The thing about Cullen that surprises Dorian the most is how little he worries. About how people perceive whatever it is going on between them, that is. He worries plenty enough about literally everything else going on in their collective lives-Corypheus, troops, assassins, Red Templars and their lyrium-but what the people in the keep think about him spending his free time with Dorian? Not even given a passing thought.
It's absolutely baffling, going against every rule and stricture ingrained in Dorian's mind. There's no voice in Cullen's head telling him to hide his shame when they stroll the courtyard together, no voice hissing that they're abominations, going against the Maker's will when they lounge in Dorian's rooms, the mage reading while Cullen dozes with his head in his lap.
And with each passing day Dorian's internal hatred and fear fades, the voice quieting to a whisper, then to nothing more than a wisp.
Dorian smells like sand. He can't really describe what the smell is, exactly, but its decidedly sandy and deserty and he's pretty sure it's in his ears and nose and his pants and all he wants is a nice hot bath to wash the Hissing Wastes out of every crevice of his body. He can feel little grains rubbing against his thighs with every step he takes and the fact that he's probably already chafing makes him want to cry.
Well, not actual tears, that's a bit too melodramatic. But the feeling is there.
Once his horse is handed off to a stable boy he makes a beeline for his quarters, body and mind singular in their joint desire for a bath. Dorian wants a giant tub of hot water to sooth his muscles, a giant bottle of chilled wine to sooth his mind, and to never be in the desert again.
He knows the last wish is completely out of his control, but the first two are completely doable, and he fully plans on doing.
There's a delightfully large brass tub in his room that he pilfered from the gifts the Orlesians were practically throwing at Skyhold, all ornate swirls and lines, lion paws plated in gold for the feet. He keeps it hidden well enough (Cullen is the only one who really visits him in his quarters so he's the only one who knows where it is), and the fact that he doesn't need the servants to draw water for him makes it much easier to keep his prize.
All it takes is some ice to fill the tub, some fire to melt the ice and warm the water…
Within five minutes of riding into the hold Dorian's slowly lowering himself into the tub, hissing with the pleasure and almost-pain of sinking into water nearly hot enough to scald. The heat loosens muscles he didn't even realize were tight. Dirt and dust floats to the top of the water but he can't even begin to care because he thinks his limbs are turning to mush and everything is just so warm and relaxed and even his thoughts are losing coherency, bleeding into one another as he simply exists in a state of complete bliss.
A random thought surfaces, and he idly wonders if this is what it feels like to be in the womb, floating warm and safe.
Dorian breaks his reverie and sighs. Best get the actual cleaning underway before he turns into a giant prune. He sits up and reaches for the soaps beside the tub, choosing at random, and dumps a generous amount of soap scented with cinnamon oil into the water. The scent reminds him of the better parts of home, what few 'better' parts there are.
He's begun the arduous task of actually scrubbing the dirt and grime off his skin and out of his hair when he hears his door creak.
Instinct makes him whip his head around, magic flaring in his chest; he relaxes and releases his hold when he sees Cullen's head poking into the room, pink dusting his cheeks. There's nothing more endearing to Dorian than Cullen's bashfulness.
"I'd heard word of your return and hoped to see you before being called to the war table, but since you're busy-"
"I'm hardly busy, Commander, simply sloughing off the rest of the Wastes," Dorian interrupts. He leans over the edge of the tub, crossing his arms under his chin. Water drips onto the carpet but he can't be bothered to care. He can just get another one from their growing supply of decorations.
Indecision flits across Cullen's face, and Dorian watches with a tilted head, waiting for him to make the decision they both already know he'll make.
Cullen steps into his room and shuts the door behind him.
At first he stays near the door, standing stiff and awkward, but Dorian's inviting smile and quirk of a brow is enough to break through his sheepishness and bring him closer. Cullen grabs a chair and sits beside the tub, bulky armor clinking as he shifts.
This is a development in their relationship. Sure, they've spent countless hours in each others company, but the main difference between those times and this time is Dorian's distinct lack of clothing. While there's nothing inherently wrong with it-he is taking a bath, after all-it still adds that slight sexual edge that their previous interactions have always lacked.
Dorian understands this, assumes Cullen understands this, but Dorian is adamant in his decision to let Cullen take the reigns. When it comes to matters of the bedchamber (or other daring locales), Dorian is king. But matters involving the heart? He may as well be a crying newborn babe, unable to do more than cry and shit itself. Now, that isn't to say Cullen has much more experience in these matters, but Dorian can't shake the fear that curls in his gut at the idea of pushing this along faster. The fear of scaring Cullen away, of ruining this thing that hangs between them before it's truly begun.
It's difficult to be confident in the face of the unknown.
Dorian leans back in the tub, sinking low in the water and closing his eyes. "Fair warning, I'll be hiding behind your desk again if Elena plans another excursion to the Hissing Wastes," he says as he carefully reheats the water in the tub.
"Was it that bad?" Dorian can hear Cullen's amused smile in the tone of his voice and feels his lips tugging into a smile in response.
"Chasing down the Venatori wasn't too bad," Dorian admits, letting his arms float on the waters surface, fingers splayed. "We took care of that situation within the first week. But then Elena found a dwarven tomb and nothing would dissuade her from searching for all five of the things. A month stomping through sand dunes, Cullen-a month! Varric and I were plotting how to escape her grasp two weeks in. By the time we found the last one I was sure we had descended into madness." Dorian's retelling is dramatic, yes, but Cullen can get the proper report from the Inquisitor later when they and the other advisors convene.
"Sometimes I hate that I don't leave the hold often," Cullen says, armor clinking. Dorian assumes he's shifting around again but doesn't open his eyes to check. "But I'll take cold and snow over sand any day."
"I, my dear Commander, am not afforded that pleasure," Dorian replies, "as it seems Elena is determined to bring me along on every single mission that involves inhospitable locations."
Cullen hums in agreement, and Dorian hears the dull clatter of metal hitting the rug. "What are you doing back there?" he asks and Cullen responds by carefully and gently running his bare fingers through Dorian's wet hair.
His touch is like fire, waves of heat rolling through his body from the points of contact on his scalp. Dorian bites his lip, swallowing a low moan as Cullen's fingers slowly massage, fingernails gently scratching as he works. He opens his mouth to speak but no words come, jaw hanging slack. How could something so simple-something he's done himself innumerable times-feel so sinful and arousing when done by another person? Dorian grasps of the edge of the tub, knuckles going white with the force of his grip.
He's half hard already but doesn't care about pretenses and respectability when Cullen's fingers are doing things so arousing. Besides, the suds and dirt floating on the surface of the water is enough to give him a modicum of decency.
Cullen grabs a fistful of hair with one hand and tugs hard enough to bare Dorian's throat and he can't stop the sharp intake of breath from hissing between his teeth, his dick twitching against his stomach. What's left of his coherent thought wonders if Cullen planned this from the beginning, if his shyness when he first entered was a facade to hide his nefarious plot to turn Dorian into a mewling mess.
Suddenly something cool is poured over top his head and Cullen's hands are at work again, scrubbing in slow circles. Fresh suds trickle down Dorian's face and down the back of his neck. Dorian swallows down the lump in his throat and says, "I can wash myself, you know" in a tone that he hopes seems dry. The self-satisfied way in which Cullen replies with "I'm sure you can" is enough to tell Dorian he's failed spectacularly at hiding the desire in his voice.
He wants in a way that he hasn't in a long time, needs in a way that makes his toes curl and his stomach twist. It's all he can do to resist the urge to twist around and capture Cullen's lips in a kiss, and somehow he just knows that that's why Cullen's doing this, to try to force his hand.
Cullen's turned this into a damn game of chess, and nearly has Dorian in checkmate.
There's a knock at the door, and time stops. Cullen's fingers still. Neither man breathes.
The knock comes again, more insistent. Dorian sighs and calls out, "I'm rather busy at the moment, perhaps you could come back later."
"Can't, ser," a voice replies from the outside of the door. "The commander's to report to the war table post haste, Cassandra's orders."
Cullen makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. "I'll be there," he says, clearly annoyed by the interruption.
"My orders were to escort you myself, ser."
Dorian can't help but laugh, turning with a smirk to face Cullen. "Cassandra knows you well." The commander rolls his eyes and grabs his gauntlets off the floor as he stands with a long-suffering sigh.
"She will be the death of me," he mutters under his breath but he flashes a smile at Dorian, eyes hooded as he glances at Dorian's now obvious erection. "Enjoy your bath."
And then he's walking out of the room, casting one last heated glance over his shoulder before slipping out the door, leaving Dorian to contemplate just how and when Cullen got so good at playing the game. This was clearly a planned moment, but Dorian can't find it in himself to be annoyed at being outmaneuvered. Instead, he feels pride swell in his chest.
Then he feels his dick bobbing in the water and turns his attention to relieving himself.