Things are different, now. Nobody says it, but they notice. Lavellan is lost, listless, but full, feeling, no longer faltering. She isn't happy, but now she can be happy. Isn't it wonderful?

That's what I try to tell myself, anyway. It's… hard, sometimes. She smiles and I feel sad. It's hard not to wonder, to wish, to want - something bigger, something brighter, an honesty in earnest. Salt in a lake, sugar in her tea - sweet, but unsatisfying. Teeth ache, twist, seeking the unsought. But Lavellan sees it - smiles softer, looks linger, fingers follow. I don't understand, but Varric does.

"She's toying with you, kid," he says. Head shakes, oil in a barrel - muscles tense, taut, tearing, bones crushing, kneading at the knot. "Don't let her play with you. She's just trying to get a reaction."

"Have I been giving her a reaction?" I ask.

Varric sighs. "No, I guess not. I just didn't know if that was on purpose, or you just being oblivious." He chuckles.

"She likes the attention, but I like it, too; she doesn't have to know," I say.

Varric laughs deep in his belly. "Ha, so you have learned! You're getting good at this, kid!" I don't understand, but Varric is happy, and that makes me happy.

Lavellan finds reasons to touch, tenderly tethering together. Dorian said to pretend I don't notice, but I do. Body betrays skin, shudder softly, a silent song singing in the sun. Fingers on flesh, over fabric, following forward, falsely finding then falling away.

"It's a woman thing," Dorian said. "Men are much more forward. You have my sympathies." I wonder if that's true. Dorian and the Iron Bull seem happy.

Lavellan speaks of nothing, says everything, and everyone sees secrets that don't exist. She doesn't help - legs across my lap, lips curled like a cat. She touches, teases, and they stare, shocked - certainly the Inquisitor has better sense than to pet her pet demon, don't you, my dear? It's hard not to hear, but I try.

She frustrates me, but I frustrate her, too. Standing on stone, sinking soundly, how do I get out? Too proud, too polished, too little power. Idle thoughts, fickle fancies, infuriatingly unfamiliar - standing in the shallow, can I go deeper? Should I? Dive, and it's done. What if I can't swim? Can't see down, dip my feet far enough - will I find the bottom, or will the bottom find me? It's too far. Lavellan catches me looking and sticks her tongue out, but I don't understand.

I want to make her happy, but it's hard - I want to be happy, too. I can see the strings that tie our knots together - too tight to tug, to tear, terrifying but tantalizing. Close enough to touch, to tease, but far, forbidden, fearful. Does understand? Can he understand? Hanging on a hinge, torn in two, intrigued but interred.

Lavellan is shy, I realize. Curious, but contained, careful. When she forgets, she wonders, worries. A sudden shock - what if he can't feel it? He told Solas -

"I couldn't at first," I say. "But now I can."

"Are you reading my thoughts again, Cole?" she asks, walking ahead.

"Yes, but I don't have to," I say simply - Dorian said to say that. Lavellan is red, and I wonder if it worked.

Dorian has good advice, sometimes. He's subtle - sees the shadows and knows how to shape them. I try to learn, but it's hard. Everything is intertwined, overlapping, darkening and dividing. Wait until the timing is right, but how do I know? How does he?

Some things are easy to understand. Uncertain, uncommitted, so I should be, too. Encourage, but never envelope. Put the blade where it needs to be, and it cuts cleanly. Wind the words with care, and they care, too. It makes sense, but sometimes it doesn't. Stones across the surface - how do they know when to jump?

It's frightening, but exciting. Like dancing. Thrumming, throbbing, light and loud, music moving while moving to music. Lavellan smiles, doesn't say, but differs, defined and denied - futilely fighting for control of the conductor. It's… fun.

Pressure builds, pushing, pressing - too late, and air escapes, empties. Too soon, and it's shallow, sorry, substanceless. You have to wait for the perfect moment, but how will I know? Will it come to me?

Dinnertime, distracted - Lavellan looks, stalks in a circle, smiles and stares. Varric spins a story - everyone laughs. Fingers in my hair, Lavellan leans, smelling of cinnamon, breath burning into bone. "Will you come up to my room after dinner?" she says, and it's spiralling, soundless, spine shaking and skull splitting. Lightning in lungs, bidden and bound, breathless and bewildered. Is this it?

Did I win?