A Memory: First kiss

The journey home from Redcliffe was long and quiet. The Inquisitor rode ahead with his soldiers, leaving Dorian alone with his thoughts – or perhaps sorting through his own. Dorian hadn't seen the elf's face when he dropped his grenade in the tavern; he'd been too busy staring down his father. As for what came after, it was all a bit hazy, the details obscured in a red mist of anger and hurt. Dorian couldn't guess what was going through the Inquisitor's mind in that moment, still less what he might be thinking now. Which was probably for the best, since it wasn't likely to be flattering.

You shouldn't have brought him. Dorian had fully expected some drama or another. What in the Maker had made him think the Inquisitor needed to see that? But no… That wasn't the point, was it? The show wasn't for him. It was for his father's messenger. Look at me now. Do you see this fancy armour? This weapon? See how I'm valued? The Inquisitor himself stands at my side. Tell my father I don't need him. I never needed him.

But when the moment came, it was no mere retainer waiting for him. It was Magister Pavus himself, dour and disapproving as ever, and the iron had leaked from Dorian's spine like ink from a broken quill. He hadn't felt smug or empowered or even strong. Instead he felt like a child again, trying to make his father proud and failing. And so he'd done what he always did, unsheathing his tongue and wielding it like a blade until everyone, himself included, bled freely.

And the Inquisitor had witnessed it all.

Well done, Dorian. Simply brilliant. He'd always had a talent for self-sabotage, but this was a new level of achievement. The elf would probably avoid him like the plague after this. The last person you wanted at your side when you were trying to save the world was a hot mess of a mage. Dorian couldn't wait to get out of his sight. His, and everyone else's.

It was late afternoon by the time they reached Skyhold. The Inquisitor hadn't even climbed down from his horse before he was mobbed by his followers, and that suited Dorian just fine, allowing him to slink away unnoticed. All he wanted was to retreat to his nook in the library and wait for the sun to set, whereupon he planned to get roaring drunk. But he'd barely settled against the window before he heard someone greet the Inquisitor, and when he glanced over his shoulder, the elf was there. He'd tailed Dorian straight up to the library, and now there was no place to hide.

Send him away, the sensible part of Dorian's brain whispered. Thank him and leave it at that, before you make this even worse. But of course he couldn't. Instead he just started talking, the words falling from his lips without conscious thought. With every breath, he bared his soul just that little bit more, a masochistic exhibitionist to the last. Having the elf there to witness his hurt was like worrying at a loose tooth, irresistible even as it bled.

Until finally there was no more to say, and Dorian found himself gazing into those blue-green eyes, trying in vain to guess what they concealed. "Maker knows what you must think of me now, after that whole display."

"I think you're very brave."

"Brave?"

"It's not easy to abandon tradition and walk your own path."

Dorian stared, momentarily lost for words. If anyone knew about defying tradition, it was this man. He couldn't possibly be putting Dorian's choices on the same footing. He was just being diplomatic, surely? And yet there was a warmth in his gaze that made Dorian a little giddy, and the next thing he knew he was babbling again, justifying his behaviour as though he were some kind of tragic hero. "You have to fight for what's in your heart."

Maker's breath, he sounded like some hack actor in a Chantry play. What was it about this man that brought out all the sap?

But the elf didn't laugh at him, or smile politely and take his leave. Instead, he said, "I agree," and took a purposeful step forward, and before Dorian could even fully process what was happening, they were an inch apart and gazing into each other's eyes. A heartbeat longer, a silent question answered, and their lips met – tentatively at first, then brazenly, the elf's tongue darting into Dorian's mouth just enough to make him chase after it greedily. Heat spread through him like a shot of whiskey, and for a glorious moment Dorian forgot about everything but that sweet mouth, the whisper of fingers on the back of his neck, the warmth of the elf's body so close to his. Then a throb in his breeches reminded him rather pointedly of where they were and who might be looking, and he pulled back – smiling, he rather suspected, like the cat who got the cream. The elf was smiling too, with a hint of self-consciousness that made Dorian want to pin him to the bookcase, audience be damned.

What came next was another blur – a trite line about playing with fire, an invitation for a drink. Dorian's blood was still roaring in his ears, desire and disbelief and triumph mingling together in a heady brew. Whatever the elf was feeling was concealed behind that serene gaze once more, and he walked out of the library as though nothing at all had happened, seemingly oblivious to the eyes following him as he disappeared into the stairwell. Then those same eyes snapped to Dorian, and he fought the impulse to take an elaborate bow.

He'd had every intention of heading for the tavern, but instead he sank into his chair. He needed a moment to recover, for his head to stop spinning like a roulette wheel, for the little black ball to land somewhere that made sense. How had his day gone from raw pain to raw desire in seconds? And now, in the wake of that desire, a sweet craving that he already knew would be his constant companion in the days to come. It was tragic, really, how something you'd daydreamed about for so long could come and go so quickly, as fleeting as a single heartbeat.

Oh, Alexius, where is your time magic when I need it? All he wanted was to relive that moment over again. To savour the frisson of their lips meeting for the first time. There was nothing like a first kiss. If he was lucky, there would be a second kiss, and a third. If he was very lucky, it might even lead to something interesting. But a first kiss? That could only ever happen once. After that, they were just a memory.

But oh, what a memory. Whatever happened in the days and weeks ahead, Dorian knew he would revisit that kiss often. Starting tonight.

First, you need a drink, and a stiff one at that. Later, he suspected, there would be another kind of stiff one, but he was looking forward to that too.

It really had been that sort of day.