#and why yes i do need 7000 hugs and am using fic as an outlet

[blarrghe]

♥ Dorian and Taren!

Look what you did, you made Dorian cry.

Lengthy emo feelings ahead. No cut because mobile sorry =/

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Dorian had seen Taren cry. More than once, in fact. It wasnt that it happened often, just that the elf had quite a lot to contend with. There was no shame in it, and indeed Taren took very little shame in anything pertaining to his emotion. He was free with it; asking for help almost as easily as he offered it. Almost. The first time Dorian had seen Taren cry the whole thing had actually come to a rather dramatic head specifically because of the Lord Inquisitor's refusal to show vulnerability. But grief makes people do uncharacteristic things. It had done so to Taren; made him hide his fear and doubt behind unrelenting activity. Work work work, until the crash. Dorian had been there for the crash, and it had been the first time he'd been there, like that, for anyone.

Dorian had seen Taren cry a few times after that, not with a crash, but just for a moment under a hug at the end of a long day. And he had begun to understand that it was a reasonable thing to do, sometimes, to cry. The world was a very tumultuous and unhappy place, filled with demons and bandits and various vicious beasts. There was no shame in fear or grief or loneliness, and truly, it was ok to cry.

For other people.

For Dorian, a more suitable alternative had always been - and would remain - expensive, strong brandy. On the day he recieved news of his father's death, he found some in the cellars, and taking it without asking soon found himself a quarter of the way through the bottle, hunched over a desk at the top of Skyhold's mage tower. It was an unusual venue for him; he never had migrated over from the library after the tower was built. But the tower smelled like lyrium and thrummed with residual magic, and at the top of it it was cold, and quiet.

He rubbed a thumb over the letter in his pocket, and swirled the brandy in his glass. Father was dead. It had been coming long enough; he wasnt young, and his friends were mostly false ones, but it came on suddenly nevertheless. It also came with consequences. Opportunity, he reminded himself, to actually apply all that good-principled change he'd been dreaming up all his life. And Taren would understand, he always did.

Or he might not.

Another drink.

He might say he understood and then resent him.

A larger drink.

He might have reached it, that end he always knew would one day come.

He drained the glass.

He pulled the letter out of his pocket and poured himself another glass. His mother's writing was fine, her words matter of fact and devoid of emotion. He wouldn't have expected much more, and he didn't expect that she was at this moment taking the news any differently than he was; with a strong drink and a quiet moment alone. She would cry at the funeral, dramatically, and then gather up the fortune bequeathed to her and take a sojourn out to the family beach house. She'd likely be gone from the estate before his luggage arrived. Oh, but he did not want to have to live in that house again. He took another bitter sip, gritting his teeth against the thought that he had never really lived in that house at all.

Well, he chuckled dryly to himself, he could free all the slaves while mother was away. Have her come back to find him cooking his own meals.

All these lines of thought quickly led him back to the main point, which was that his father was dead, and he wasnt quite sure how he felt about it. But however he felt, it was unpleasant, and he sought to numb it with brandy.

They had exchanged a handful of letters, after that strained reunion in Denerim. His father had asked for a forgiveness he had never granted, and that even now he was not sure he could. There was some decency to the letters, a reluctant push toward reconciliation brought on, no doubt, by his father's reckoning with his own mortality; his death had resulted from illness in the end, not political motivation. And how very bitter that dance had felt. A father who had only marginally accepted him after years of pushback, asking to be heard out of love. Thanks to the letters, thoughts of his childhood had been digging into him since well before the eventual death, and the nostalgia in them was heartwrenching and infuriating. He had given his father many proud moments, impressing his early teachers and outshining his peers. He had almost been such a perfect son.

Dorian had answered every letter slowly, leaving them at the bottom of his long to-do lists. Mostly he had just wanted to avoid those conversations because he didn't exactly know what to do with them. What to do with a relationship so steeped in resentment? What to do with all the things that would never change, that he would never get an answer for? What to do now that there was nothing else he could ever say.

He should have written longer letters. He should have had a better father. He should have been a better son.

A memory slipped itself in uninvited between mild frustration and a growing fuzziness in his thoughts; a vacation, praise for learning some new spell, the giddy joy of being seven and already important. Pride. A good memory, a happy memory where his father was kind and his mother was sober and his legacy was exciting. It was always the warmest memories that left his heart cold.

He had spent about half his life a golden child, then in a flurry of dissillusionment and ideological exasperation, made a very deliberate show of throwing it all away. Rebellion and resentment had been his only modes of communication with either of his parents for years, and with more than enough good reason. Dead or not, some broken part of him would always be angry. And the parts of him that were whole knew well enough that his anger was justified.

He had idly imagined the familial fallout of death a number of times; in his darkest moments, he'd ruminated on the shadow he could cast with his own, and in fits of anger and heated verbal sparring, he'd passionately invoked his desire to see his father's. He had known for a very long time that ungrateful though it may seem, he wouldn't feel much troubled by its eventual occurence. He had assumed that his tears for matters concerning his legacy, his failures as a protege, and his mistreatment were long spent. But grief makes people do uncharacteristic things.

Drinking was probably not helping. When the first salty droplet fell into his brandy, his mind was already a rough sea of happy memories and unhappy reactions, unhappy memories and refreshed anger, unspoken rants and unwritten apologies. All the things that had only just begun to feel far away and over during his time in the South were back, emboldened by the discombobulated nature of a mind altered by drink. The waves crashed into him, and with an ugly wail and a choking breath, the rest of his tears spilled out from behind his eyes.

He crumpled the letter into a tight ball, and threw it across the room with all the force he could muster. Despite the force behind it, the wad of paper bounced off the wall and rolled along the floor with nothing more than a quiet patter. His violent little burst of energy only fueled things further, and then he was slamming a fist into the desk and pushing away the bottle of brandy in order to preserve it from a sudden urge to smash something.

A sob heaved itself from his throat, and he lowered his head into his hands to shake out the rest. Most of his complex feelings of anger and grief were swallowed up by curse words, and he let the colourful stream of them run through his head while his breaths hitched and broke under more sobs.

Taren had never seen Dorian cry. Not even when his voice had cracked and wavered in Redcilffe after confronting his father, not even when he had pulled him in tight and swearing under his breath after their close calls with death, not over anything. In fact, every distressing moment in Dorian's life seemed to be relayed with humour; a well developed mix of sarcasm and bravado. It wasnt that he was insensitive, the man had simply had a lot of practice maintaining his face, and letting that face fall was new and foreign territory. He would no doubt have given Taren a nonchalant explanation of what had happened in a day or two, the emotional impact always something you had to know him to hear. But Taren would. Dorian was a passionate man, and while he was wordy and quick witted, most of what he felt came through in action. He'd throw it all out there like it was nothing, then hold him in a desperate grip and sink his kisses deep into his bones, and that would say everything.

But Dorian wouldn't have that chance. Instead, as he wrestled with his composure with his head bent over the desk, Taren quietly ascended the stairs. Dorian didn't even realise he was there until his hand was on his back, rubbing gentle circles over his shoulder as another shaky breath jostled them up and down.

"Vhenan," his warm voice was quiet in his ear, a soft breath of a word that held so much. Exactly the right thing, and exactly the wrong thing, for it triggered a surprised inhale and an embarrassed crack in his voice as he tried to reply with some assurance that he was fine through the tears.

"What can I..."

Dorian took a few more breaths and rubbed at his eyes, forcing an unconvincing smile and reigning in the display.

"Nohing, Amatus. I'm fine, I'm fine."

Taren didn't move. His hands massaged Dorian's shoulders slowly, and a kiss landed in his hair. "Tell me what happened."

Dorian sighed, and nodded his head to the left just enough to signal Taren to where the crumpled letter sat on the floor. Taren took the few steps across the small room and picked it up. With a cautious look to Dorian first, he undid its folds and smoothed the letter out. He read it slowly, eyes scanning the page and then flicking up to Dorian again with close-knit brows. "Oh," he whispered as he finished taking in the news, "oh, ma vhenan."

This was not their spot up in the library where things were comfortable. Dorian wasn't hunkered down in a cozy little alcove with two comfortable seats and the homey clutter of books and candle stubs and notes, he was bent over a solitary desk, in a small and dim little room at the top of a tower. When Taren returned to his side he tucked himself in at a kneel and took up one of Dorian's hands.

"So, shall we make it quick and painless then?" Dorian asked, forcing another of those smiles that didnt quite make it.

"What?"

"My leaving."

"Dorian," he said it like no.

"Dont tell me you want to draw this out. I dont think I can stomach more crying." Even as he said it, his voice cracked over the words.

Taren sighed, and gave Dorian's hand a solemn squeeze. "I do though," Taren replied, "I love you." Dorian sat up, turning his face reluctantly to Taren's. "I wont make promises for myself. You dont have to do any more crying." He smiled at him, all real, "but if you must leave, I'd like to draw it out for as long as I possibly can."

"Bastard."

Taren chuckled. "It's too soon to point that back at you, isn't it?" A rare moment of pithyness from the Inquisitor. It worked, Taren was almost never anything but achingly sincere, and the surprise of a joke in extremely poor taste jolted Dorian to an actual snort of a laugh.

"Maker, I must look a fool. I've been wishing for this day for years."

Taren frowned. "You're not a fool."

"I kept putting off his letters..." He felt a need to explain something, a reason for the hysterics. "I should have, I should have..."

"Listen to me," Taren was suddenly serious again, taking both his hands and fixing him with a knowing gaze. "Whatever happens, whatever you need, I'm here." Dorian felt his face scrunching up again against his permission. "I love you." Taren said again, every time a lightning bolt. He swallowed, and hid his wretchedness in Taren's shoulder.

He had thought he was done. The fit of shaking and wailing interrupted by the warmth and comfort of Taren's voice, the masking power of a joke, the space enough between thoughts to find some ground to stand on. But as his eyes closed over Taren's shoulder and he felt arms wrap close around him, something else washed over him. Being held somehow made it all better, and all worse. His body convulsed, inhales entering his lungs in jagged chunks, just one bit of air at a time. His eyes left a damp spot in the soft fabric of Taren's thick sweater. Taren's hands pressed firmly into his back, one moving slowly up and down. His own hands clung to the wool of Taren's sweater in tight fists. The shattering breaths grew longer bit by bit, until they were deep and calm again. Taren always smelled a bit like campfire smoke, underneath notes of sea water and fresh pine. He inhaled, buoying himself on the familiar comfort of the embrace until his eyes were truly dry.

When he pulled away Taren had another smile ready for him, though his eyes were wide and full of concern. Dorian responded with a watery smile of his own. He pushed himself away from the desk, his chair sliding roughly on the wood paneled floor, and reached across the desk to retrieve the bottle he'd shoved aside.

"Brandy?" He offered, pouring a finger of it into his glass and tossing it quickly back.

Taren leaned on the desk, still watching him with an affectionate gaze. "Yes," he agreed, "but let's go somewhere else."

Taren rose to his feet and Dorian followed. Before anything, Taren took his hand and pulled him into a kiss. And without ever letting go, he led him away from the tower.