Kieran squinted at him from where he was washing dishes. One of the many awesome things about having his son live with him was, for all his many other lovely talents, his help around the house. Terrance was still adjusting in some small but meaningful ways—learning to write with his right hand had been tough enough—and he appreciated Kieran's wordless support.

"What?" he asked, realizing the squinting had continued. He shut the plastic box on the leftover spaghetti and leaned against the counter. "I got sauce on my face?"

"Did you dye your hair?"

The question floored him. "No," Terrance answered, flabbergasted. "I got it cut, not dyed."

"Hm. It looks redder than usual." Kieran shut off the water and hopped over to the plastic box, getting ready to put it in the fridge.

Terrance sidled out of his way. "Did it look grey before?" he joked.

"Yeah. Thanks for the food."

"Thanks for clea—wait, Kier, are you serious?" The magnitude of what his son had said finally hit him. Grey hairs? He was barely thirty!

Kieran looked over his shoulder from where he stood in the kitchen entrance. "Hm, I guess it must've been the light yesterday," he said after a moment of quiet observation. "It looks pretty red today."

The insult to his pride stuck with Terrance the next few days. On the afternoons he was able to pick up Kieran from the after-school program, self-consciousness made him terse in front of Dorian, his back straight like Kieran's had been known to be when he was ready to cry. He only relaxed once the program building was out of sight.

"Did Mr. Pavus make you mad?" Kieran asked after a week or so. The concept was so preposterous that Terrance laughed. The sound alone seemed to reassure Kieran. "Okay. Because he's been helping me with school stuff, and I'd be really upset if you like, hated him or something."

That gave Terrance pause. "You're having some trouble?" he asked. Kieran nodded. "You can come to me about that sort of thing, you know."

"Don't get jealous," Kieran said quietly. Terrance was about to let his emotions dictate his retort, but Kieran continued, "School wasn't really your biggest concern when you were my age, you know? You were really focused on hockey. I get it."

Terrance laughed, an awkward and weak thing as they got out of the car. "Kier, I do work a real job now. I have to know something or I wouldn't be—" He stopped mid-sentence. His defensiveness was getting the way of the real matter at hand. "Anyway. I'm glad Mr. Pavus is helping you. Can I at least ask what the trouble is?" He fished his keys out of his pocket and avoided looking at his son while he unlocked the door.

"Are you mad?"

"What? No, I'm not mad. I'm just wondering why you're not telling me what the problem is. Is it a more serious problem than you're leading me to believe?"

Kieran plunked his backpack over the back of the sofa to land on the cushion. "It's just an elective," he hedged. "It's two electives."

"Which are?"

"Family and Consumer Sciences," Kieran rattled off, then took a deep breath. "And Ancient Tevene."

"Okay," Terrance grinned. "I'll ignore the obvious question and ask you why you need help in cooking class."

"It's related," Kieran defended himself. "It's not just cooking. You have to write papers and propose a final recipe presentation. It's sort of like Dancing with Astrariums except you only have the class period to prepare and explain the thing you made. I'm really nervous," he confessed after a second to breathe. "I know I still have another month before the semester is up, but I want it to be good. And before you ask," he said, louder and faster, "we're learning food vocab in Ancient Tevene so I thought it would be cool to do an ancient recipe but I'm having trouble reading the recipes they have untranslated on the Imperium Archives. And I want to do it myself. So Mr. Pavus is helping me with the harder words."

Terrance blinked at his son, standing with clenched fists and looking at the floor. He hadn't expected to get a full paragraph of uncharacteristic chatter about cooking—no, about Dorian Pavus, for that matter. "Mr. Pavus reads ancient Tevene?" was all he could think to say. The most he knew about the language was what he'd seen in movies and the few plays he'd read in part-time high school. He certainly wouldn't have associated it with cooking, of all things.

Kieran nodded. "Speaks it, too."

"Kieran, this all sounds like a really awesome idea," Terrance encouraged. Kieran turned around with a small mumble of thanks and began reaching for his backpack on the sofa. "No, really. I never would have thought of such a cool way to tie the two classes together."

Kieran paused in his rummaging. "I'm nervous," he said again. "Would it—could I—ugh," he finished, but Terrance tried to catch on to his meaning.

"Want me to buy some ingredients so you can practice making it?"

Kieran didn't move. He hadn't guessed right, apparently. "Could you," he began slowly, "could you maybe...ask Mr. Pavus if he'd help me out? Help me practice cooking it?"

"Where? Here? Like our house?" When Kieran nodded, stupid little nervous bubbles zipped through Terrance's gut. Maker, what was that all about? He didn't usually get social anxiety about this sort of crap. But Kieran looked so quietly hopeful, at least in the side of his nose that Terrance could see, that the bubbles didn't last long. "I'll ask. But I can't promise you he'll be willing," he cautioned. "He doesn't know me all that well."

"He knows me, though."

"I'll ask."

The following week, Terrance arrived at the program, out of breath, and just in time for Dorian to lead the class in stretching. He'd never arrived so early before, never leaving the office before four o'clock most days, and so he'd never had the opportunity to see Dorian's long brown arms reaching far to hold onto one shoed foot after another, or his equally long legs in tight navy leggings spread wide apart in a near-perfect sitting split. His fitted tank top was gold today, and as he leaned over, the corner lifted up just enough to expose a lean and noticeably muscled torso.

The kids, most of whom no longer looked around for companions to giggle with over Mr. Pavus's flexibly changing positions, all jerked their heads up to stare for a moment when Terrance entered the studio, subtle as a garbage disposal. He felt their eyes on him all the more intensely once he realized he'd been standing at the door too long. He took his seat next to the Orlesian woman, mother of Kieran's friend Connor, whose name he couldn't bother to recall. Kieran called her "the Scourge of Redcliffe," no doubt a moniker bestowed upon her by her son that Kieran had picked up, because Kieran had never been to Redcliffe except as a baby and couldn't give clear answers regarding the nickname's history except for "their family is from there, you know."

Terrance occupied himself the rest of the class not by ogling the instructor, but by imagining reasons for the mother being deserving of a label like "the Scourge" of somewhere, including: being a homewrecker of many upstanding Fereldan families; upending one too many tables at PTA meetings; turning into a dragon and razing Redcliffe's many farms and carrying off their sheep; working as the most ruthless prosecutor in town before being run out of the country by wrongfully imprisoned convicts' families; or simply being too nagging a mother to the free-spirited Connor. This last idea had Terrance casting a furtive look Kieran's direction. Did Kieran talk about him in such unflattering terms to his friends? Did he have a nickname? The Uncomfortable Conversation-Starter? The Sports Buff of Kirkwall? The Inquisitor, like the guys back on the Dragons had called him for picking too many fights with the ref and asking too many accusatory and demanding questions of the players?

"You're free, my excellent fledglings. Go fly home."

Terrance startled from his gloom to see the flock of kids scatter in various directions. He searched for Kieran and found him packing his dance shoes in his bag by the wall with exaggerated slowness.

Right. Terrance stood and stretched, waiting for the other parents to collect their offspring and leave. They seemed to be taking a long time. He jutted out his elbows and twisted his back around several times. The Scourge of Redcliffe tapped her foot like a hummingbird's heartbeat, calling Connor's name with increasing irritation. Terrance yawned hard enough to make himself lightheaded. Connor, with dragging feet, met his mother, and as they left, Dorian called from across the room, "My, they must be working you both long hours! I usually have some time to myself at this point."

"Sorry, Mr. Pavus," Kieran was startled into saying. He immediately clammed up, flicking his eyes to his father with desperate, frantic speed.

Terrance offered Dorian a long-suffering smile. "Don't mean to keep you, Mr. Pavus, but I had a favor to ask you. Kieran tells me you've been helping him with some coursework."

Kieran mouthed "Dad," turning his head so Dorian couldn't see. Panic—or maybe embarrassment—had his face pale and eyes wild.

"He's a bright boy," Dorian chirped, crossing his arms over his tank top. Terrance followed the movement for a split second longer than he could congratulate himself for. "Hardly needs my help."

"Apparently, he does." Kieran had focused all his attention on futzing with his bag. Terrance was willing to bet his ears were red. "He's a smart kid, but he's smart enough to know when he needs to ask for help. I'm really interested in this history—or, I guess, cooking project you've both invested yourselves in, but as my son can tell you, my history and cooking skills amount to checking the expiration date on a box of pasta."

Dorian's bright laugh echoed off the studio walls, but his arms were still crossed. The evil, rude nervous bubbles made their second appearance in Terrance's stomach. He steeled himself with what he hoped was his most disarming smile.

"I know you're a busy guy, but it would mean a lot to both of us if you'd come over sometime and help him actually practice making the thing. Kieran's probably ready to kill me by asking, but I think he'd be grateful for any help he can get, since he definitely can't rely on my aid."

Dorian blinked once, long lashes flickering, his eyes focused on some corner of the room. "Hmm," he said, and the slow way he drawled out the sound did warm and inconvenient things to Terrance's nervous body. Over his shoulder, Dorian called to Kieran, "And what say you, young Lord Kier? Is this request truly from you, or is your terrible father using his son as an excuse to invite me to dinner?"

"It's not dinner. We decided on a cake, right?" Kieran said—thank the Maker, because Terrance, who had just lost all his nerve as well as control over his respiratory organs, was rendered speechless.

"So we did." Dorian had a little half-smile on his face when he turned back that made Terrance want to assure him of his good intentions, or to boast that he hadn't stopped working out since retiring. Neither were appropriate. "Mr. Lavellan, I'll give you my phone number, and you and Kieran can work out the date." The last word sounded more enunciated in Terrance's delirium. "Provided, of course, you keep it to yourself and don't hand it out to every drunken and unwanted lover who pesters you for your own."

Terrance boomed a surprised laugh, then, feeling awkward by how loud the echo was, slid his phone out of his blazer pocket. They traded numbers with minimal discomfort—at least on Terrance's part—and wished each other a good evening.

Kieran, in the setting autumn sun, glowed on the walk to the car, sunbeams illuminating his pale skin. But his expression was serious when he thanked Terrance.

"Don't thank me yet," Terrance teased, starting the truck's engine. "I'm not the one who has to present Mr. Pavus with a burnt cake."

"I'm not gonna burn it," Kieran muttered, folding his arms and looking out the window. Terrance kept his smile under control. "Well," Kieran said after a minute of stoic silence, "maybe only at first."

The days passed, and still, Terrance did not text Dorian.

Kieran snapped at him when he asked how his homework was coming that Thursday night. In response, Terrance raised his voice and complained that he'd just been asking, he didn't need to burn Andraste all over again. Kieran had yelled how that was stupid Chantry propaganda that had nothing to do with his homework, and promptly stormed off with tears budding in his eyes. Terrance had not inquired further, and still did not text Dorian.

That weekend, Kieran got his first video call from Morrigan, who had apparently settled in wherever she was. It wasn't Terrance's business to ask, and their son did not volunteer the information, probably because it didn't occur to him as important. He could hear Kieran chattering in muffled tones when Terrance passed by his closed bedroom door on the way to his room, trying not to feel down. He did not text Dorian that night.

As Kieran was getting ready for school on Monday, he was more talkative than usual. "Mother's looking really happy," he said, pulling on his hoodie. His voice emanated from within the folds of fabric as he continued, "The Crossroads Library is apparently full of interesting stuff. She told me that they gave her a reading room all to herself and'll pull books whenever she wants, whatever she needs. They usually have it. I wish our library was like that. But still, I don't think I'd even know what to ask for." Black hair sprouted through the neck of the hoodie. Kieran's face soon popped out. Terrance handed him a granola bar in silence, frustrated both with his own inability to contribute to the conversation and the fact that he couldn't toss it from the kitchen like he used to be able to do. "I told her about the Family and Consumer Sciences project, though, and she was really interested. Said she might be able to get access to some scans of ancient Tevene texts, if I needed them. Wouldn't that be cool? Hey, Dad," Kieran called, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, "when did Mr. Pavus say he was free this week? Tonight?"

"I haven't texted him yet," Terrance said, faltering in his excuses when Kieran cast a black look his direction.

"Come on. I told you I was nervous. I asked you to—"

"Tone, Kieran," Terrance warned, and Kieran looked at his feet. "I've been really busy, okay? Look, I'll text him now." He pulled his phone out of his briefcase with exaggerated movement and dashed off a text.

Kieran's annoyed I haven't asked you if you're still game to help him cook sometime this week? Thanks. -T

"There," he told Kieran. "He's been informed. I'll let you know what he says."

"Kay," Kieran said, looking slightly less irritated. "I'll see you later, Dad."

"Yep. Have a good day."

As soon as Kieran was out the door, Terrance's phone buzzed.

Np. How is your Wed. night looking?

And so it was settled. A couple of equally brief texts later, and Wednesday night would be the night. Kieran had nothing to complain about.

Upon returning home from work on Wednesday, Terrance immediately stripped off his business suit and threw himself into the shower. Kieran would be home from dance soon, and they still had to go grocery shopping for his ingredients.

Scrubbing away the office smell, Terrance heard the front door jangle open. "I'm in the shower," he called, and heard Kieran call something back, but the particulars were lost in the roar of shower water. "I'll be out in a sec!"

He finished shampooing and rinsing, turned off the shower, and threw a towel around his waist before stepping out of the bathroom. "Kier, I'll be ready in two minutes," Terrance said once in the hallway.

"Okay," Kieran said, poking his head around the corner. "Oh," he said, seeing his dad in the towel, "Dad, Mr—"

A second pair of footsteps followed, and another head poked around the hallway. A Dorian-shaped head. Before Terrance had a chance to react and jump back in the bathroom for the next thousand years, Dorian's lips parted in surprise, his eyes darting down to the towel, up to Terrance's chest, and then away to a photo of baby Kieran hanging on the wall. "Oh, Andraste's sweet—fasta vass, Terrance, put some clothes on."

"I was about to." Terrance emitted an uncharacteristic squeak before ducking into his bedroom with a death grip on the towel.

He emerged, perhaps a few minutes longer than was reasonable, in a white button-down and jeans and stable breathing. Kieran and Dorian were back in the family room, thank the Maker; his son was talking animatedly and with his hands. They both hushed up when Terrance plodded into view, but Kieran offered him an uncharacteristic, beaming smile. Dorian glanced at a spot on his button-down one button below the open collar, and Terrance didn't miss the way he swallowed. He had changed out of his dance clothes, like Kieran had, and was now wearing a slim button-down of his own, although his was turquoise and buttoned all the way to the top.

"Are you ready to go?"

Kieran's chirping voice brought Terrance out of his momentary stupor. He wrenched his eyes away from the mutual button-down admiration session and nodded.

"The real question is if you're ready, Kier," he teased, grabbing his wallet and house keys from the top of the TV, where he'd dropped them in his hurry to shower. "Last chance to bail."

"Damn straight I'm ready!" Terrance heard a high-five behind him and bit back his no-cursing scolding.

The walk to the grocery store proved how beautiful Kirkwall could be in the autumn. Sunset came earlier this time of year, and its light glinted off the skyscrapers in the near distance, gold and chrome. The sea air blew in maybe a little too chilly, but Terrance was wearing his old training jacket, which had kept him warm while sitting in the rink.

Or the penalty box.

Kieran kept pulling out the shopping list and recipe on his phone and mouthing the Tevene words carefully, so he wasn't much of a conversationalist. When Terrance had asked if he was okay, he still nodded, but the enthusiasm was clearly beginning to give way to nerves. This left him trailing behind Terrance and Dorian, who were now forced to have a conversation.

"Thanks for coming along tonight, Dorian," Terrance said, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. Dorian's eyes followed the movement.

"It's really my pleasure," Dorian insisted. "Was that your old…team?" A thin silver band around his index finger flashed as he pointed. Terrance twisted around, as if he'd be able to see the team logo, or as if he'd forgotten where he'd been.

"Yeah. Started out with the Dalish," Terrance replied. He hadn't thought to grab the Kirkwall Dragons jacket. It wasn't worn in as nicely as the Dalish one, and he kind of liked how the dark green looked against his skin compared to the red Dragons one, which clashed with his hair. "Got traded pretty quickly. I was pretty much fresh out of high school when I was recruited, though."

"Ah. I haven't heard of the Dalish as much as the Dragons, although I suppose that is to be expected. We are in Kirkwall."

"Got more hockey fans here, although…"

Dorian waited, but Terrance was deep in thought. The art scene in Kirkwall was quite a bit more prevalent compared to its sports scene. Their fans were known Thedas-wide for their loyalty, to the point of fanaticism, but it had never the same draw as a ballet performance. Maker forbid something like the Ballet Magisterium Swan Lake fiasco happen during the same weekend as the Marchers' Cup, like it had last year.

"Although?"

Terrance shook his head. "I was just thinking that sports haven't been as popular here in Kirkwall since I got traded."

"Dad," Kieran piped up, shuffling in between the two men. Terrance and Dorian both looked at him. "Do you think it's okay if we put wine in the cake? This word means wine." He pointed to some incomprehensible series of characters on his phone screen. Terrance glanced at Dorian.

"I think alcohol cooks down when you cook it," he guessed, and Dorian offered him the tiniest, subtlest nod. He continued with relief, "No one in your class is going to get drunk off your cake. You can even put that science fact in your presentation."

Kieran nodded, considering it with that sort of somberness that was a little unnatural on a twelve-year-old. Terrance steered them all through the grocery automatic doors, and his son immediately beelined for the baking section.

"Terry," Dorian said, half-starting after Kieran, "what's on that list that you already have at home? I forgot to ask Lord Kier."

Terrance grinned, both at the question and the nickname. "Probably none of it. Maybe milk."

Dorian stopped in his tracks. "Flour? No flour?"

"Nope."

Dorian shook his head, rebooting and heading after Kieran, who was studiously perusing the spice shelves. "We're going to need to have a little chat after this cake business, Terry," he promised, a teasing warning note in his tone. At least, Terrance hoped it was teasing.

"I look forward to it," he said with a smirk, tugging down the zipper of his training jacket in the suffocating heat of the grocery store. He didn't miss the way Dorian's cheeks darkened a tad, nor the clearing of his throat as he departed.

Terrance wondered, later, as Dorian helped Kieran pick out the right cooking sherry, if it was possible he still had that sort of effect on people, if despite getting older and less recognizable, people still found him attractive. Dorian couldn't've been more than a few years younger than him, and it was obvious he knew how devastatingly handsome he was. Terrance knew how devastatingly handsome he was. Morrigan and he had fallen in love with each other's youthful good looks and mutual fascination with wild pastimes. Those things had all waned with time—the strange pastimes, the love, and the youth. He'd been the one to end the marriage, but she would've done it if he'd waited. The attraction was gone, and Terrance had cheerfully resigned himself to bachelordom and (as Kieran had so helpfully pointed out) a couple stray gray hairs. Not exactly the sort of beau to attract young and fashionable dancers. Not anymore.

But the way Dorian looked at him sometimes…

Dorian insisted on splitting the cost of the groceries, which made very little sense, given that he was the one doing the Lavellan-Wilde family a favor. But the total was small, and so Terrance didn't mind agreeing once he saw his protests were falling on a deaf ear.

Kieran, who'd regained his excitement, babbled to Dorian all the way back home, effectively monopolizing the man's time during the walk. Terrance didn't mind. It gave him time to reflect, to admire the way Dorian's slim-cut pants clung to his legs, to quirk a brow but look away as if admiring the cityscape when Dorian caught him once, to appreciate the small grin curling the side of Dorian's mouth.

He left the two of them alone to bake their cake once they got home, watching Dancing with Astrariums in the family room with a plate of leftover spaghetti. Terrance could hear them chatting to each other in the kitchen half in Fereldan and half in tentative Tevene, mixing bowls clanging and oven beeping and delightful smells wafting.

Dorian came out only once, surprising him when he rested a gentle hand on Terrance's shoulder. Terrance jumped a little, almost jostling his spaghetti—Kieran had gotten him hooked on the show recently, and there was a particularly good routine going on—and Dorian, bless him, only smirked rather than laughed. "Terry, I don't suppose you and your uncultured self possess a pastry brush?"

"A—a what?" Terrance couldn't imagine why anyone would need to buff or brush a pastry. Maybe to get the crumbs off?

"That's what I thought," Dorian chuckled, a deep sound in his chest. He relinquished Terrance's shoulder and headed back to the kitchen. Terrance shoveled spaghetti in his mouth and tried to focus back on the competition.

They brought the cake out after an hour or so, generously offering him a slice (delicious). Kieran was all aglow, Dorian himself looked mighty pleased with his work, and Terrance was full of good food.

"I think it's time I head home," Dorian said once the cake had been successfully half-demolished. Terrance rose from the table and headed for the TV, where he'd dropped his keys. Again.

"Let's roll out. What's your address?"

Dorian's mouth formed a little O of surprise. "Oh, Terry. That's—that's kind. I called a cab already, I didn't want to impose—"

Terrance shrugged, trying to ignore the disappointment plummeting in his stomach. "No worries. Next time, yeah?"

"Next time," Dorian promised, standing up, too. He winked, and for a moment, Terrance's heart faltered. "I still owe you a tongue-lashing for the absolutely despicable state of your kitchen pantry."

Okay, heart definitely not restarting any time soon. "I'm sure," he managed.

"Bye, Mr. Pavus," Kieran said, joining the two of them in standing. He held out his hand regally, and Dorian shook it very seriously.

"Good night, Lord Kier." He turned to Terrance. "Good night, Mr. Lavellan." He extended his hand, and Terrance took it. It was warm in his own, except for the silver band, smooth and cool.

"Good night, Mr. Pavus."

Dorian withdrew his hand after the handshake, which had lasted a fraction of a second too long. The cab beeped outside. Terrance handed him his jacket, which felt expensive in that high-quality leather kind of way.

"Good night," Dorian said again.

"Good night!" Kieran and Terrance called together. The door shut, and without warning, Kieran grabbed his father in a tight hug.

It only took a split second for Terrance to wrap his arms around Kieran and squeeze gently. He held his grateful, short son for the longest time he could remember in his life. Kieran, of course, was the first to extricate himself, but he was smiling.

"Thanks, Dad."

"Anytime, Kier."