"Dance with me." But reputation is ever the thin shield and scandal a hungry blade. "Dance with me." Does he even know what he is asking? Throw wide the doors dear Herald, invite the world to ready the killing blow. It could cost the inquisition everything. But Lavellan sways to a rhythm that can not be denied.
Dorian lingers on the sidelines, fingertips brushing along cold marble railing with gold trim. It's been hours since Cey asked for that simple token and the sound echoes in his mind, a bare faced challenge coiled in three words. He need only flick his gaze below to have those blades pushed a little deeper betwixt his ribs.
Of course there is no heat between the dancers he's watching. It is the circle of predator and prey while onlookers such as he decipher which shall be conversation is lost beneath the orchestra, high strings and playful flutes make for a fast paced cavort. Each step is measured and extended just so.
Yet the image aches all the same and the only remedy he has could burn far worse. That there is only glass smiles and meaningless exchanges passing between the Duchess and his lover does not soothe.
"You are an excellent teacher my dear Josephine. I don't think he's stepped on her foot even once yet."
Lady Montilyet pries herself away from reprimanding her sister to follow Dorian's line of sight. She shakes her head, turns back to him and holds a hand to Yvette to keep her from commenting.
"His worship was very skilled in evading the tutor I hired to teach him the art of the waltz. It is a relief to see those lessons weren't necessary." She comes to join him at the rail, and her sister trails behind with a swish of skirts.
"Of course, it did cost the inquisition several satchels of coin and two Antivan paintings to ease Madame Haelia's feelings of slight." A rueful smirk plays across her face before she continues. "Which reminds me Yvette, have you…" But the younger Montilyet has fled before the scolding can land.
To the tune of antivan curses barely muttered Josephine does not throw her hands in the air though it is clear she very much wishes to do just that. Instead she smoothes a hand down her front and returns her attention to the dance floor. Soon, she is picking out a half dozen other dancers and giving them names as they twirl across the gleaming floor. Each comes with a tie or motive, some little secret gathered from Halamshiral's hidden places. It appears that no one dances for the joy of it, only to be seen. Dorian muses on which motivates Lavellan as the music dies and the partners fall back.
Never has the Winter Palace known such silence. No music stirs, no cacophony of strings and no cheers trumpet victory as Lavellan kicks the world out from underneath the grand duchess with only his words. They are too stunned to murmur. Lips that were born to gossip and tongues bred to wag have stilled beneath the sweep of that gaze and the only sound to fill that gilded cavern is the sobbing of a lone woman in a butterfly mask.
Florianne is dragged from her prone position and hauled from sight as surely as the pickpocket whose fingers were not quite fleet enough. None will meet her eye except Dorian, a glass in his hand, a mock salute as she is frogmarched past where he stands in the crowd. It is petty and yet uniquely satisfying. He savors the flush of a plan gone right for once and drains the glass as if in toast.
The rest follows in such swift succession that it's a wonder any have strength to withstand the whiplash. All the kings and queens retreat from the board beneath the sweep of a wild card thrown into their midst and the pawns and knights are left to wonder who has won. It is minutes, it is hours. It takes too long, it takes no time at all. They return as a unified voice, an empress and two elves. The knight who would have been king is gone and his absence does not go unnoticed. But those nearest Dorian do not speak, and when the three figures above open their mouths it is rapture upon those below.
There is endless fanfare to follow, it is after all Orlais and nothing is done that is not done to excess. How good natured these drunk nobles must be to so readily accept an elf in their ranks. Stranger still the veneration they show the Herald as Celene presents him with the spoils of war. Gaspard's sword, a promise of support against Corypheus, an unspoken thank you as her eyes look everywhere but at the elven woman standing at her side. Dorian can not help the shake of his head, it is all too familiar even in the ways in which it is foreign. He wishes the erstwhile lovers luck for they will need it. They will all need it.
Dorian finds Lavellan after an endless parade of people with oh so important business to discuss. He has had no such trouble shaking unwanted attention though it came upon him in waves. Yes, suddenly he's so interesting for reason beyond birth and fade touched ability. He could dance a jig around this crowd in their current state and he doubts it would do a damn thing. There is only so much shock one place can endure upon a single night.
But he is distracted by a slump of shoulders, he is caught by a sight few are allowed to see. Lavellan leans with pointed elbows upon cold stone railing, braided hair coiled between long fingers and his eyes closed as he thinks himself quite alone. It is only when Dorian's fingertip trails along a shoulder and lingers for a moment upon an ear tip that Cey straightens, feigns a sturdiness that is a lie. Dorian lets him have it just this once. He doesn't believe it for a second, the ghost of exhaustion has never been so clear as it hovers beyond those rings of helio blue. But he's earned it and so the altus lets it slide.
"I would have been here sooner but I was accosted by the most ancient dowager you can imagine. Said she was looking for you. Said she had seven daughters. Asked me if you preferred blondes or brunettes." He can't help a touch of deception himself as he settles with his back to the stunning midnight view beyond the balcony. He doesn't need to see it, everything he wants for the moment is beside him, brows drawn in amusement even as Lavellan's mouth tries for a quirk of admonishment. Dorian does not relinquish the moment, "I told her you'd retired for the evening. Would you like to thank me now or later?"
"That depends on how you'd like to be thanked. I'm not sure Halamshiral is ready for any more scandal tonight," Lavellan says, though the sensuous tangle of his inflection implies he's willing to test just how much scandal the Winter Palace can take.
"Are you sure? You could let your hair down and we could let Sera start throwing custards around. That would certainly give them something to talk about tomorrow." He leans in dangerously close to that sharp face, those waiting lips and whispers the beginning of a promise. "Or perhaps what you really need is a distraction." Ah the years that have gone into perfecting that purr. Dorian wields it now not with the bitter edge of brief liaison but instead with a soothing ache that squeezes his own chest as much as it makes Lavellan shiver.
But Lavellan doesn't reach for him as he might have back at Skyhold. He's respecting Dorian's boundaries, walking the edges of those walls and standing patiently on the other side waiting for the invitation. Dorian tugs the supple leather gloves from his hands and tucks them away. Though it will be only a fraction of what he wants, any skin contact will be better than none. He holds out his hand, smiles in that maskless way he's still not quite familiar with and says the words he knows they both want to hear.
"Dance with me."
It is ever an amusing struggle with Dorian. Lavellan leans into the warmth of him, the scent beyond the satin he's wearing, beyond the soap he used that afternoon after their long ride to the palace, underneath the cologne that graces his skin and comes in small glass bottles. He has no name for what lies under it all, he has only the tightness of his lungs as Dorian's hand slides to the small of his back and he tries to breathe in all that is the man in his arms. Desire does not go far enough and love feels flimsy and over used like a word stretched until it can hold no meaning. He is comfort, he is font from which Lavellan's will springs. He is the reason and perhaps it is as simple and as complicated at that unfinished thought can be.
Their waltz has always been tantalizingly slow. Some of that is circumstance, the rhythm of the world that pushes and pulls and some is merely the tempo they've chosen for themselves. While the rest of the world frays and scrambles to hold the threads together they refuse to be hurried. Why should Lavellan want it any other way? He has all the time in the world.
But such thoughts have distracted him and he finds that questioning but restrained glance of worry crinkling at the corners of Dorian's eyes. There should be no worry in those soft cloud and honey eyes. For once the night is theirs, for once plans have gone as they should and all surprises have been dealt with as best they can. Lavellan thirsts only to see those worries evaporate. Coveting the shine that lies just beneath it. His fingers grip Dorian's a little more firmly, with a turn he steps just a little bit closer.
But songs are not meant to play forever no matter how much he turns them to repeat. The music dies and then there is no pretense for holding on so tightly. Not that that's ever stopped Lavellan before. It is only the interruption of Sera and Bull a few paces behind her that puts space where Lavellan wishes there were none.
Grinning like a fool and a sloshed one at that, she throws her arms over them both, making kissy faces and slurred jokes that end in giggling before they even have a chance to form. Bull is no more subtle though he holds his liquor better. At length all are laughing at something that shouldn't be as fun as it feels.
"Come on! Let's go find a real party! Real fun. You know what I mean?"
It is the most coherent sentence Sera has managed and somehow through sheer force of will she convinces them of the grandness of this idea. Even Lavellan, who has had other plans teasing through his mind for hours. Even the simple act of sleeping, though that might have been far down the list. Before Sera can usher them out to the nearest pub or house of ill repute, Lavellan pulls Dorian aside, kisses him as long as he dares and tucks a single red silk scarf into the man's pocket.
