It's twelve hours until the Patriarchs' Ball, and Dorian is beside himself.

The morning got off to a smashing start with a visit from Dorian's tailor, Worthius. The maestro had finished Varric's outfit and was rather proud of it – rightly so, since not only did it fit impeccably, there was a lovely shimmer to the fabric which managed to be not only fashionable but very much to the dwarf's liking. It was all going rather well until Varric decided to unbutton the clasps almost to his navel, allowing his ginger chest carpet to burst forth — and allowing Dorian to confirm his long-held suspicion that the dwarf had a pierced nipple. To say the maestro was aghast would be putting it mildly. The man practically choked on his own tongue. When he pointed out that this was very much not how his precious confection was designed to be worn, Varric attempted to appease him by affixing a perfectly ghastly brooch to the collar, closing it under his square jaw while leaving his rugged man-bosoms to fly free. The maestro departed with Dorian's apologies and a facial tic.

Now it appears Seth has taken a page from the dwarf's book and is plotting rebellion of his own. "I don't need to see the barber," he informs Dorian, shoving a hand through his too-long locks.

Dorian flashes a smile so tight you could slice yourself open on it. Does he not understand what's at stake here? "Amatus. You are a vision as always. But tonight is a rather special occasion, and it's terribly important that we are pitch-perfect in every respect."

"You don't need to remind me, Dorian. I've thought this through."

"Oh, have you? Splendid. Well, carry on then, don't mind me. I'll just be hanging from a silk rope over there."

Seth rolls his eyes. "It's a bit early in the day for this kind of drama, don't you think?"

"It is never too early for drama, Inquisitor," Dorian says tartly. "Are you going to enlighten me or not?"

Seth flops back onto the bed – still wearing his boots, since apparently he's keen to push Dorian's blood pressure to the maximum today – and folds his hands behind his head. "This will be our third society event, right?"

"I fail to see what—"

"For the first two, we focused on blending in."

Dorian snorts and glances at himself in the mirror. "As though two such exquisite creatures ever could."

"Showing that we belonged among the glitterati," Seth goes on, ignoring him. "And we succeeded. We proved that we can play their game just as well as they do, if not better. Tonight, we show them that we don't have to."

Dorian narrows his eyes. "Go on," he says grudgingly.

"I'm not going to spend the rest of my life hiding who I am, or acting like I'm ashamed of it. I'm not a slave or somebody's bed boy. And I'm not a doll for my husband to dress up as he wishes."

Dorian scowls. "You're not seriously suggesting that I—"

"Of course not, but you know there's plenty of people who think that way. Who believe that the only way for me to fit in here is to assimilate, to pretend to be human and hope people will somehow forget I'm an elf. But I don't want them to forget. I'm proud of what I am and I want everyone to know it."

"All right," Dorian says warily. "And so?"

"And so instead of refreshing my painfully stylish Tevinter haircut…" Seth sits up and runs his fingers through his hair again, letting the long side fall forward over his eyes. "I'm going to do something I haven't done in years. Since before I met you, in fact."

Dorian's breath catches. Can he possibly mean…?

"I'm going back to the way I used to have my hair, when I was just Seth of Clan Lavellan."

Dorian swallows, his mouth having gone quite unaccountably dry. "What exactly do you have in mind?"

Seth rises from the bed. "I'll sheer this side close to my scalp," he says, tracing an arc over his right ear. "As for this side, it's not quite long enough yet for the full effect, but I can still make it Dalish. There will be braids."

"And beads?" Dorian asks, a little breathlessly.

"If you like."

Dorian is feeling a tad flushed now. Does Seth remember how he used to fantasize about this? Then he sees the wicked little curve of the elf's mouth, and he has his answer. Seth knows perfectly well how wild it drives his husband when he goes full Dalish.

The elf sidles in close. "I might shave this part entirely," he murmurs, fingertips ghosting along the top of Dorian's ear. "Or maybe you should do it." He slides a hand down the front of Dorian's breeches to check just how much of an effect he's having, and he's not disappointed. "Does this mean you approve?" he purrs, fingers curling around Dorian's stiffened manhood.

"You're a ruthless tease, Lavellan."

"That's true," Seth says, nipping at his neck.

"They'll shit their smallclothes, of course. Those that aren't too busy trying to seduce you."

"Do you think Lady Thistletongue will like it?"

"Sweet Maker, I hope not. I don't want to have to imagine some dry old dowager fantasizing about you while she rekindles her loins for the first time in a century."

Seth sighs and drops his forehead against Dorian's shoulder.

"Too far?"

"Way too far."

He's ruined the mood, hasn't he? He has. Blast.

"Teasing aside…" The elf draws back and fixes Dorian with a sober look. "Are you sure you're comfortable with this?"

Comfortable is surely a stretch. But the elf has spent the better part of eight years dancing to a human tune, holding his own among kings and empresses and Most Holies. He's proven himself a thousand times over. It's time he stopped having to. "If this is what you want, I'll support you. Of course I will."

"It'll be taken as a provocation," Seth warns, as though Dorian needs to be told.

"It will. But I rather delight in playing the provocateur, as you well know. And besides, they're coming for us anyway. It might as well be on our terms."

Seth smiles. "I love you," he says, placing a soft kiss on Dorian's lips.

"Of course you do," Dorian says. "But just so you know, I'm still picking your outfit."