Dorian smiled at his undisguised interest and spun in a full circle, ending with a flourish. "Well? Do I look the part?"

There was no good answer to that. His ass looked even better than the rest of him, but that wasn't exactly something Maxwell could say aloud.

"Yeah, if your grip wasn't so shit," said Bull, chuckling. He moved to Dorian's side, then swung around behind him and adjusted his hand until it had some semblance of a useful grasp on his weapon.

Dorian smiled at the mountain of muscle pressing against him, and Maxwell bit back a new surge of jealousy. He could hardly blame him for enjoying it. Maxwell knew how good it felt to have that bulk so close. From experience. But somehow watching Bull show someone else that fact was very annoying. At least when that someone was a pleased-looking, gorgeous, untouchable man that Maxwell had so irritatingly fallen for.

"Thank you, Bull," said Dorian, in a voice that was more purr than speech. "I appreciate the personal instruction."

Maxwell shifted, and Bull shot him an amused look over the top of the mage's head. He folded his arms and forcibly centered himself. The Inquisitor didn't fight over who got to manhandle someone in public. "Glad you're comfortable with him, because it's going to be a long afternoon. Bull, teach him the basics."

The qunari only looked more amused at the command, but Dorian's eyes snapped back to Maxwell. "Him? He'll kill me!" said Dorian. "He's an absolute savage."

"Hell yeah I am," said Bull. He winked at his new charge, who'd twisted inside of Bull's arms to glare at him. "And not just in bed."

"Charming," said Dorian. "If you'll recall, I'm not interested in that either."

Bull had actually propositioned Dorian? Of course he had. And Bull's knowing grin said that it had been a recent request, too. It was very good they were already in the training yard, because Maxwell was absolutely dying to hit someone. "You'll live. If you can fend off Bull, you can fend off anyone," he said, hoping his voice sounded calmer than he felt.

Dorian disentangled himself from the still-draped qunari and stepped closer. "Maxwell," he said. "Not to challenge the perfection of your Inquisitorial orders, but I came here at your invitation. Not his."

A good, diplomatic answer would be that it would hardly suit their new plan of friendship for the world to see Maxwell beating an overmatched Dorian into the ground. Or that his suggested pairing would remind the Inquisitions that the Tevinters held off the Qunari threat from the rest of them. And another would be that it would only enhance an eventual bout if Dorian could actually swing a sword in the correct direction first.

But what satisfaction would there be in giving a careful answer? "I can't afford to waste my time with training partners who won't challenge me," said Maxwell.

"I see," said Dorian. There wasn't even a flicker of response in the eyes that studied him. "Perhaps another time, then. Bull, I submit myself to your tender mercies. Please remember that I'm a delicate beauty. No strikes to the face. Or the arms. Or any other part of my flawless anatomy."

Bull rolled his eyes. "You mages really don't grasp the concept of sparring, do you? Come on, Vint, let's ugly you up a little."

They wandered away, still arguing, and Maxwell watched them begin the warm-up drill before he grabbed de Chevin for his own partner. The Chevalier treated every bout like life and death, and right now that attitude suited Maxwell down to the ground.

An hour later he was dripping with sweat but nowhere near settled. Dorian had given up long ago, not that Maxwell had been watching, and he'd changed into his usual revealing attire and was holding court in a corner of the yard. A ring of admirers and volunteer instructors surrounded him, and they were all watching Maxwell fight and pointing out the techniques and tricks that he used. Bull wasn't one of them, though. He'd come over to bellow criticism directly at his superior instead.

"Keep your arms up," Bull yelled. "Sloppy guard like that, a drunk kid could gut you."

Maxwell blinked the salty sting away from his eyes and yelled back without turning, "You don't guard at all, you asshole."

"Nope. Don't need to. I kill 'em too fast to bother. But you're slow and soft," said Bull matter-of-factly. The one thing that could be said about his instructional style was that he only said things like that when they were absolutely true. "Come on, Boss. You won't kill a dragon that way."

Maxwell redoubled his efforts, even more determined to beat his foul mood away. But eventually, when his arms were trembling with the strain of holding his sword, he had to raise his hand to end the match. There was a time when dedication began to look like desperation, and too many people were watching. His latest opponent, a slight but strong woman who'd obviously been nobly trained, bowed and left without a word, though she spared a smile for Bull when he complimented her form.

"No words of encouragement for me?" asked Maxwell as he took the water skin the qunari handed him. It wasn't a joke.

"Nah, you don't need them. You've got enough people filling your head with that shit," said Bull. "You know you're good. But you won't get any better if that's all you hear." He turned to leave, then paused. "And you might want to apologize to the Vint."

"For what?" Not that he didn't know. Bull didn't dignify the question with a response, and Maxwell scowled. "You started it."

The bigger man laughed, then raised his eyebrows when Maxwell didn't join him. "You're serious? Hell, I just did that see, exactly, how deep the shit is that you're standing in. And I'd say you're about up to your ears in it."

"So that's why you asked Dorian to fuck you? To test him, too?"

Maxwell regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, but it was too late to take them back. He shook his head to clear it. He had to pull himself together before this party started or he was going to start a few wars.

That resolution got more difficult when Bull only grinned. "Nope. That was because he's hot, and he's begging for a good lay." He shrugged. "Doesn't mean it has to be me, though. Especially now. I've got dainty Orlesian beauties to play with tonight."

Bull didn't wait for a response before he left to talk to Krem, and Maxwell unbuckled his armor as he moved towards the armory and its blessed privacy. He'd been stared at enough for now, and fortunately everyone knew he liked to end his sparring alone. He also didn't like anyone else to touch his armor and weapons but him. A leftover habit from his Templar training, he supposed, when the older initiates would swap out weapons for weighted versions or armor for pieces that would break under a blow. Whatever it was, everyone in the Inquisition respected his wishes.

Which was why it came as a shock when Dorian appeared in front of him and casually drew his sword out of the sheath. "Nice blade," he said.

Maxwell raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"I assume, anyway," Dorian admitted with a smile. "You are the revered leader. They likely don't send you out with last year's sword strapped to your hip." The smile disappeared as he ran a finger over the gilded edge of the hilt. "I should have asked before I simply showed up. I apologize, Inquisitor."

That caress to his weapon was doing very bad things to him, and Maxwell tore his eyes away with effort. He supposed it was sweet that Dorian had taken him up on his offer, given how obviously uncomfortable he was with physical fighting. "It's fine. I hope the time with Bull was instructive, at least. And not too painful."

Dorian chuckled. "Yes. He was surprisingly gentle. I may have to revise my opinion of savages."

Maxwell said nothing, and Dorian looked at him questioningly before his mask settled into place again. "I think I learned more from watching you, though. While the words of your fervent admirers are always suspect, they were unceasing in their praise of your sword work," he said. "Apparently you're even better than I realized. Did you pick it all up saving the world?"

"And with the Templars," said Maxwell. "Before the Chantry decided I was too quick-tongued to waste as a mage guard and put me into the scholars robes."

"They were going to make you a scholar?" asked Dorian.

The laughter in his voice burned. "I'm not an idiot, you know," said Maxwell. He grabbed his sword back and pushed past the mage into the welcome dark of the armory.

He'd assumed Dorian would wait outside with everyone else, but instead he followed him all the way to the always-locked cabinet where he stored his gear. "Of course you aren't," said Dorian. "No idiot could run something like the Inquisition, at least not successfully. But scholars usually lead such… sedentary lives. It's difficult to imagine you sitting so still without chains involved."

"Well, I wasn't very good at that part of it," Maxwell admitted as he hung up his sword. "I was going to be a more public representative of the Chantry."

"Better that things turned out as they did, then, isn't it?"

"Yep, I did always dream of being the only survivor of a cataclysmic attack on Thedas and waking up with ancient magic permanently etched on my hand," said Maxwell. He'd tried for humor, but even he could hear the bitterness in his voice. He'd made the best of what he'd been given. He always did. But sometimes he envied Scholar Trevelyan his easy Chantry life. It hadn't been grand enough, at the time, but in some ways he'd been much happier.

But Dorian couldn't hear those thoughts, and he only sighed. "I seem to have lost my usual golden tongue today," he said. "I'll leave before the hole I'm digging swallows us both."

Maxwell spun and grabbed his arm before he could turn away. "I'm glad you came," he said. "I'm glad you watched."

And that brought a crooked smile back to that delicious mouth. "I know. You like to be watched."

The words were innocent enough, but the memories that they conjured were anything but innocent. Dorian's dark, hungry expression, a studied contrast to the soft light of the evening, as he'd reached past the trousers he'd neatly untied. The way he'd devoured Maxwell's moans when his fingers grazed him more tenderly than Maxwell would have ever believed possible. How he'd asked the Inquisitor to show him what he liked best, with his fingers lightly resting on Maxwell's trembling thighs. Always watching and wanting, even when Maxwell pulled him in for kiss after kiss after burning kiss while he stroked himself for Dorian's pleasure. He'd watched up until the last moment, where Maxwell had spilled over their joined hands and lost himself in those focused, demanding eyes.

"I like it when it's you," said Maxwell in a low voice, releasing the arm that suddenly felt like fire under his fingers. He turned back before he could do anything more forward. Rough, fevered sex in a corner of the armory might have slaked his immediate needs, but it would be like taking the rook in front of him and closing off every other opportunity. And there were far too many doors for Dorian to slip out of.

But when he didn't hear movement, when he could swear he felt the man's soft breath on the back of his neck again, asking how bad he wanted to be, he gave in to a single temptation. Off with the armor, slow and gentle. He flexed his muscles as he lifted it, piece by piece, and hung it deliberately without breaking rhythm. The armor should be properly cleaned, and it would be, but not yet. When he was down to his thin practice clothing once more, he turned around and crossed his arms to tug his sweat-soaked tunic over his head. He made sure not to look at Dorian. Not even acknowledge his presence.

After he'd finally freed himself from the confines of his shirt, he twisted around to grab the last of his water and poured it over himself. The armorers would complain about the stain on the floor, but Maxwell couldn't care about that now. All he could care about was that he could feel Dorian, staring, hotter than the sun, and that he'd wanted him for far, far too long. Besides, this was the part of the seduction he'd always loved the best.

Maxwell pulled a hand through his wet hair and tilted his head back, just a little, until he was sure he heard Dorian stop breathing. He opened his eyes with a light grin. "Are you still here?"

Instead of the stunned and slightly fearful longing he'd been expecting, Dorian had his arms crossed, his weight leaning on his back foot and his head tilted just so. "Of course. What is a man without his audience?" he said. His face was relaxed, open, and utterly unmoved beyond the smirk playing on his lips. "It's terribly rude to leave before the show is over."

To his horror, Maxwell felt his cheeks burning, and he spun back to the cabinet before they could betray him. He'd forgotten, again, how good Dorian was at all of this. A display of flesh that would excite or fluster some lesser creature would only amuse him. He was all cool detachment, the right smile in the right moment, rushing innuendos in the quiet spaces, tricking his opponent into revealing more of himself than he ever would. And Maxwell certainly felt very exposed.

He grabbed another shirt at random, pulling it on as quickly as he could without looking back. If he didn't, Dorian would probably wait there all day. Unlike the rest of the world, Dorian had never had any problem with blatantly appreciating his holy body. Tevinter didn't worship Andraste. And Dorian didn't worship Maxwell.

Neither did Bull, and because of that, he'd been the only partner Maxwell had been able to tolerate for a very long time. And because the qunari could speak Tevene, of course.

He'd so successfully wrapped himself inside thoughts of the qunari that he almost jumped when Dorian coughed. The smile in his voice was evident as he said, "And you have the gratitude of a decidedly non-humble nation for allowing me to watch. I'll see you tonight, Inquisitor."

When the door clicked closed behind him, Maxwell leaned his burning forehead against the metal of his armor and breathed slowly until he was himself once more.

Dorian had been far too nobly reared to debase himself by running back to his quarters, but it was as near a thing as he could manage. When he slipped inside and saw Shayla was nowhere to be found, he locked the door and breathed a sigh of relief.

By the Black Divine, Maxwell was trying to kill him.

Even the man's name whispering across his mind was enough to have him whimpering. Bad enough to listen to Bull's suggestive remarks about Maxwell's prowess with a weapon for half an hour straight. Bad enough that he'd changed out of his own armor with shaking, fumbling fingers, desperate to see Maxwell's physicality on display once more. Bad enough to be so unable to keep his eyes off of the dueling warrior that he'd had to pretend he cared about proper sword work. Bad enough that he'd been so nervous, and so unbelievably aroused, that he'd hardly been able to form a coherent sentence once they'd spoken.

But of course, it hadn't ended there. He'd followed Maxwell, like a lost, pathetic pup, only to be rewarded and cursed with an impromptu striptease. Without being able to do a damn thing about it.

The worst was that Maxwell had done it without any fanfare or embarrassment, like he did it every day for whomever his chosen audience was. And why should he be embarrassed? He knew how good he looked. He always did, and Dorian might have been flattered to be afforded the sight so many others had seen if it hadn't pushed him past the outer limits of his rapidly shrinking control.

All those moments of walking the battlements, of conversing over dinner, of chess, of discussing themselves and the Inquisition and the Imperium, and Maxwell hadn't even so much as touched his shoulder again. Dorian was ready to beg for one of those ridiculous handkerchiefs if it meant he could brush their fingers together in the transfer. The Inquisitor touched everyone, constantly. Kisses across knuckles, arms around shoulders, even elbows in the gut. He was a very tactile person. With everyone but Dorian, anyway.

When Maxwell had finally, finally grabbed his arm he'd lost it completely. His grip was tight, rough, and so very masculine. Dorian barely remembered what he'd said, something banal most likely, but it had been enough to earn him his show, and now his mind was full of a hard, half-bare body, even more toned than he'd remembered. The water running over it had found every ridge and valley, and battlefield thirst had nothing to do with how much he'd wanted to follow its every trail with his mouth.

When he closed his eyes and fought for calm, he only saw the delicious lines of muscle that disappeared beneath fitted, black-as-night leggings.

The Inquisitor looked dangerous in black.

He'd been wearing black the afternoon Dorian had finally decided to take his chance. To hope that the constant, inventive flirting could be more. That Maxwell might feel even a portion of the connection that Dorian could no longer deny to himself. The approach had started black, too, the black of terror, of an unknown cavern that could hold anything. His heart had pounded in the Inquisitor's rooms, a place he'd never been. He'd never dared risk it.

But after the black was past, the rest was a riot of color, of red desire and blue comfort, and the purple of his magic running across skin that never seemed to cool. The white of completion, the never-ending wave of pleasure that Maxwell had wrung out of him over hours, soft and hard in turns. And always, always the green of Maxwell's eyes, vibrant and mesmerizing.

"Talk to me, Dorian," he'd whispered when Dorian had begged to be taken. His lips had been close to Dorian's ear, and the little puffs of air as he'd spoken had been terrifyingly erotic. "I want to hear that sinful voice. Tell me how you feel."

As though there had been words. As though there ever would be, for how he'd felt in that moment when Maxwell was pressing against his back, when he'd been in the circle of the man's arms at last, feeling exactly how much Maxwell wanted him. And still it hadn't been enough.

"I feel empty," he'd said, then hissed in vexation at the too-revealing word.

But Maxwell had only chuckled, a deep vibration that had Dorian groaning into the mattress. "You won't be for long, my gorgeous mage. I promise you that," he'd said. His teeth had caught on Dorian's earlobe, tugging just once before he'd released him again. "Tell me what this big, strong warrior does to you."

Another light bite on his shoulder, followed by a delicate kiss to the tingling skin, and then those talented, slick fingers probing and twisting and filling him inexorably. Their gentle touch had been a blazing counterpoint to the wild roughness of the man's other, wandering hand, especially when Maxwell had pulled him around for a greedy kiss in the middle of his preparations. Savage, liquid control had flowed out of him without ceasing, and Dorian hadn't been able to do anything but submit.

Maxwell's mouth had interrupted Dorian's breathless, pleading speeches about exactly what Maxwell did to him a dozen more times before he'd finally delivered on his promise. That had been every color in the rainbow, and Dorian had never felt so complete.

In the present, alone in his room, Dorian bit back a cry as he came, still leaning against the locked door and burning with shame. He'd sworn he wouldn't do this.

He hadn't even made it to the bed.

His hand and shirt were a mess, and he stripped off his clothing and threw it into the corner in a ball. Shayla would find it there, which was almost enough to make him toss them out of the window instead, but as the clothes were easily identifiable as his, that seemed even less appealing. Perhaps he could burn them.

Dorian laughed to himself quietly as his breathing normalized. Maker's breath, what was he thinking? It was like he was a nervous teenager again, hiding his escapades from the shrewd eyes of his father. He didn't have to be ashamed of his fantasies. Everyone fantasized about the Inquisitor. He was willing to bet even Varric - hell, even Cullen - had let their mind turn to thoughts of what Maxwell Trevelyan looked like under all of that finery and armor. Leliana had certainly brought it up often enough in those dreadfully uncomfortable drinking sessions she'd orchestrated. In full hearing of the topic of speculation, even. Maxwell had only laughed.

But it was one thing to fantasize. It was another thing to allow the fantasy to drive him to physical expressions of the desire. He knew, for him, it only made things much, much worse. And this was no exception. Even though he felt as spent as he ever did when there wasn't another party involved in his release, he could still feel the well of desire deepening underneath him. This was how it had begun the last time as well. And it would only end when one of them left, died, or the fantasy became a reality.

Dorian was stuck here and had no plans to expire. That left only one option, and he sighed in resignation. Thank the Maker the optimistic side of him had packed his clothing.