Never let it be said that Dorian Pavus wasn't capable of showing restraint. When he had been convinced that Alarion had simply had too much thrown at him and had run off into the mountains, Cole had convinced him to let Alarion go. Though he wanted nothing more than to mount the search himself, Dorian had conceded after Cole promised him that Alarion had no intention to run away. Still, he remained up in his room, too nervous to even drink. Mostly he spent his time wondering how much Josephine would mind if he set that hideously tacky cabinet on fire.
When Bull knocked on his door telling him that Alarion was piss-drunk with Sera up in her room, he had almost laughed in his face. Poor Sera, from what he heard, had never accepted Alarion's death. She locked herself in her room and had refused to come out even when Blackwall showed up for the funeral. No one managed to get her out and Maker only knows how she ate. When she finally emerged, she refused to speak a word to anyone about Alarion and either threatened them with arrows, ignored them, actually shot arrows at them, or ran away whenever anyone brought him up. But he had grumbled his retorts and headed towards the tavern anyway.
As the door gave with a small push, the tavern looked nigh empty save the scattered souls snoring on tables, or complaining as a sour-faced Cabot hit them with a broom. Dorian chuckled as he recognized a few Chargers amiss the groaning bodies.
Without having to think about it, his feet led him up the stairs and towards Sera's room. Only the Maker knew how many times he had taken this exact trip to go spend either the night drinking with Sera or to grab said elf to take her on a mission.
The familiar walk didn't end as it usually did. Instead, Dorian hesitated as he saw the door. During those months of grieving at Mae's house, Varric sent him a lot of letters. Most were just concerned messages from a friend, others were reminders that Alarion had a lot of people that cared about him so Dorian wasn't alone, but a few were subtle guilt trips that Dorian could help comfort and be comforted by coming back to Skyhold if only for a little while. The one he most mentioned in his letters was Sera and how she could probably use some support right about now just as much as Dorian. But Dorian, in his grief and anger, had really forgotten that there were others in this world that also cared for Alarion.
Only now did he understand what Varric was saying. Sera likely needed someone to just simply sit there and not ask anything. And, likely, she would've only trusted someone like Dorian wouldn't have wanted to talk about it. Dorian could have found a balm to his wound the same way Sera could've found hers.
Dear Maker, he failed her too, didn't he?
Resolving to face it head on, Dorian strolled forward with his chin up high. As he approached the door, he heard giggling on the other end belonging to two familiar voices. As the door swung open, he saw that both elves were seated on Sera's cushion couch bed. Each clutched a large bottle, gripping them tightly as they drank deeply. Alarion kept seeming to miss his mouth, however, and the vial top kept hitting him on the cheek. Sera was giggling at him, trying to help direct it, but her lack of current motor skills seemed to be making it worse. It didn't seem to deter the two and they continued this with giggles filling the air.
Realizing they hadn't actually noticed Dorian had entered, the mage cleared his throat loud enough to be heard.
"Dorian!" Alarion's eyes widened at him, giving him a dizzy smile. His voice slurred as he spoke, higher pitched, and over pronounced. "Have you tried dis shtfuff?" He lifted the vial, arm swaying. As he spoke next, his nose scrunched up making lines on his face. "It tasted horrid at first, but now Idon'tevennotich!"
Sera joined in with his laughter. "Dots here," she swayed into Alarion as she gestured at him, barely staying upright as her words slurred together so badly it was hard to understand. "He... He... Um, wazz I sayin'?"
Dorian wrestled down a laugh before settling on a small glare on his face. "Sera, I have never seen you this drunk before. If there a woman who can drink her liquor it's the one that lives in taverns."
Sera smirked at him while managing to jut her chin out despite her clear drunkenness. "I'stole it from Bull. His mama-whatevers. Didn't notishe, smug spy arse."
He very much doubted Bull hadn't noticed Sera selling his liquor, Ben-Hassrath and all, but decided that he shouldn't point that out. Instead, he turned to Alarion who was again trying to aim the bottle to his lips. "Perhaps you've had enough, amatus."
"Why's y' call 'im that?" Sera mumbled, bottle rolling in her hands as her eyes drooped. "Y's only called Dots that."
"He is Alarion." Dorian snapped immediately. "How dare you –"
But he stopped short as Sera glanced up at him. He could see the bags under her eyes and strain of stress on her face. He couldn't continue.
Shaking his head, he forced himself to bite down his flush of fury. It wasn't anything he hadn't thought himself, plus Sera was still grieving, trying to understand, and was currently severely drunk. "I apologize, Sera." He huffed.
"Arse," Sera responded. "Whatcha doin' here anyways?"
"I," Alarion declared, hiccupped, then continued. "Ran away."
At that, Sera let out a snort and soon the two elves were falling laughing onto themselves.
Dorian shook his head. "Come on, then. Let's get you some water before bed."
Alarion perked up at that, grinning at him. "I like you and water!" He declared. "Cause 'I have you' and all."
"I have you, amatus!" Echoed through his mind. Hoping his cheeks weren't reddening, Dorian cleared his throat. "Let's not try to drown again anytime soon, yes?"
"Don't matter." Alarion hiccupped. "Cause-cause… you'd be there to sav-v-ve me if I did, right?"
Now desperately hoping that Alarion won't notice his red cheeks, Dorian coughed into a fist. "Yes, quite. But I'd rather you not risk it, amatus."
"You protected me." He slurred back. "That was sooooo sweet." The man blinked, tears suddenly welling up in his eyes. "No one's evera done that for me. Ya put me first…"
Before Dorian could even begin to comprehend the words he just heard to formulate a reply, Sera yelped and said, "No, no, no, no! Yer doin' it wrong!" She reached forward and forced her bottle down Alarion's throat, likely hitting his teeth with the bottle. "Drink 'til you don't cry!"
Sighing, Dorian stepped forward and wrestled the bottle out of Sera's hands. She put up as much resistance as one would expect from a very small and drunk elf could before falling on the ground in a fit of giggles. Shaking his head, Dorian took a gulp for courage. It was the first bit of alcohol he had since just before he had talked to Alarion back in Tevinter. And it was repulsive. This was that swill that Bull drank?
Gagging, he pulled the bottle away from himself so he won't even have to smell it. "How did you two manage to drink so much?"
"I told you!" Alarion declared. "Youdon't taste it afterawhile."
"I must reacquaint you with a good Tevinter wine."
His eyes widened. "Alcohol can taste good?"
Holding down a laugh, Dorian gave him a smile (that perhaps was just a tad too sincerely fond) before gently bending down to face him properly from where he sat on the couch. "I'll show you. But another time. You already have had too much tonight."
"Huh. S-Sera said that," hiccup, "I didn't have enough."
"He hasn't!" Sera declared, still on her back on the ground. With her feet still on the couch, she kicked at Alarion and Dorian. "Yer still talkin'! Drink!"
Diligently, Alarion attempted to bring the bottle to his lips, but, with a sigh, Dorian took it from him. "Hey!" Alarion protested. "That's mine!"
"You've had enough, amatus."
"Hehe." Alarion chuckled before, with no warning, launched himself forward. With a small noise of surprise, Dorian dropped the two bottles so he could properly catch the bloody elf. His heart soared to have him in his arms again, even if it was only for a second. "I'm back." He sang.
"Y-you're back." Dorian agreed, thoughts becoming hard to grasp with the knowledge that his elf was hugging him.
Alarion gave a content sigh. He opened his mouth to say something but was overwritten as Sera let out a shout of anger. "You dropped the mama-whatevers! Ass!"
Dorian let out only a grunt as the elf kicked him in the shins. Despite her small size, it hurt. "It is good to see you again, too, Sera. Perhaps we can talk tomorrow?"
"No more talkin'!" Sera grunted. "Only drinkin'."
"Quite. Do get some sleep. Your hangover will be legendary."
"Not if I stay drunk." She declared reaching for one of the spilled bottles.
"I'll send some water up to you."
Carefully, Dorian shifted the elf in his arms so that he could drag him a little easier. Now with a single thin arm thrown over his shoulder, Dorian's only discomfort was the fact that the elf was nearly a head shorter than he was, even whilst the mage was slouching to accommodate. "Come along, then, amatus, let's get you to bed."
"Am I sleeping in a bed now?" Alarion asked as Dorian slowly began to pull him forward. "Wha happened to my ham… hamma… my hammock?"
"It is back on Isabela's ship. You're at Skyhold now."
"Oh yeah."
As they finished the stairs and headed out of the door, Alarion glanced up at the night sky. "Stars are so pretty."
"Quite," Dorian said, taking him closer to steps that lead to the main hall.
"I bet-I bet I knew loads about stars." Before Dorian could respond, Alarion managed to wiggle out of his grasp. Before Dorian's panic could mount, it stopped as the elf seemly only moved so he could gesture with two hands towards the statue at the base of the stairs. "Before I died, I mean. I bet I knew loads about stars."
Heart twisting, Dorian bit his lip. Slowly and ever so deliberately, he glanced up at the statue's face, craved to near utter perfection. It had his vallaslin and even the smallest of his scars. His chest continued to hurt.
"Look here, Dorian!" The elf ran forward, slightly tripping over himself. He collapsed before he could make it to the plaque that laid at the statue's feet. It took actual effort, but Dorian forced his legs forward until he stood next to Alarion while on the ground. He couldn't look at either the man or the statue. All he was capable of was staring at a mud clump and gritting his teeth. "I can read now, but the words are dancing. What does it say?"
Dorian shut his eyes before glancing down to read, "Neither hero or god; just an elf wanting to do the right thing. Alarion Lavellan. Dragon Age 9:43."
Alarion nodded, gesturing he wanted to stand. Rolling his eyes, Dorian once again hauled the elf to his feet and started up the stairs just as the man began to sing. "My statue. I got a statu- u-u-u-u-ue."
"Come on. We're getting you into bed."
"Bed. Bed-bed-bed. Bed-dy, bed, bed," he happily sang. "I'm going to bed."
"Yes. Quite."
"Are you going to bed too?"
"Ideally, yes."
"Oh good!" The elf instantaneously relaxed, earning him a chastised click of Dorian's tongue as he struggled to keep him from falling over and down the hall steps they just passed. "Sometimes… cause see sometimes… I get nightmares. And when I do, I wonder what it'd be like if I had someone there to help, I dunno, hug the nightmares away?" He giggled, burying his head into Dorian's shoulder. "I think it'll be a lot easier if you're there!"
Dorian halted exactly at the entrance to the gardens. A distant part of himself warned him that Alarion would be able to feel him shaking. But he couldn't stop. He shut his eyes, face screwing in pain. Too many memories of holding him through drowsy panic attacks. A hand brushing through his messy brown hair, whispering words of comfort alongside a light-hearted, "How am to get any of my beauty rest with you around, amatus?"
"Good thing you're already beautiful, ma'arla."
No.
Not now.
Maker, not right now. Not while Alarion was leaning on him, face so close to his neck.
It was just too damn much.
"Please," Dorian whispered, begging for the elf to stop, even if he would not know what Dorian meant with such simple wording. Without knowing what else to do, Dorian began forward again, hoping the action would help keep the memories at bay.
"You smell so good, Dorian." The elf slurred. "Like, like… like books and vanilla. Old me was so lucky to have you."
He had to take a deep breathe so his tone wouldn't come out snappy. "You still have me, you dolt."
"Course I don't," he mumbled. "Can't remember you."
"I had noticed that, yes."
"Wish I could," he continued, voice so soft that Dorian could barely hear him, even if his face pressed so close to his. "Really do."
"I… I know."
Carefully, Dorian began to haul the elf up the steps. As he did, he was once again struck with how much lighter the elf was than he remembered him being. His stomach did a twisted and he wondered if there was a way to make sure the elf was eating more without it seeming like he was mothering him.
The twist seemed to only grow tighter until it had a vice grip on his gut. It quite felt like being stabbed.
They came onto the room on the very end without much issue. As Dorian grabbed the handle, the elf suddenly straightened as his eyes went wide. "Wait! Wait, please wait!"
Obediently, Dorian removed his hand from the doorknob. He glanced at the smaller man who took a few gulps. Then, he gave a sharp nod. "Okay. Okay, I'm ready now."
Slowly, Dorian reached forward, keeping a close eye on the elf. He had some inkling as to what made Alarion so nervous. The man hated empty space, no matter how large or small. The first time he had taken a drunk Alarion to his room was before they had ever slept together. Back before Dorian knew that Alarion didn't want him for just some fun. Alarion had gotten very drunk (off of, if memory serves, the, uh, 'mama-whatevers' he shared with Bull) and had found his way to Dorian's room. He had to drag the man back to his room (with all those stairs) so the hens would have less to gossip about. On the way up to his room, he had said, "I hate that place. So much room available just shows how alone I am."
Perhaps, even without memories, Alarion still disliked being indoors alone.
As if sensing his thoughts, Alarion whispered, "I'm glad you're here."
Dorian couldn't respond. The pain was clogging up his throat.
They began forward. The elf compiled and was easily lowered onto the bed. Hoping his face wasn't betraying how ridiculous Dorian knew he looked, he carefully tucked the elf in.
Before he had a chance to turn and leave, one of Alarion's hand shot out of the blanket and took hold of his wrist. The grip was likely as strong as the elf could muster, but Dorian was bluntly aware that a small yank would free him.
Dorian Pavus knew pain.
He knew what it was like to be grabbed by a ten-foot giant and thrown like a rag doll through the air. The collision felt as if an earthquake had erupted in his chest. The broken ribs made every sharp inhale he could breathe almost too painful to bear. He had remained in wretched agony, just on the brink of conscious. The anguish paralyzing him, too weak to do anything but watch as the giant turned his attention towards the small archer. The helplessness of it was just as foul as the wounds.
He knew pain.
But this moment? With Alarion staring at him with such terror in his face. The helpless feeling visible in every tear froze at the edges of his eyes. The knife from before twisted more, threatening to destroy him from the inside.
Worst of all: the awareness of the situation bellowed in his mind and thumped against his ribcage.
Alarion was begging him to stay.
He had to close his eyes.
Alarion had always asked him to stay. The desire for him not to leave his side every noble party they attended together, Skyhold or not; regardless of what rumors it brought.
The tug on his wrist when Dorian would pull away while they were having a moment, too aware of what it looked like for those watching. Not forcing but asking.
His words were always imploring the nights (before Dorian began to consider the room they shared theirs) when Dorian would leave to help prevent rumors. The look on Alarion's face the first morning they shared; so happy that there were tears.
Every night for weeks, Alarion would beg Dorian to stay. Sometimes with words, sometimes with just a hold on his wrist.
Alarion had always had to been the one to ask him to stay. It hadn't mattered that Dorian had wanted to stay as well. He had to be the bigger person. Protect the Inquisitor from the rumors that he didn't understand had the power to destroy the Inquisition. Always protect the Inquisitor, no matter the cost to Dorian.
"I'm here. I'll protect you."
The only time in their lives Alarion hadn't asked for Dorian to stay was when Dorian told him his plans to return to Tevinter. There was pride in Alarion's gaze alongside the grief, but it was clear he was truly and genuinely supportive.
He hadn't asked Dorian to stay. He had asked to come with him.
But it had been and still was more important to keep Alarion safe than it was for Dorian to stay happy.
That's what caused the most pain to Dorian. Alarion was asking him to stay, but protecting him meant leaving. Come morning, Alarion would not be happy to have him here. No alcohol in his system meant he would be terrified to see Dorian remained. He opened his eyes. The best thing, the right thing, was to leave now before his will floundered and he would lose the ability to refuse those large, wet, calf eyes.
Alarion took a small inhale, still staring at him. When he spoke, his voice came out like a gulp, wavering in the middle. "Please."
Dorian swallowed, forcing tears down. This was too much. Surely no physical wound he had ever felt had been this painful. It felt like his first night after Leliana told him the news. Too sharp, too hard to breathe, empty missing gap inside of him. It was if he was back in that moment of grief; only now he had to look at his amatus' face and tell him he would be leaving.
Opening his mouth, Dorian immediately closed it before he could make a sound. He shut his eyes, hoping the blackness would envelope him and he would be free from this torture. He had to tell him no. He had to tell him he was leaving.
Again.
He. He couldn't do it. He was a weak, weak man. Maker forgive him but Dorian knew his worse fault was his tendency towards temptation, but not even knowing that could make up for his inability to do the right thing.
Without opening his eyes, he used his free hand grabbed ahold of the chair he knew was behind him. The chair made a loud noise as Dorian dragged it across the stone below. Slowly, he sat down before a deep breathe gave him enough courage to see what Alarion's reaction was.
The edges of his eyes had little wrinkles, pushed up by his mouth. Small tears were falling, but it didn't deter from his warm eyes glittering at him.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you."
Dorian nodded, shutting his eyes again so he wouldn't have to face Alarion.
The elf's grip loosened so he could instead hold his hand.
Dorian could feel Alarion's hand relaxing as the man's breathing began to deepen. He told himself that he would leave the moment the elf fell asleep.
Warm tears began to fall onto his lap, but his shaking shoulders remained quiet. He couldn't say that he didn't care that Alarion had the chance to see him so weak because he very much wanted nothing more than to flee the room. The only thing that kept his ass in that seat was an overwhelming awareness that he no longer had the will or strength to leave.
He truly was a weak, weak man.
