Part Thirty-Nine: Tidal wave
"You're only half listening to me, aren't you?"
Dorian blinks, focusing on the scowling Dalish in front of him. In fact, he hasn't been listening at all, because as fond as he is of Bull's quirky little non-mage, she is not the Dalish he wants to be talking to right now. That honour belongs to the beautiful silver-haired creature across the room, who seems even more intent than usual on avoiding him. Just now, he's chatting with Josephine, smiling and no doubt reassuring her that everything is perfect and she ought to be celebrating with the rest of them instead of worrying about tiny cakes.
"I'm sorry," Dorian says, "were you talking? I was a trifle distracted."
"Is that what you call it?" Dalish snorts. "You really shouldn't stare like that, shem. You're embarrassing yourself."
"Come now, the entire keep is staring at him. As well they should be. He did just save the world, after all." True, the other onlookers probably aren't sporting quite the same expression as Dorian, a devastatingly handsome combination of adoration and naked longing, with just a soupcon of dread.
"Nervous, are we?"
Very well, perhaps more than a soupcon.
"Terrified, is more like it." No point in trying to deny it, not after the incredibly personal errand she's just run for him in Val Royeaux. "I haven't spoken to him properly since…"
"Since you told him you were leaving him?"
He sighs. "I do wish people would stop saying that."
On the far side of the hall, the Inquisitor is continuing his rounds. He's moved on to Vivienne now, and though he's still smiling, Dorian notes the way his posture tightens. Even after all this time, the elf doesn't entirely trust Madame de Fer. Quite right, too. She'd feed him to varghests for sport if it gained her an ounce of favour with the right people.
"He's going to come over here eventually," Dalish says. "Do you know what you're going to say?"
He ought to. He's had more than enough time to think about it. It's been nearly a week since they defeated Corypheus, and the elf has barely said two words to him – though, to be fair, he's been run off his feet the entire time. One would think his victory would have earned him a moment's rest, but instead he's been tackling long-deferred projects with renewed zeal, deploying troops here, sending scouts there, mapping out the remaining rifts. It's as if he's keeping busy to distract himself from something.
Something like his self-absorbed peacock of an ex-lover, perhaps – to quote a certain delightful redhead.
"I'll be incredibly witty and charming, of course," Dorian says. "And if that's not enough, I'll pledge myself to a lifetime of servitude as his bed boy. His mute bed boy, beautiful but silent, my tongue existing solely to service his—"
"Stop." Dalish grimaces. "I get the idea."
Dorian arches an eyebrow. "I was going to say whims."
Dalish has heard enough, and she abandons Dorian to his drink. He stays where he is, lounging against the table, pretending not to watch the elf move from one follower to the next like a bee pollinating the flowers. He's close enough now that Dorian catches snippets of his voice through the babble of the crowd, and the sound quickens his pulse. He takes a generous swallow of wine, but it does little to banish the sudden dryness in this throat. The elf will come to him next. Not to do so would be a grievous slight, and the Inquisitor is too much of a diplomat for that, whatever the state of things between them. But he seems to be putting it off for as long as possible, and that doesn't bode well.
When he finally does drift Dorian's way, it draws gazes from all over the hall. Everyone is so busy pretending not to watch this deliciously awkward reunion that the volume in the room drops markedly. The elf notices it too, and he pastes on his Inquisitor smile, a mask every bit as impenetrable as a piece of Orlesian finery. This is to be a performance, it seems.
Very well. Dorian is an accomplished performer.
He begins with a flippant bit about a servant dropping laundry, before moving onto a well-worn quip about being the 'good Tevinter.' The elf plays along, injecting appropriately wry responses here and there. Only when their fickle audience grows bored and stops paying attention does Dorian dare to speak the words he's been burning to say.
"I've decided to stay with the Inquisition. For now."
Whatever reaction he was expecting, he doesn't get it. The words skip across the elf like pebbles over a frozen pond. "You will?" he says in a tone of polite interest, as if Dorian's just informed him that he plans to take up macramé.
All right, then. Still my move.
"There's no you in Tevinter. What else matters?"
The elf blinks once. Then he turns and walks away.
Dorian stands there for a moment, his skin warming. What in the Void just happened? He watches incredulously as the elf heads for his quarters, making polite excuses along the way.
Dorian considers letting him go, but he has too much to say, and if he doesn't say it now…
He follows the elf to his door. "Going somewhere, amatus?" he calls, keeping his tone light for the benefit of the many ears around them.
The elf turns. His expression is neutral, but Dorian doesn't miss the way his hands clench and unclench at his sides. He's so pale that he looks unwell, but Dorian forges ahead.
"You didn't think a brief chat would be enough, did you?"
The elf starts to give him the same reply as he did the other day – plenty of opportunity for this conversation later, et cetera – but Dorian isn't having it. Not this time. Playfully, but very pointedly, he pushes the elf through the door and into the stairway, and they're alone at last.
"Please," the elf says. "I can't do this right now."
"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I must insist. I've tried to be patient. To give you as much space as you need. But there's so much I…" Dorian lapses into silence as the elf grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes – trembling hands, and trembling shoulders too, like the lid of a pot that's about to boil over. He's barely holding it together, Dorian realizes, and it dawns on him that this isn't about them, not really. The elf has been white-knuckling it for so long now. Holding back the raging waters of fear and grief and self-doubt with a wall of pure willpower. But that wall was going to give way eventually, and now, with his enemy defeated and the threat behind them, it finally has. Dorian's words about staying were just the last hammer tap on an already-cracked edifice, and it's all crumbling down.
That's why he's been pushing himself so hard this past week. He must have felt this hurtling toward him like a tidal wave, and he's been bracing for impact.
Dorian gathers his amatus close, and the elf wilts in his embrace, wrapping his arms around Dorian's neck and burying his face in his shoulder. Wordlessly, Dorian scoops him up and carries him up the stairs. He feels so fragile in Dorian's arms, as delicate as spun glass, and it's hard to reconcile him with the glorious figure who stood defiantly before a would-be god only days before.
He starts toward the bed, but the elf whispers, "Outside." He can't have the walls pressing in on him now. Dorian obeys, pausing only to grab a fur coverlet off the sofa before carrying the elf out onto the balcony.
"Give me a moment," he murmurs, kissing the silver hair and setting the elf on his feet. Maggie swirls around her master's legs while Dorian goes back inside and drags the sofa out onto the balcony, using that infernal Antivan rug to pull the furniture soundlessly across the stone.
"Yes." The elf gives a rapid little nod. "Yes, that's perfect."
They curl up on the sofa, Dorian and his amatus under the blanket, Maggie draped across their laps. It's a tight fit, but it's warm under all that fur, and safe, and within moments, the elf's breathing smooths out, and he stops trembling.
"I'm here, my love," Dorian whispers, kissing the top of his head again. "If you'll have me. For as long as you need."
The only answer is a soft sigh, and Dorian realizes he's asleep.