The wine is spiced with cinnamon.
The familiar scent calls forth memory. It takes Dorian back to that time weeks ago (had it really been that long?), to warm water and roaming fingers. He can almost feel phantom touches on his scalp, tousling hair styled with care for the occasion. A shiver runs up Dorian's spine and he takes a long drink from his glass to hide his reaction, hoping the heat in his cheeks doesn't flood his skin with too much pink.
After all, Halamshiral is hardly the place for such reminiscing.
Dorian leans against the railing separating the ballroom floor from the gallery. His posture oozes confidence and security while on the inside he feels like a lion in a room full of snakes. He knows how to be a predator like them, how to participate in the game that nobility play at like it's second nature. He's confident that, given time, he could have enough influence and clout to shape Orlesian politics, even with Tevinter blood flowing in his veins. But as he is now, with no contacts, no information, no intimate understanding of the undercurrents of power?
It'd be like sailing a ship on unfamiliar seas with no map, into a hurricane.
And so he stands around and looks pretty, drinking wine as it's offered to him by the servants, and pretends that he doesn't feel useless. That's not to say that Dorian has any doubt that Elena will ferret out the truth and make the right decisions, not at all. He fully trusts the Inquisitor's abilities and instincts. It's just… this is the kind of environment he was raised in, full of intrigue and assassination and betrayal. Its frustrating how little he can do without causing more harm than good.
Dorian shuts down that line of thought before it makes him morose, and lets his eyes wander. He finds Leliana deep in conversation with the Inquisitor, Josephine chastising her sister, Vivienne surrounded by acquaintances, and Cullen…
Oh my.
If Dorian is a lion in a room full of snakes, then that makes Cullen a fawn, newborn and shaky legged and completely defenseless. Well, not literally shaky legged-Cullen has too much iron will for that. But there's something about his wide eyed stares that reminds Dorian of a startled deer, too scared to run away from approaching doom... Even if approaching doom happens to wear voluminous dresses in garish colors, tunics and coats and cloaks slathered with gold embroidery and gems.
Armies and swords, apostates and demons? Cullen has no problem facing each one with courage and strength. Flirts trying to get into his pants?
Dorian hides a snort of laughter in his wine glass as Cullen visibly starts, swinging around to question a man beside him whose hand is still near his bottom. He squashes the jealousy that flares in his chest like an inferno. He of all people knows the men and women ogling the commander are doing so because of his rank in the Inquisition. The fact that Cullen is devilishly attractive is really just icing on the cake for nobility looking to expand their connections.
Besides, its not as if Dorian has any real claim to Cullen's person. One sexually charged moment and months of flirting don't suddenly make Cullen his. Not yet, at least. And at the pace they're going, it may never happen. All this buildup for nothing.
That train of thought is enough to dampen his mood. He drains the rest of the wine from his glass, leaves it with a passing servant, and heads for one of the balconies for a bit of fresh air.
Dorian's chest heaves as he labors for breath, the staff in his hands slick with perspiration. The sun beats down on him from its perch at high noon, chasing away the memory of the mountains usual chill. It's unseasonably hot but Dorian's grateful for the sudden heat wave. It lessens the chance of him freezing to death when his sweat dries. The rest of the keep doesn't seem to enjoy it nearly as much as he does. Soldiers and mages lounge in the few shaded areas available when not put through their paces, instead of crowding the training yard.
Not that Dorian cares all that much about what the troops are doing. He only notices because he knows Cullen will, and the things Cullen notices are becoming more important to him than they should be. Plus, it gives Dorian more room to practice. Less worrying about someone getting in the way of a lightning bolt and more blowing up practice dummies makes practice time far more productive.
Dorian sighs and relaxes his pose, stabbing the blade of his staff into the dirt to hold it upright while he stretches tense muscles. A breeze picks up, helping dry the sweat collecting on his face, but not doing much for the sweat rolling between his shoulder blades. He undoes his top, loosening straps and buckles enough to let it slide down his chest and gather at his hips. Ah, much better. His head tips back and smiles, eyes closed, enjoying the cooling caress of the wind against his bare skin.
It's nice to let instinct take over, to put his mind on autopilot and let his muscle memory take care of the rest. Honestly, he's been spending too much time thinking and over analyzing every little thing-specifically, every little thing involving the commander-and his brain can definitely use this break.
"Working hard?"
Dorian doesn't even bother opening his eyes. He knows that voice far too well to ever mistake it for anyone elses. Speak of the devil. "Done with your duties so soon, Commander?" he asks, pushing sweaty fringe from his forehead.
Cullen makes an annoyed sound in the back of his throat. "Hardly, but this heat makes it impossible to get anything done."
"Now now, the heat isn't that bad," Dorian chides, opening one eye to peer at Cullen, lips twisting into a smile. His stomach twists and flutters at the sight of the man but he shows none of it on his face.
Cullen quirks a brow. "Its not 'that bad', and yet here you are, half undressed." A bead of sweat runs from Dorian's neck and down his chest, and he can feel Cullen's eyes follow it before meeting his.
"As if you aren't enjoying the view," Dorian replies, turning to face Cullen fully.
The statement is enough to make the tips of Cullen's ears flush red but he doesn't fidget and look away, doesn't stammer and blush. No, instead Cullen smirks, eyes hooded, voice pitched low for Dorian's ears alone. "Its a view I will never grow tired of."
The words hang in the air between them. Dorian's heart pounds in his chest, heartbeat loud in his ears.
Even with all the flirting, the touching, the company, the laughter, the tears… This is the first verbal admission that there's something between them beyond extremely close friendship. It makes Dorian's skin tingle at the implication. Before, their interactions could have been considered friendly, actions that Dorian took out of context and read into, but not anymore. It's what Dorian's been waiting for.
A million responses sit on the tip of his tongue, some funny, some serious, some so overly sexual that Cullen would probably spontaneously combust if he heard them. And there Cullen stands, waiting to hear whichever one stumbles through Dorian's lips.
So instead of speaking, Dorian simply smiles before turning and walking away, shooting one last heated glance over his shoulder at the commander before disappearing into the garden.
Dorian sits atop the battlements overlooking the training yard, watching Cullen below as he directs the troops through their exercises. An onlooker would assume he is watching the commander with fondness, and in all honesty a small part of him is. But the bigger part is waiting for something more and-Ah, there it is again.
Cullen stands with his hands on the pommel of his blade, overseeing two swordsmen sparring. And, after a few seconds, he turns his head into the fur of his mantle and takes a deep breath. The tips of his ears and the back of his neck looks red, though from this height it may just be a trick of the light.
The smile that curls Dorian's lips is absolutely diabolical, and he doesn't need a mirror to know it. Cullen thinks he understands seduction. He thinks that some warm gazing and even warmer words is all there is to this game, that coming on strong then backing off without any real resolution would be enough to drive Dorian wild and force him to make the first move. Granted, it is driving Dorian crazy, but he's too good at this to break so easily. He knows how to bide his time. He knows how to use scent and sound and taste to arouse.
Oil infused with cinnamon rubbed through Cullen's mantle, on his pauldrons, in his helmet. Cinnamon sticks hiding in the back of a drawer of his desk. Magicking the sound of splashing bath water to play randomly in the middle of the night under his bed while he sleeps, in his tent when he's outside the hold with the soldiers overnight. Bribing the kitchen staff to add trace amounts of ground cinnamon to Cullen's teas and ciders. Making sure to bathe with that soap every other day ever since.
A bit overkill? Yes, but if Dorian is too subtle, it'll go completely unnoticed by the other man and just be a waste of time.
Besides, Dorian wants to get this song and dance over with. This is what he's used to, the part of intimacy that he's more than well versed in and he's more than ready to dive in headfirst.
So when Elena drags him out to the Storm Coast to help kill a dragon and he comes down with the flu? He's ready to beat Corypheus to the punch and set the whole damn world on fire.
Dorian's snotty and snively and feverish and leaking from every hole and he sort of wants to die because Maker's asshole this is awful and his room is so hot but he's not allowed to take off the blankets or put out the fire in the hearth until he's sweat out the fever but he's not sweating and how can you sweat out a fever with no sweat? Somewhere in the back of his mind it makes sense but that doesn't stop him from complaining.
And while the sickness is awful in its own right, its the isolation and boredom that kills. The Inquisition isn't put on hold just because he's sick; the machine must continue to run with or without him. The end of the world won't wait while he lays in bed. For three days he sees no one besides the apothecary with his potions, mixing and mashing things together to help combat some of his symptoms. All they do is make him sneeze and cough, leave a nasty taste in his mouth, though he's thankfully no longer contagious, meaning he can finally have visitors.
He doesn't have many at first, or at least if he does he's not awake to see them. Most of Dorian's time in the beginning is spent sleeping, his body trying to recover from the ravages of communicable disease. He thinks he remembers seeing Elena and Solas checking on his progress, maybe recalls Varric with a rough draft of his next romance novel, hoping that Dorian was coherent enough to read it over for him. He hadn't been at the time, but he makes sure to keep that little nugget of information tucked away in the back of his mind for later. Dorian doesn't want to pass up the chance to read more of Varric's self-published erotica. Or pass up the chance to threaten Cassandra with potential spoilers.
It's the fourth day free of quarantine, at least he thinks its the fourth day, that Dorian awakens to someone softly humming to the right of his bed. The song sounds like a lullaby and while he's curious as to who it could be, he lets the song wash over him in his post-sleep haze, drifting in and out of consciousness. Dorian floats there, mind full of fog, calm in a way he hasn't been in a long time.
Almost too soon the song ends and Dorian opens his eyes, blinking his eyes until they focus. "That," he coughs, throat dry, "was lovely," he says, turning his head to see who it was beside his bed.
And it's Cullen sitting in the armchair left by Varric, papers scattered in his lap. He's missing his armor again, wearing dark loose-fitting clothing, looking completely at ease in Dorian's room. He looks up when Dorian speaks and smiles, setting his papers on the bedside table. Cullen grabs the cup of water sitting there and offers it to Dorian, who takes it with a grateful nod and greedily drinks to sooth his dry throat.
"Did I wake you?" Cullen asks, and his voice is pitched low like Dorian might break if he gets too loud, and while a part of him finds that annoying-he is not made of glass-another part finds that endearing, that Cullen would be so careful to keep Dorian from feeling any discomfort while unwell.
Dorian stretches his arms over his head and yawns. "Yes, but it's no problem. Can't sleep yet another day away, now can I?" He smiles and Cullen returns it, eyes crinkling in the corners. His heart flutters.
Swallowing, he looks for something to talk about. He spots the papers on the bedside table. "Work?"
Cullen nods and grimaces. Even that's attractive in its own way and Dorian hates how sick he is right now because he's lost all ability to be cunning. "Everyone is vying for pieces of that dragon killed on the Storm Coast, and I've been blessed with the duty of deciding who gets what."
Dorian huffs a small laugh. "So thats a stack of petitions begging for your favor and permission to play with dragon bones?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
They both smile again and the conversation stops. Honey brown eyes stare into grey; the air in the room seems to thicken with tension, and suddenly Dorian realizes Cullen is waiting. Waiting to see what he does, how he reacts to Cullen being in the room while he slept, whether or not he's okay with it or thinks its too much too soon or-
He's just as unsure as I am.
Were he in better health, Dorian would know exactly what to do, what to say, to drive Cullen wild and have him all over him in a heartbeat, all want and need and sweat and sex.
But this has never been about that. Yes, that's something they clearly both want, but its been about more than that. And that more is absolutely terrifying, true, but in this state Dorian doesn't really care about repercussions. He's too congested and bone-weary to care about the pain and humiliation of rejection. So he does what he feels he should do, and holds his hand out.
Cullen looks down at the hand, then back at Dorian, eyes questioning. Hopeful.
Dorian flexes his fingers and looks pointedly at Cullen's empty hand.
Tentatively, Cullen takes it, fingers rough and calloused from years of labor and sword training. Their fingers slot together slowly, as if Cullen is afraid Dorian will change his mind at the last second and pull away. But he doesn't and their fingers link, and its like something has finally slid into place in Dorian's chest.
He sighs with contentment and gives Cullen's hand a squeeze. "So, Cullen," he watches Cullen blush as he uses his name instead of his title and grins, "tell me about your dragon carcass petitioners."