Its been a month and Dorian's chest still constricts with fear every time Cullen rises from the bed after sex.
It's usually that Cullen's after a wash cloth to clean them off with, or a blanket to fend off the chill that comes with drying sweat, or even just to crack his back (because Cullen may not be old but he's not as spry as he once was), but no matter the reason behind it, Dorian can't help but think that this is the time that Cullen leaves without a backward glance. This is the time that he sneers at Dorian's spent body on the bed, satisfied with his conquest. This is the time that he is broken.
But that time never comes; Cullen curls around him like the lion he is, claiming Dorian as his own with arms and legs and occasionally teeth. Dorian spends his nights with his face buried in the crook of Cullen's neck and wakes to his wild curls and occasional drool.
What they have is still tender, still laden with unspoken words. And while Dorian will most likely never silence the voice in his head that works so hard to ruin his happiness, he does his best to protect what they have from his own inner demons, shielding the delicate budding flower of what they are from the hurricane of his self-loathing.
Step, step, step, turn. Step, step, step, turn. Step, step, step, turn.
Dorian stops, looks out one of the many windows in Elena's quarters, out at the mountains below them.
Step, step, step, turn.
Elena watches him pace from her bed. "They're sure to be back soon," she says, words she's said so many times in the last three weeks that they're past the point of ringing hollow.
The march from the Arbor Wilds back to Skyhold shouldn't take three weeks, even accounting for those wounded in the fighting. He knows it, Elena knows it, everyone who had been in their party while exploring the Temple of Mythal knows it. Transported back to Skyhold by the Eluvian, they are left waiting for the return of their friends and companions with bated breath in a hold that's far too quiet. Elena plans in the war room with Josephine and Leliana any time she isn't with Dorian, burying her worries in plots and paperwork and diplomatic scheming. Varric sits in the main hall, staring into one of the fireplaces with the haunted look of a man who's tired of losing friends.
And Dorian paces. In the halls, in his quarters, in Elena's quarters, in the library, and more often that not on the western battlements. He's well aware that the chance of him seeing the army on its approach is slim to none but that doesn't stop him from braving the cold, doesn't stop him from hoping, from praying to a god he's all but lost faith in.
It's selfish and he knows it, but he doesn't care. He doesn't pray to the Maker for the army, for the injured and the dead.
He prays for Cullen.
Step, step, step, turn. Step, step, step, turn.
The pressure of Elena's hand on Dorian's shoulder stops him mid-step; he didn't notice her rise from the bed, too preoccupied with his thoughts.
"You're going to wear a hole in the stone," she says with the hint of a smile in her voice. She's trying to lighten the mood, trying to make him relax and in this moment he loathes her for even making the attempt.
"Would you rather I be drinking?"
The question echos; the hand on his shoulder disappears.
Step, step, step, turn.
There was a time, when the Inquisition was still battered and bruised from Haven, when the medics worked from tents in the bailey, torn cloth haphazardly tacked to rod and wall both. Dorian has clear memory of those rotted and moth-ridden cots with their blankets that were little more than rag and dirt. On more than one occasion he found himself in those tents, though none of his injuries were ever bad enough to require more than a poultice or a quick healing.
But times have changed, as have their resources, and it shows.
Dorian stands in a clean stone room, tastefully decorated and warmed by a small brazier in the corner. The heavy wooden door is open, and he can see medics and healers in the other room, moving between the beds separated by curtains hanging from the ceiling. Herbs and potions line the wall, quick to hand and organized so precisely it appeases even Dorian's need for order. There are other closed doors leading to more private rooms, used for serious injuries and diseases, or for the privacy of someone of higher standing.
Which is why he's in one, standing off to the side to give one of the healers room as she changes Cullen's bandages and dressing, finally allowed to visit after two days.
A part of Dorian wants to watch, to make sure the healer doesn't do something stupid to endanger Cullen's life-the Red Templar that tried to gut him did that well enough-but another part of him finds the idea of watching uncomfortable. It feels too intimate. He's seen Cullen naked, seen him laugh, cry, terrorized by withdrawal throes; he's seen him thrash in nightmare, euphoric after left spent and boneless. But seeing him helpless, bruised, battered, broken?
Dorian shifts his weight and looks anywhere but the dark red gauze being pulled out of Cullen's belly, the blood that leaks down his sides to stain the bedding as the healer works quickly to stem the flow, repacking his wound with fresh dressing and medicine.
An inch closer and nothing would have been able to stop Cullen's insides from-
Dorian bites the insides of his cheeks, bites hard until he tastes copper. There's no point speculating on the past or worrying about something that's already said and done.
Cullen is alive, and that's all that matters.
The healer stands, her duties completed. Dorian really should take the time to learn her name since she's the only one who is authorized to take care of Cullen, but pleasantries are for a time when he's not being faced with Cullen's mortality. She uses a towel to wipe blood from her hands, another to dab sweat from Cullen's brow. There's perspiration beading on her forehead as well but she ignores it, instead working on cleaning up.
Dorian doesn't wait for her to finish her task. "How is he?" he asks, and he doesn't even try to hide the worry coloring his words. Everyone in the hold is now well aware of his connection to the Commander, especially after the scene he caused when he was told the exact reason why Cullen was riding in the back of a supply cart unconscious when the army finally arrived.
"He's through the worst of it, I think." She sighs and presses a fist into her lower back. The business of keeping Cullen from bleeding to death adds lines to her already creased face, bags under the eyes from sleepless nights monitoring his condition. "Would be far better if we could simply heal him."
That would explain why Cullen was transported to Skyhold in such a precarious condition, but what reason would they have to not use magic to heal the worst of his injury? Dorian brows furrow as he frowns, but she answers his question before he has time to ask it.
"Precaution just in case his blood came into direct contact with the red lyrium," she says, and the panic must be clear on his face because she hurriedly continues with, "That's not to say he's in danger of becoming tainted, just that using magic to speed up the healing process could awaken even the smallest particles and force him to metabolize it, and I would hate to set him back when he's done so well with his battle against addiction."
So she knows about Cullen and his lyrium withdrawal. "Is his situation with lyrium such common knowledge?" he asks, voice tight, hackles rising. Cullen wanted so badly for it to be kept a secret from all except those who had to know, and the idea of his secret being spread makes Dorian's stomach turn.
"I'm the only one who knows," she replies, unperturbed by neither the question nor his hard stare. After a pause she adds, "of the medics and healers, at least. I can't speak for the rest of the keep." She shrugs and heads for the door, tossing out a, "Would be difficult to treat him if I didn't have a good idea of what's going on with his body, after all," over her shoulder with a quirk of her brow.
A valid statement, enough to sooth his displeasure. Dorian concedes the point with a small bow and the flourish of a hand. "I'm relieved to find the Commander in the care of such capable hands."
The smile that blooms on the healers face makes her look ten years younger, dimples accentuating the curve of her lips. She glances at Cullen's sleeping form, then back to Dorian. "As am I."
It isn't long before Dorian's made himself a decent living space in Cullen's room. A plush chair with matching footstool for reading and sleeping surrounded by books sits in one corner, while a small wash basin and mirror occupies another, along with his various styling and shaving tools. The healer-he learns her name is Theoren after a bit of snooping-helped him sneak them in, and is kind enough to not rat him out for essentially moving in. In fact, he spends much of his time conversing with the older woman.
It turns out she knew Cullen as a child in his home town of Honnleath. Theoren had been little more than a wise woman back then, helping with colds and fevers, setting the occasional broken bone, but she remembers the boy with ears far too big for his head and grand ideas of joining the templars. She regales Dorian with tales of his antics-the pranks he endured from his younger siblings, stick swordplay in the fields when his parents weren't watching. He even learns that Cullen's blushing used to be so much worse, going from the tips of his ears down to disappear into his shirt collar any time a pretty girl looked his way or a handsome boy complimented him.
Dorian soaks up every story, so enthralled by Cullen's childhood. It's so different from his own in every way and a small part of him is envious, though he quickly subdues those thoughts before they can spread.
When not in Theoren's company he occupies himself with other things, such as reading to Cullen. He knows the Commander can't hear him (or maybe he can, who knows for sure) yet he does it all the same, teaching the other man about the fundamentals of Necromancy and just why the author of this book is a complete buffoon who should have his fingers cut off lest he try to pen another volume. And when he tires of reading he simply spends his time wiping Cullen's brow, brushing his hair from his forehead, playing with his hands.
Truth be told, Dorian spends an excessive amount of his time playing with Cullen's hands. He's all but memorized the veins and tendons in his wrists, the lines of his palms, the calluses on his joints and fingertips. There's something amazing about hands that are so rough and worn and yet can be so gentle, a testament to the man who owns them.
Maker's balls. Cullen's turned him into a besotted simpering fool. Before long he'll be writing poetry about his eyebrows.
For the first three days a near-nonstop flow of people come to visit, either to check on Cullen's status or-in Elena's case-to keep Dorian company. A surprisingly large amount of people that Dorian doesn't know come with flowers; it would be a sad time indeed if either of the men were allergic with the amount of pollen contained in that one room. An even larger amount of people offer condolences to Dorian and wish the Commander a speedy recovery for both their sakes. The honesty in the words, said by so many people who treated him like a leper when he first arrived, knocks him off balance.
And although their words are a comfort (no matter how disarming they are), Dorian is grateful when, by the fifth day, the flood of people turns to a trickle. By day seven the only one who stops in is Elena, and that's only to ask Dorian if he'd like a spot in another dragon hunting party. As if killing one isn't enough.
"Come on, you could give Cullen one of the horns as a gift," she says as she tries, and fails, to tug a book out of his hands. He recoils, drawing into himself, trying to hide arms and legs so she can't try to drag him bodily out of the room. He wouldn't put it past her.
"No, you could give Bull one of the horns as a gift and then watch as he masturbates with it." Dorian bats away Elena's attempts to swat at him and considers her indignant squawk a sign of victory.
Suddenly she stops and pulls back, staring down at him with wide eyes. "He'd like that, you think?"
Dorian can't help but roll his eyes. "Did you not see his reaction after killing the last one? We're lucky he didn't try to climb into the gaping hole we blasted into the side of the thing."
There's a little too much calculation in Elena's answering laugh, and the smirk that pulls at Dorian's lips makes her flush scarlet. She coughs into her fist and shifts her weight from foot to foot. "In any case," here she nudges Dorian with her boot, "I doubt Cullen would want you to stay cooped up in here."
A thought that Dorian's had time and time again in the last week, but even so he hasn't left. "I'll be sure to ask him his opinion when he wakes."