#i am a morbidly curious gal so i wanted to know more about like. how all that shit worked
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cringelock · 2 years ago
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i finished true detective. jesus christ
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trulycertain · 7 years ago
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The Hangover
This is all the fault of @musicalheart168​. She wanted to see very, very drunk Gal, which happens so rarely it’s practically a national holiday. This is about the second “yay, we saved the world and not dead” celebration party. 2k.
Gal groans into his pillow and then squints against the daylight. “Wha - ?”
There’s low laughter from next to him. “Do you remember any of last night?”
He rolls over and comes face-to-face with a very amused Dorian, whose kohl is smudged and who’s in need of a shave. Looks like it was a big night for both of them. He tries, “First drink. Something ‘bout...” The headache kicks in, then. “Oh, fuck me.”
There’s a high, amused noise, and Gal realises Dorian is laughing, his face half-buried in Gal’s neck. He reaches up and puts a hand on Gal’s forehead. Warm healing magic emanates from it, with a tinge of ice - Dorian’s personal hangover cure. “You were a revelation, by the way. I’m honestly sad you missed it.”
“What did I... do?”
“Where would you like me to start? With the lecture on Divine Galatea - ”
“Back in the first Exalted March, she...” Gal frowns, and waves a hand. “She set a tree on fire. As a declaration of war. They say it looked a lot like that.” He gestures to Varric’s flaming... what was it? Didn’t he call it a cocktail? It looks almost like one of the centrepieces at parties back home. Dorian has to get his hands on it.
Dorian leans against Gal’s shoulder, laughing, rubbing a palm over his face. Maker. He shouldn’t feel quite so... fond at the sight of such idiocy.
Varric says, “Wow, Scary. I thought my similes were bad.” He looks to Dorian. “He always like this when he’s drunk?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Dorian replies cheerfully, “seeing as he almost never is. But he’s outdrinking me. My pride can’t take this.” He waves Cabot over to order a drink, leaving Gal leaning against the bar and him, one of those warm arms round his waist. 
He should be more afraid of that, because there must be over twenty people here, but he can’t make himself care. It feels so good, too good, to be with his friends and the man he loves - yes, loves, he’s grown tired of not saying it. Even if said man is terribly, marvellously drunk.
He thanks Cabot for the ale and turns to say, “Amatus, you can’t just regale people with history trivia - “
“‘Cept you. You like it.”
“Yes, well.” Dorian takes a swig of ale, trying not to laugh. “That’s different.”
Gal leans in and murmurs into Dorian’s ear, “What was it, ‘Talk nerdy to me’?”
Dorian does not blush. But he perhaps has to take another mouthful of ale before he says, “I’m quite certain Sera can still hear you.” He leans around Gal. “Is it an elf thing, the above-par hearing?”
She grimaces. “Is it a mage thing, being so weird?”
“ - or the singing - “
Gal says, “I was dared to... to sing. By a friend.”
Sera says, “The kid, right? Betcha won’t do it. Screws up your big-bad-man image...”
“I promised,” Gal says, more firmly. “Need to practise first. In front of... you. All of you.” There’s only a hint of terror in it. He stands, his chair scraping, and picks his way across the room, too carefully and precisely. He clears his throat, and their friends look up.
Every eyebrow in the pub raises at the first note. And then it carries on, steadier and less afraid now, and they raise further.
“I’ve... never heard this before,” Dorian manages.
“Andraste’s Mabari, innit?!” Sera says, with a delighted cackle, wide-eyed. She cups her hand to call, “Oi, grumpybritches, didn’t know you were Fereldan!”
“Shit,” Varric says quietly, and then turns to Dorian. “Did you know he could sing like that?”
Dorian tries not to grin into his ale, something like pride in his chest. “Yes,” he says, after he drinks, “but if he’s far gone enough to do it in front of all of us, someone should probably put him on the water.”
And they do. For a while. It doesn’t last.
“- or my miraculous invention - “
Things get rather fuzzy after that, but Dorian distinctly remembers proffering the frozen wine, ice magic still crawling up the edges of the glass, and demanding, “Lick it!”
Sera wrinkles her nose. “Not licking random things.”
“I love licking random stuff,” Bull says, leaning in. “What you got?”
Dorian waggles his eyebrows, and leans across, only slightly precariously. “I believe I’ve made” - and no, he is not slurring, how dare you even suggest such a thing - “sorbet.” He says it with a flourish, offering the glass. 
“Huh,” Bull says. “This some weird mage thing?”
“Give it here,” Cassandra demands, to everyone’s surprise, and snatches it.
Moments later, a group cry goes up, and then Bull says, “Fuck that’s good.” He raises the glass, calls to Cabot, “More wine for the Vint!”
“ - or your dancing - “
“Is it a mage thing to move like this?”
Dorian grins, some way past sober himself, and pulls Gal closer. “No. More of a me thing. Maker, you smell like ale. It should bother me more.” He observes, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile so much around other people.”
“It’s your fault,” Gal replies, swaying with him. “’S all your fault.”
“I doubt that,” Dorian manages, muzzily, and then he can’t help himself. “But Maker help me, I want it to be.” He sighs, resting his forehead against Gal’s. He closes his eyes, listening past the music and the raucous around them to Gal’s breathing. “Maker, I adore you. Don’t... don’t leave me. I don’t think my heart could take it. I’d rather not... I don’t want to be without you.”
“Never,” Gal mumbles. “I’ll stay. Stay forever.”
“You strange man,” Dorian says, with ale-soaked laughter. “But I love you. I love you so much it frightens me.” He wonders when his head ended up on Gal’s shoulder. “My beloved,” he breathes, without meaning to, inhaling leather and ale and campfire smell and steel.
Gal drops a kiss to the top of his head, probably utterly destroying his hair. “Te amo, Dorian,” he says, quietly.
Dorian laughs into Gal’s shirt. “That too. I am... a terrible influence.”
“No. The best,” Gal says, rubbing his back. “Best man I know.”
“ - or should I start at the end, with your rather touching speech?”
“You’ve all been...” Gal wobbles slightly on his feet, and shoots a hand out to steady himself. Half-leaning on a table, he continues, “You’ve been so courageous. And... important. Couldn’t have done it without you. We lost too many, but it was worth it. So... worth it. ‘Ve never had a family, good family, but all of you...” He waves a hand in a gesture around him. “Nearest thing. Thank you.”
“Aw, Boss,” Bull laughs. “Didn’t know you cared.”
“Do care. Always... cared.” Gal puts his drink down for a moment and scrubs his hand across his eyes. “‘Bout all of you. Sorry.”
“Fuck that,” Bull calls, “you’ll make me cry.” The words are a bit wet as they are.
Josephine passes him a handkerchief, looking herself as if her makeup may begin to run. “Galahad...”
Gal turns a wide-eyed, almost pained look on her. “Don’t even mind when you call me that. ‘Cause you’re my n’t my mother,” he mumbles. “You’re my friend.” He laughs, and wipes his hand across his face. “Thank you. For being. That. Didn’t think I deserved it.”
“You always deserved it,” Josephine says, blinking rapidly. She can usually beat them all at Wicked Grace, so it’s probably the alcohol. “I am... very proud of you.”
“And... I...” He looks at Sera.
“Don’t make me sodding cry, yeah?” Sera slurs. “But... never had a big brother. Think I got one now, right?”
Gal stares at her, his eyes shining. “Right,” he chokes out, voice gravelly.
“I’ve told him about this before,” Dorian says, reclining on a chair next to the Qunari. “Bloody... fucking... earnestness.”
“And him,” Gal says, pointing in his direction, and Dorian’s eyebrows raise. He should probably be more afraid, but the drink’s in his system and instead he’s just morbidly curious. Gal moves closer, and takes his hand.
Dorian stands and tries to say something, before Gal can make a fool of himself. Well, more of a fool of himself.
“So brave. An’ so... beautiful. ‘N’ my...” Gal swallows. 
The sober part of Dorian’s brain thinks he should be laughing this off, or at least telling Gal to save it for somewhere more private, because a room full of people, of their friends. The rest of him is frozen, looking into those terribly bright eyes. 
Then Gal looks past him, raising his voice to say to their friends, “Don’t deserve him, either. Wouldn’t have made it without him. Makes me want to be... better. Saved my life.” He puts a shaking hand on Dorian’s cheek. “Love you so much.” He turns to the room at large. “I love him... so much.” 
There’s a ripple of laughter, but it’s not mean-spirited. Cassandra looks slightly misty-eyed, even.
Then Gal’s lips are on his, and love and ale take over completely from propriety, and he’s kissing back. It’s nothing that would scare the children, but it’s... something. Or everything. A hoot goes up from somewhere, and it has an equal chance of being Sera or the Chargers.
And then Varric’s stepping in front of them, not that he’s blocking any view above about the knees and not that there is any view to block. “Right, so, great speech. Really touching.  We definitely needed it. So... Wicked Grace?”
Dorian tries not to cling to Gal too obviously, and not just because he’s swaying slightly and could do with something sturdy to lean on. Gal just looks at him like a man who’s been gifted the world and doesn’t know what to do with it.
He knows the feeling.
Gal’s eyes widen. “I remember,” Gal says, sitting up and putting his head in his hands. “Fuck. I remember.” Under all that wild hair, his ears are turning puce. “I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t see why you’re apologising. As I said, you were... fantastic.” Dorian laughs. “Really. I should get you drunk more often.”
“No,” Gal mumbles. “You shouldn’t. Never drinking again. How’re you still... alive?”
Dorian tries not to let his amusement get the better of him. “Magic. And a much higher tolerance. Some of us weren’t raised in a monastery.” When Gal doesn’t stir or speak, Dorian shifts to lean in front of him, and takes those strong, scarred hands away from his face. Gal’s never usually one for hiding.
Gal looks up. “I’m sorry about... telling them all.”
“A room full of our friends who knew already?” Dorian says lightly, a smile growing on his face. “Believe me, I would have said something if I had an issue.” He takes Gal’s face in his hands. “You know, they told me southerners were mad, and they were right.”
Gal raises a brow.
“I just never thought I’d find a man who would cheerfully announce he was in love with me to an entire room.”
The pink spreads from Gal’s ears and gathers on his cheeks, beneath the tattoos. “I was...” Gal looks away. “I was proud of you. Being with you.”
“Yes, I realised that when you started sniffling.” Dorian’s voice is wry, and... there, he feels something else creeping into it. “You know, I meant what I said last night.”
“That I shouldn’t start on Chantry history?”
Dorian snorts. “No. I love you.” He runs a thumb over Gal’s cheek, over stubble and ink. “Very much.”
Gal still brightens, looks overjoyed, at the words. “Love you, too.”
“Good. Now, we really ought to bathe.”
Gal mutters something which probably involves curses.
“How’s the head?”
“Better,” Gal says. “Thanks.” He turns his head and kisses Dorian’s palm.
“Then you’ve got no excuse. And,” Dorian muses, “with the need to conserve water up here, I may have to share the tub with you.”
Gal’s slow shuffle towards the edge of the bed is suddenly more rapid, much to Dorian’s amusement.
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