Damien and the Dragon-Slayer rendezvoused in the war room at the end of the day to discuss his findings. The Inquisitor noticed he seemed more sullen than usual. The pair conferred on his discoveries and, after a time, he commented on the rider's mood; a friendly attempt to connect with him, but not one he made lightly.

"It's a long story," he gestured vaguely with his hands.

"Is it about the rumours?" Damien asked. He noticed the man stiffen and quickly added, "I've tried to contain them as much as possible. If you'd like, I can ask Leliana to find the source and put an end to it."

"It's fine, Inquisitor. The luxury of a private life is out of my reach."

"I take my people's privacy very seriously, Dragon-Slayer."

"Rumours are a part of life for men of our status. We are both victims of them, and neither of us have come out worse for wear."

"Are you certain? There could be consequences to this sort of gossip. I could use my resources to mitigate them."

"There will be consequences," he corrected, "and I've accepted them. To attempt to stem the flow of this will send more tongues wagging. I have chosen to remain silent on the matter."

It was at that moment that the door to the war room opened. Through it stepped Dorian and Frederic, the latter of whom rolled his eyes when he caught sight of the Dragon-Slayer. The man's demeanour changed almost immediately once he saw Dorian. He shuffled the papers he was holding and handed one to Damien, his eyes trained on his face as if in defiance.

"This is the amount of time I believe we have to study the specimen before it deteriorates," he said, "an estimate, of course. Dorian should be able to tell you more. He is an expert on expiration dates, after all."

Ah, snark, Dorian thought, putting his hands on his hips and shaking his head as the Dragon-Slayer left the room. Damien noticed the tension between them but decided not to comment on it with Frederic present. He meant what he had said; he valued their privacy, and if there was a romantic element to their friendship, he would question them alone.

"Now that that business is dealt with, you can read my account of the specimen," Frederic said, "It's time you heard from a true professional."

The Rest was warm and filled with people. He listened to the murmur of conversation around him, the war stories and the lovers at home, the men and women who had never returned from the Breach. He was drinking an ale he was given 'on the house', and he welcomed the chance to drown his sorrows.

"Hey, there he is!" a familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see the Iron Bull take the seat across from him. "Heard you cut up a dragon today."

"Drake," he replied, "but yes. The dissection's done."

"Find anything good?"

"It was old and probably nearing the end of its life. Cause of death was blunt force trauma."

"Oof, that's a way to go."

"It is," he agreed. "I've been informed, though, that Frederic believes it was an illness. How much he believes that compared to how much he wants to disagree with me is up for debate."

"He's got a real stick up his ass."

"The realest." The Dragon-Slayer took a long gulp of his drink and slammed the bottle on the table. Bull noticed his odd mood. "I need another. Care to join?"

"I'm always up for a drink."

"Are you up for several?"

"Something on your mind, Slayer?"

"No," he replied as he got up and started to head for the bar, "I just want to get fucked."

There were multitudes of empty bottles around them. Their drunken laughter was loud and delightful, and the Dragon-Slayer had all but forgotten his troubles in the haze of intoxication. Blackwall had joined them, and instead of sparring the trio were swapping stories of the Hinterlands, the Wilds, the Wastes – all of those places where great adventures had begun.

"This man," the rider continued through his laughter, "he was drunk. He comes up to the post, declares his love for the Maker, picks up a sword and starts to wave it in the air, all the while wearing nothing."

"What did you do?" Blackwall roared. He had laughed so hard that there were tears in his eyes.

"At first I was content to live and let live, when he spots me. He throws his sword on the ground, declares himself the Vessel, tells me that I'm an impostor sent by the Old Gods, and then falls to his knees and screams – in front of all the soldiers – 'Andraste, I offer my ass, bask me in your glow'."

The trio fell about, their raucous merriment heard even outside of the Rest. The candles flickered as if excited by their joy, and Maryden's soft lute was drowned in the din. Bull patted the Dragon-Slayer's shoulder, raising his stein in the air.

"To drunk farmers!" he declared, and was met with cheers.

"I thought I heard you," another voice – Dorian's – joined the fray. The men looked up and called his name in greeting, three steins in the air and wide smiles on show. Dorian approached them with an amused shake of the head, though he noted the mountains of bottles that littered their table-top.

"Dorian!" said the Iron Bull, "Come join us! It's Blackwall's round."

"While I'd normally love to help empty Blackwall's pockets, I came for the Dragon-Slayer. We have work to do in the morning."

"Looks like you've got a handler now, Slayer," Bull chortled.

"Ah, a more beautiful handler couldn't be found," he cheered with his trio, then raised his stein, "To Dorian!" and drank with the others. Even Blackwall joined, he noticed, which must have meant their truce and mutual respect for one another had firmly taken root.

"I should help you to your tower, Dragon-Slayer. No use leaving you to stumble over your own feet."

"He must mean business, Slayer," Blackwall laughed, clapping his hand over the rider's shoulder, "Best head home before your better half starts to nag."

The rider raised his hands in defeat and rose from his chair. He almost tripped as he moved towards Dorian, but the mage caught him before he could fall. He supported him on his shoulder, and as they waved farewell Bull and Blackwall collapsed into more fits of laughter.

"News of those two is going to shake Orlais," the ex-Warden commented once the pair were out of earshot.

"Varric owes me so muchcoin. I'll be in drink for years."

"His own fault for betting against a Ben-Hassrath. Speaking of drink…"

The pair cheers-ed and swigged.

Dorian was careful as he led his lover to his tower. He held firm when ascending the stairs, supported him on uneven floors, and did not let him stumble once; a monumental task in and of itself. Fabriel was in high spirits, though, and did not fight him on the route home.

Once he had managed to open the door and help the man inside, Dorian felt Fabriel let go of him and amble to lean on his armchair instead. The mage looked at him, his hands on his hips and an amused smile on his face.

"I never imagined I'd see you in this state," he said.

"Blackwall and the Iron Bull are wonderful company," Fabriel replied, his eyes bright and cheerful, "Their stories are hysterical. I've never laughed so much in my entire life. Dorian, you should have joined us!"

"One of us had to be sober enough to help the other home. It seems I pulled the short straw." Dorian gestured to the stairs, "I'll help you into bed. I'll need to fetch some water for you as well."

"Don't put yourself out on my account. I can take myself to bed."

"You can hardly stand up. Besides, I'd feel better putting you there myself. Can't have you falling down the stairs or going without water."

"Ah." Fabriel stumbled over to him and put his arms around his shoulders. "You worry too much for me, amatus."

The word stunned Dorian to the point where he almost did not notice that Fabriel had started to kiss him. He responded with sweet, unhurried lips, holding his waist so he did not lose his balance. Once they parted the rider held him for a moment, simply enjoying his warmth and comfort, before he suddenly turned and marched towards the stairs with renewed vigour.

"Sleep is in order!" he declared, his movements hampered by alcohol and purpose, "We've a Great Dragon to find! Our minds need to be fresh! To bed!"

Dorian helped him to his room. He undressed him and made sure he was comfortable under the covers before fetching the water, which he put on the old nightstand beside his head. Afterwards he sat beside the rider, leaning down to brush the hair away from his eyes as they fluttered open and closed. Their faces were close, and he could not resist the urge to kiss the bridge of his nose.

"Try not to drown in it," he murmured. A deep exhale left Fabriel's chest.

"Mmm," he breathed, "Home."

He lapsed into sleep. Dorian admired him in his strange state of vulnerability, the almost boyish charm of his relaxed state. As he put his forehead to Fabriel's he quietly, quietly whispered:

"Amatus."

With one more kiss, the mage left him to sleep.