#wish this turned out better but I am in le art slump let me out

[good-wine-and-cheese]

He’s a barbie boy!

Grimmers based on a few of the Ken outfits from the trailer that I finally coloured. Eye strain roller boy

[johaerys-writes]

Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 25: To Want and To Have

Some want what they can’t have. Others have what they don’t want. And there are some that wish they could let go of what they want the most. 

Warning: Smut under the cut :)

(Art is by @le-mooon)

Read here or on AO3!

*********************

Dorian squinted at the papers before him. His desk was full of them, so full, in fact, that he could barely see the dark mahogany wood underneath the layers of parchment spread out in a messy array. He had been at this for days, weeks, it felt like, ever since they had all returned from the Emerald Graves. His head was heavy, the diagrams and glyphs he had copied from the Venatori ritual dancing behind his eyelids, even when he closed them for the night. Most of them were confusing and incomprehensible, but there was something so familiar in them that Dorian couldn’t help but wrack his brain to find it. It was driving him quite mad.

With a heavy sigh, he glanced outside the library window, overlooking the training grounds. Too often had he stood there, watching Trevelyan practice with Heir. Hours could pass without him realising it, following with keen eyes as Trevelyn flowed through the various poses, tight muscles flexing and relaxing under his pale skin, flushed from the sun and the exertion, blonde strands clinging to the sweat at the nape of his neck. Dorian’s heart thrummed with longing when he looked down to find the grounds void of Trevelyan’s presence. It felt to him like they had been apart for ages, although it was little less than a week.

It was with a hint of reluctance that he turned back to his research. He smoothed his fingers over a yellow and wrinkled piece of parchment, one he had found in a dusty corner of the library. It was a thesis on mind-control spells and their effects on small rodents by one Marcellus Tulius, that Dorian hadn’t at all expected to find there. It seemed unlikely that even a sliver of Imperium research had found its way to Skyhold, yet there it was, right before him. Unexpected discoveries like these always excited him, and this time was no exception. Still, he wasn’t sure how much of help this would be in his current research.

He was about to gather all of the papers and call it a day, when a memory tugged at him as his eyes fell on the old parchment again. He remembered the last time he had found something like that, when he was still under Alexeus’ tutelage. It had been an exceedingly hot day, a scorching western wind blowing from the dessert. Sand and dust hung over the tall marble spires of Minrathous, the sky tinged in hues of blue and muted yellow as Dorian had weaved his way through the crowded streets on his way to the Grand Library.

Small beads of sweat had clung to his brow when he was finally away from the stifling heat and into the magically induced coolness of the Library inner. His feet had taken him down the narrow marble stairs towards the underground library, reserved for high ranking members. He had been looking for a certain thesis on time magic, but as usual he had veered off that to brush the tips of his fingers over ancient scrolls and documents. It was there that a scroll had fallen from the shelves, the leather binding around it almost crumbling with age. The glyphs etched on the smooth surface were unlike any he had ever seen. Eleganty, flowy lines, precise to the point of madness, incantations in ancient languages lost to time. His eyes had widened so, he had thought they would pop out of their sockets. Blood magic at its finest- if it could ever be called that- and so terribly similar to the ones the Venatori had been using that it could not be a coincidence.

Dorian’s pulse quickened as he snatched his notes from his desk, trying to compare them to the glyphs of his memory. Yes, they looked vaguely similar. Unless his memory betrayed him, which was very rarely the case. If this ritual was based on the one he had seen on that scroll, then that would mean… No, it was impossible. The magic described in that scroll was powerful enough to subdue a dragon to the caster’s will. A dragon filled to the brim with lyrium, at that. The Venatori mages had done much to reduce the spell’s potency, but even so it was no surprise that the poor people they had used it on perished almost straight away. What in the Void could the Venatori possibly be doing?

He stood up abruptly, clutching his notes close to his chest. He had to tell Trevelyan. He had to tell him straightaway. This couldn’t wait. He would pull him out of whatever meeting he was in, even if he had to fight his way through his armoured guards. He would-

Oh. Yes. Of course. Trevelyan wasn’t there. How could he forget?

He sat back down with a soft exhale, absently arranging the papers in neat stacks. He would need to send a letter to Maevaris, asking her to look for the mysterious scroll, or any other work written by that mage, even though he Dorian wondered how easily it would be found again after so long. Maevaris had always been thrifty with her resources, but even she couldn’t work miracles.

A calloused hand with ragged, bitten nails flew past his shoulder to snatch the paper Dorian was holding, startling him from his thoughts.

“Oi,” Sera’s voice said. “What in the frigging Void are those squiggles?” She tilted her face this way and that, features smushing in a confused frown. “That what you stare at all day?”

“Give that back.” Dorian stood up, taking a step towards her as she backed away, giggling, holding the paper out of his reach. “Sera.”

Sera let out a shrill laugh, perching herself on the back of the armchair in the corner. “And here I thought it would be a naughty letter. Must have loads of those, right?”

“Whatever are you talking about, my dear?”

“You and Quizzie-butt, ‘course!” she explained. “I bet you send all sorts of notes to each other. Telling him how you’re going to stab him. Or is it him that does the stabbing? Do you draw him pictures of your staff, too?” She wiggled her eyebrows at him.

Dorian pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Sera, I’m going to need this paper back now.”

She pretended not to hear him, curiously examining the glyphs on the parchment in her hands, squinting. “If his bits look like that, it’s no wonder you act like you have a bloody stick up your arse all the time. Yeesh.”

“Sera-”

“Fine, fine, here you go. Wouldn’t want that thing anywhere near me, anyway.” She handed the paper back to him and Dorian snatched it away, huffing in annoyance. She slid off the armchair, hands- for once- clasped behind her back as she perused the neatly arranged books on his shelf. “I heard His Inky-arse-ness will be back within the week. Can’t wait for a proper round of jousting, eh? That might brighten up that sour mood of yours.”

Dorian gritted his teeth, shooting a cautious glance around the rotunda. Thankfully, there weren’t many researchers on the floor at that time of day, most of them having left for lunch. “Don’t you have anything better to do? Any buckets of water to fix above someone’s door? Any lizards to hide under someone’s mattress? Quite literally anything else other than pester me?”

“Done that already,” Sera shrugged, leaning forward to squint at a vial by his windowsill. She touched it gingerly with the tip of her finger, then recoiled in disgust, wiping her hand on her stained vest. “How does it work with you two, by the way? I’ve been wondering.”

“What, the jousting? Less horses, marginally. More cheers, definitely.”

“Nice,” she said, smiling wickedly. “But I wasn’t asking about that.” She shot him a curious glance over her shoulder. “How does it work, being the Inky’s man?”

Am I? he wondered, his gut clenching uneasily. Ever since they had returned from the Graves, it hadn’t been clear to him what they were exactly. Dorian may have left it vague on purpose himself, but it wasn’t as though Trevelyan had been overly eager to define what it was they were doing. Oh, he was thoughtful and caring with him, of course, and seemed to be very fond of him, what with those lingering glances and tender touches, and all the nights they had spent together in his room. Not to mention the poems and the flowers -flowers!- he kept leaving by his pillow before slipping away in the mornings, before Dorian had even opened his eyes. It had startled him at first, confused him, turned his otherwise carefully arranged thoughts into a jumble. Which seemed to be the case more often than not when it came to Trevelyan. What was going through that man’s mind was nobody’s business, yet even so Dorian could see that he cared, he cared… yet where did that care end? How far did his affection extend? And where did reality kick in, with Trevelyan being the leader of the Inquisition, all eyes in Thedas turned to him, and Dorian simply being an adornment on his arm at best, a pretty on the side at worst?

Dorian’s lips tightened in a line, his heart even more so. “Fine. Everything is fine. Splendid, actually. Yes, it’s quite fantastic, indeed.”

Sera looked at him under furrowed brows, chewing on a fingernail. “That bad?”

Dorian blinked at her. Opened his mouth. Shut it. He slumped against his desk, crossing his arms before his chest. “... Maybe.” He rubbed his temples, sighed. “Worse, probably?”

“Right.” Sera strolled towards him, sitting on the desk beside him. “He does make puppy eyes at you too when you’re not looking, you know. If it makes you feel any better.”

He chuckled breathily, looking away. “I’m not sure it does, right now.” His mind drifted to the last time he had seen him in his quarters. Trevelyan’s eyes, dark and blue like whirling pools, gazing up at him with so much tenderness, his arms wrapped around him, and Dorian feeling suspended in a moment of bliss that seemed never-ending. Of course, the moment had soon shattered when Dorian had put his foot in his mouth and started talking about exclusivity or whatever other nonsense had crossed his mind right then. And then ran away in a panic. Dorian Pavus, Scion of House Pavus, had panicked. As simple as that. They hadn’t exchanged so much as a word before Trevelyan left for dratted Crestwood, and Dorian had been steadily boiling in a stew of his own making ever since.

“I’m not sure where I fit in this whole thing,” he muttered, more to himself than to Sera. “Or if I do at all, in fact.”

“It’s never easy being with someone like him,” Sera said, nodding thoughtfully. “I would have ran for the hills long before if I were you. Wouldn’t want that kind of attention on me, if you catch my drift. But I’m not you. Thank Andraste for that, right? Friggin’ sparkly shite all over the place.” Dorian glared at her, and she laughed. “Look, if you want him, better just tell him, yeah? If it’s not meant to work out, it won’t, and that’s that. At least you can say you tried.”

Dorian sighed softly. Perhaps Sera, despite her usual gibberish, had advice to impart that could almost be considered wise. Perhaps he really should talk to Trevelyan and clear the air once and for all. Or… he could come up with a way to make up for his blunder. A particularly creative way.

"Why are you smiling like a fecking dimwit?"

Dorian snapped out of his thoughts to give Sera a cold glare. "I am not smiling, I am thinking. This is what it looks like when people think."

"Thinking about how to include sword swallowing in your magic trick routine?"

"Right! I think that's enough chatting with you for one day." He stood up, herding her towards the stairs. "Off you go now. That's marvelous, yes, one foot in front of the other. So long. Give the Iron Bull my regards." Sera’s high pitched cackle echoed around the rotunda as she hopped down the steps.

***

The headache that seemed to split his head in two as soon when he opened his eyes the following morning was amongst the worst Tristan had had in months. Years. Perhaps ever. Probably ever.

He groaned as he swung his legs over the side of his bed, rubbing the back of his neck. He had been so drunk the previous night when he went to bed, almost to the point of blacking out, that he couldn’t quite remember walking up the stairs. On the bright side of things, with that amount of whisky, he had managed to get something close to a full night’s sleep for the first time in weeks. The mark flared ever so slightly, a sickly, fluorescent green that cut through the dimness of the room. A soft sound, like hushed whispers, a sussurus of distant voices pulled at the edges of his consciousness, and Tristan shook his head weakly. He must still be drunk, he supposed.

The aftertaste of that terrible whisky he and Hawke had drunk still clung to the back of his throat when he pushed himself up, his stomach roiling painfully. Had it even been whisky? He highly doubted that now. His taste buds had been so blitzed the previous night he probably wouldn’t have been able to tell stale beer from Antivan wine, but now he was thoroughly regretting his choices. Some of them, at the very least.

He made his way down the stairs, cursing under his breath as the world still swung every time he made an abrupt movement. Everybody was already up, breaking their fast on what looked like sweet, milky porridge. Tristan was sure he would vomit.

“Blondie!” Varric said cheerfully, raising his mug. “Come, join us.”

“We thought you’d be dead or passed out. Was about to come wake you,” Blackwall added.

“Who told you he wasn’t?” Hawke chuckled, sipping from his mug. “With the amount of berig he drank last night I’m surprised he’s still standing.”

“You drank way more than I did,” Tristan grumbled, sitting beside him. He leaned forward to glance inside Hawke’s mug, wrinkling his nose when he found it was honeyed tea. “If anyone were to die, that should have been you, don’t you think?”

Varric laughed. “Him? Die of drink? No, Blondie. He could drink a boatload of whisky and still be up swinging his sword the next morning. I don’t know what his liver is made of, but he can drink like no one I’ve ever met.”

“I’ve told you time and time again, Varric. I have my Fereldan roots to thank for that. You born and bred Marchers couldn’t handle your liquor if your life depended on it.”

“Hey,” Blackwall cut in, shaking a finger before his face, eyes narrowed. Even so, Tristan could see that he was only half serious. “We Marchers are a proud lot. Watch your tongue.”

“Or what?” Hawke retorted, shooting him a wry grin. “You’re going to pelt me with Grand Tourney trivia until I fling myself out the window?”

Tristan scoffed. “Not all Marchers are obsessed with the Grand Tourney, you know.”

“Oh, yeah? Tell me who won the title in 9:31 Dragon.”

Tristan, Varric and Blackwall exchanged awkward glances. Varric’s brows were already climbing up his forehead, warning them not to fall in Hawke’s trap, but Blackwall was the first one to cave in. “Ser Abel Kaylen the Brave,” he grumbled.

“....from Denerim.” Tristan added half heartedly.

“....sword and shield category,” Varric finished, eyeing him sideways.

Hawke leaned back in his seat, mirth playing at the edges of his lips. “What a pretty picture you all make. Add a dash of superiority complex, mage antipathy and a weird obsession with Antivan spiced cakes, and you’re all the perfect example of the average Kirkwaller.”

The three of them groaned, rolling their eyes while Hawke’s booming laughter echoed around the small room. From his table at the corner, Solas eyed them over his book, one brow raised.

“Hey elf,” Blackwall said, turning to him. “Your travels must have taken you to the Marches at some point. Care to give us your insights about the people there?”

Solas’ expression became stony for a quick moment, before he adjusted in his seat, discreetly clearing his throat. “I’m afraid I would have nothing to contribute to this conversation. The Marches are as lackluster a place as any, and the inhabitants even more so.”

Blackwall glared at him, just as Hawke let out a loud guffaw. “I think I may have found myself an unlikely ally, Blackwall.”

The rest of the breakfast flowed in a similar vein, Hawke’s teasing jokes and clever quips making Varric and Blackwall laugh until there were tears in their eyes. Even Tristan laughed once or twice, taking care to hide the sound within his mug. It felt like hours later that they gathered their things, walking out into a day that was as miserable, grey and rainy as the rest. The inn’s stables were humble, but at least the horses had been given fresh hay and water. Almond wickered softly when she saw him, tossing her head back when Tristan reached inside his pocket for a piece of dried apple he always kept for her.

“Good girl,” he whispered, stroking her forehead as she chewed.

“That’s a fine horse you have there.”

“She is,” Tristan agreed with a small smile, glancing at Hawke over his shoulder. “So is yours.”

“You’re in a fine mood today,” the other man said, leaning against the door of the stall. “You should get plastered more often.”

Tristan huffed a laugh. “I really should.” He walked around Almond, his palm brushing her shiny coat as he moved to fix the saddle on her back. “My advisors wouldn’t be particularly pleased if I showed up to my meetings reeking of booze, but I think I can get away with it every once in a while.”

“You can. The world will still be there if you let loose every now and then, of that I can assure you. I’ve found that a few drinks and good company can solve just about anything.”

“I wish I shared your optimism.”

“It’s only common sense. Good times and good people are always needed, even in the most dire of circumstances. Perhaps especially then.”

Tristan sneaked a glance at him from the corner of his eye. “Why are you telling me all this?” He moved to Almond’s other side, turning his back to him.

He heard the brush of Hawke’s hand against the dark stubble of his cheeks. “Our conversation last night got me thinking. When you are elevated to such great heights, it's easy to forget that you're only human sometimes. Humans are not meant to handle so much on their own.”

"Right." The familiarity in Hawke's tone made Tristan bristle. He kept fixing the saddle about Almond's back, checking and rechecking straps and buckles that were already tightened, stubbornly refusing to meet the man's gaze.

"You probably don't need any more of my advice, but I'll still give it to you." Hawke paused, letting out a soft exhale. "Don’t push away those that care about you. There may come a moment when you'll regret it.”

Tristan’s fingers stilled on the leather straps for a moment before resuming their work. His back straightened up defensively and he clenched his jaw. “Why would I do that?”

“You look the type.”

Tristan turned to find dark, considering eyes regarding him thoughtfully. The concern in his gaze made his gut twist uneasily, and he looked away, pretending to be absorbed in securing the straps on Almond’s bridle. “I’ll… be sure to keep that in mind.” When he said nothing more, Hawke nodded sharply before walking away. His footsteps stopped short when Tristan spoke again. “Hawke.” The sound of gravel under his boots as the other man turned back, then silence. "Thank you."

“Nothing to thank me for,” Hawke said simply. “Just stating the obvious.”

“Yes. Of course. Yet, even so… Thank you.”

They looked at each other for a moment, then Hawke inclined his head. He disappeared behind a stall, only to come out a moment later, guiding his tall, dark stallion into the pelting rain outside. Tristan followed soon after, gently tugging Almond’s reins. The others were waiting for him already, mounting their horses. Tristan drew the hood of his woollen cloak over his head as he hauled himself up on his saddle.

“Right,” he said, glancing at his companions. “Time to get back to Skyhold.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be joining you, Inquisitor.”

Tristan turned to look at Hawke, startled by his own surprise at the man’s words. He hadn’t really given it much thought, yet now he realised that he had actually expected Hawke to return with them to Skyhold. Why he would ever expect that, he could never know. His departure made their earlier conversation ring in an entirely different manner.

“I have… pressing business to attend to,” Hawke continued, noticing his silence, and Tristan nodded knowingly. “I will be informing Varric of my location whenever I have the chance. As soon as I have more information regarding the Grey Wardens, I’ll let you know.”

“Very well,” Tristan said. He gazed into the distance, at the grey horizon that stretched over the mountains. “I guess this is farewell, then.”

“Only until we meet again.” Hawke smiled his usual wide smile, but there was warmth in it now, and it was directed at him. It became even wider when he reached out, patting Varric on the shoulder as he sat on his saddle next to him. “I’m off, old pal. Take care. Keep your socks dry. Don’t get killed.”

Varric craned his neck to look up at him, returning his wide smile, though it felt a touch forced. Perhaps more than a touch. “I’ll try not to get killed. Though you know I can’t make any promises about footwear.”

The tall man laughed, giving Varric’s shoulder a small squeeze before grasping his reins again. He kicked his horse forward, giving them a sharp wave over his shoulder before disappearing around the bend of the road. They all stayed there for a long moment, the rain and wind whirling about them, the distant thunders and the crackling of the rift in the lake the only other sounds.

Tristan let out a soft sigh, urging Almond in the opposite direction. “We have a long way ahead of us,” he said flatly, eyes set on the path that stretched before them. “We shouldn’t linger.”

***

“Welcome back to Skyhold, Your Worship.”

Maighdin’s expression was stern and aloof as always when she greeted him, her back stiff when she bowed her head to him. Tristan nodded sharply in acknowledgement as he dismounted and gave Almond’s reins to a lanky stableboy. His gaze lingered on the boy only momentarily before he turned away. There were so many new faces in Skyhold these days, it was impossible to recognize them all, let alone remember their names.

He walked ahead of Maighdin across the now empty yard. The moonlight fell stark and grey on the dark stone walls of the keep, the hushed whispers of the guards on patrol on the battlements drifting with the wind. Everyone else had retired to their beds long before, it seemed. Tristan couldn’t wait to sink in a tub of hot water and wash the road off him, and then plunge in his soft feather bed himself. Travelling through the pouring rain and mud soaked roads was not enjoyable, to say the least. He had hoped he would return early enough to visit Dorian, perhaps even have some dinner and wine, spend some much needed time with him. Especially after the way things had been left between them before his departure for Crestwood...

Tristan’s lips tightened at the sudden sinking feeling in his stomach. Exclusive. That was the word Dorian had used, and according to him, they weren’t it. Did that mean that… that he had been sleeping with others, all this while? Who could it be? Was it someone he knew? Had Tristan been so big a fool to think that Dorian would limit himself to him when he could have literally anybody he wanted? When he could be with someone better, stronger, more handsome, more clever, more… normal?

He shook his head to brush the thoughts away. This was no time to be thinking about all that. It was late, and he was tired, and he only needed some sleep. He could feel his leg muscles cramping from all those days on horseback as he climbed up the steps to the throne room. The guard that was outside his quarters was a tall and fair haired man, his pointy elf ears half hidden under a dusty blond mop of hair. He bowed eagerly to him, then stood at attention.

“Your Worship,” he said, knuckling his forehead.

Tristan gazed at him under furrowed brows. “Who are you?”

“M-mathras, my lord,” the elf said, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

Tristan waved him at ease, then turned to Maighdin. “Where is Nhudem?”

“Change of guard, ser,” Maighdin replied. “He starts after the midnight bells have rung.”

So, Cullen had taken the liberty of increasing the number of his guards, having people follow him and guard his quarters at all times. It seemed what Hawke had said was true. There were evidently lots of people that wanted his head, and his advisors knew that too. He wondered what Leliana and Cullen knew that perhaps he didn’t. Information that they may have kept from him on purpose. The way those two were headed, he would soon have guards in his bed, and the way he was headed, he would be thankful for it, too.

Well. At least those guards he had could take breaks from handling his foul tempers. That should be a good thing, shouldn’t it?

He let out a soft sigh as he opened the door to his quarters, when Maighdin’s voice stopped him. “Lord Pavus is waiting for you upstairs, Your Worship.”

Tristan’s eyebrows shot up, and his heart fluttered with anticipation in his chest. Perhaps Dorian had missed him just as much as he had. Perhaps Tristan had misjudged him, as he was wont to do. He nodded sharply to Maighdin as he closed the door hurriedly behind him and hopped up the steps.

The dancing flames in the hearth suffused the large room in a soft, tremulous glow. A bottle of wine was set on the low table, two crystal glasses next to it. And sprawled on the large sofa was… he.

Dorian’s head was on the arm rest, eyes moving gently under closed lids in his sleep. The flames from the hearth painted the side of his face amber, shadows playing across features that seemed as though carved in marble. Black hair falling over his smooth forehead, immaculate even when uncombed. The laces of the violet silk shirt he was wearing had come slightly undone, and a swath of velvet bronze skin peeked from within the folds. He was perfect, and perfectly serene in his slumber, beautiful beyond compare, and Tristan simply stood there, gazing at him for what felt like an eternity.

Silently, on tip-toes, he approached Dorian’s sleeping form. He stirred when the cushion dipped under Tristan’s weight, dark eyelashes fluttering open to reveal a pair of eyes like polished silver gazing blearily at him.

“You’re here.” His voice came out croaked, and he cleared his throat, brushing the back of his hand over his lips.

Tristan smiled. “So are you.”

“Your guards let me in. Apparently, you’ve ordered them to let me enter whether you’re in or not.”

“I have.”

Dorian huffed a soft laugh. “I must have fallen asleep. Way to spoil the dramatic welcome I had prepared for you,” he said as he made to sit up, but Tristan stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“It’s alright,” he said softly, brushing a stray lock away from his forehead. “You needed the rest.”

A soft smile curled Dorian’s lips, and his eyes glided gently over his features. There was so much warmth in his gaze, that Tristan’s breath hitched in his throat. He looked away, nodding at the decanter and the glasses. “What’s all that?”

“Consider it my way of making it up to you after letting you trudge all those days in that rainy bog on your own.” He reached out to him, a long finger running down the side of his face. “It must have been terribly dull without me,” he whispered teasingly, but Tristan thought he heard a tinge of regret in his voice.

“Oh, it was alright,” Tristan replied in a non-chalant tone. “I daresay Varric did his best to fill in for you.”

Dorian’s eyes flashed with amusement. “Ha! The nonsense you speak. As if Varric could ever stand as a substitute for my dashing presence.”

Tristan laughed softly as he leaned forward, brushing his nose over his. “No one ever could.”

Dorian’s mouth opened eagerly, pulling him in, the taste of red wine lingering on his tongue as it glided over his own. Warmth spread all over his body, seeping into tired limbs and knotted muscles, a need so intense it turned into a dull ache. He had missed the feel of his lips, the taste of his mouth, the smell of his skin, the softness of his hands as they threaded through his hair. He had tried his best not to think about him the time they were apart, kept the images away, carefully out of reach, yet now the sensations hit him all at once, like a storm. He returned Dorian’s passionate kisses, bringing up no resistance as long, beringed fingers started working the latches of his leather armour open.

“I missed you so much,” Tristan blurted out in a breathless whisper.

Dorian chuckled against his lips, pulling the top of his armour free. “I can’t blame you. I’d miss me too, if I were you.”

Tristan edged back to frown at him. “I mean it.”

“So do I. My company is irreplaceable. Oh, stop giving me that look, will you?” he said when Tristan’s frown deepened. Then, he rolled his eyes and let out a sigh of mock exasperation, lips pursing slightly. “Fine. I may have missed you, too. A little.”

“Just a little?”

Dorian’s expression softened. “Perhaps a bit more than that.” His fingers tangled in the fabric of his cotton undershirt, pulling gently. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Tristan’s smile was wide and teasing when he kicked his boots off and slid between Dorian’s legs. “Can’t make any promises.” The couch was far too narrow for the both of them, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about being comfortable, not when Dorian sighed underneath him, rolling his hips over his, igniting the flame that quivered inside him.

Tristan groaned, closing his teeth over Dorian’s bottom lip. They rocked against each other until the final latch on Tristan’s armour popped open. He paused for a breath, sitting up to slide it off his shoulders and throw it carelessly on the floor beside them.

Dorian’s palms slid underneath his cotton undershirt to caress his stomach, silver eyes blazing under heavy eyelids. “Come back here,” he rasped, hooking two fingers under the waistband of his breeches to pull him back to him. Tristan tilted his head up when Dorian planted soft kisses along his jawline and down to his neck, breathing deeply.

“You stink,” he announced.

Tristan pulled back a hair to look at him, embarrassment tinging his cheeks. “Do I?”

“Oh, yes. You smell of sweat, dirt, and just a hint of cheap whisky. So very manly.” He took another deep breath, running his tongue over the tendons of his throat. “I love it.”

Tristan huffed a laugh, a shiver running down his spine with the feel of Dorian’s wet tongue on his skin. “I should bathe less often, then.”

“Don’t push it.”

Tristan kissed lips curved in a smirk as he slithered a hand underneath Dorian’s silk shirt, the slippery fabric retreating easily. His heart pounded in his ears as his fingertips ran over warm skin, soft and supple over taut muscles. The shirt slipped easily over Dorian’s head, messing his hair up only slightly before falling to the wooden floor with a hiss.

The moan that left Dorian’s lips when Tristan’s mouth slid to his neck was low and breathy and just a touch pleading, sliding down his spine like warmed, spiced honey. A shiver ran through him as he brushed his tongue over a stiff nipple and inhaled the distinct scent of Dorian’s skin. Heady, deep, intoxicating; an earthy sweetness that lingered at the back of his throat when he breathed.

“Cardamom,” he whispered softly.

“I beg pardon?”

Tristan raised his gaze to see Dorian looking at him curiously. He hummed as he trailed lower, following the dip under his ribs. “You smell like toasted cardamom,” he said. “And oakmoss, and sandalwood… and is that star anise?”

Dorian laughed, but it was a tad huskier than normal. “It wouldn’t do if I gave out all my secrets, would it?”

Instead of responding, Tristan’s fingers slid underneath the waistband of his breeches, drawing out a gasp from Dorian as he curled his palm over his hardened length. “There’s one secret I’m interested in in particular.”

With a sharp tug, he pulled down his breeches, until Dorian was naked underneath him. He couldn’t help but take a moment to look at him as he lay before him. Relaxed, yielding, palpable, within reach. Within his reach. He let his gaze roam over the smooth stomach and the long, sculpted arms; the deep flush that steadily crept up his cheeks, like a glorious sunrise; the glistening lips and the heavy lids. Maker, but he was the beautiful man he had ever seen.

“Are you just going to keep staring at me, or are you planning on doing something to me? I’d rather you did the latter,” he said peevishly, but the breathiness in his voice made Tristan smile. His mouthy lover.

He leaned down between his legs, planting an agonizingly slow trail of kisses on his thigh before closing his lips over his hardness, taking him in as deep as he could. A gasp broke free from Dorian’s lips and his hips bucked forward, his fingers threading in Tristan’s hair. Tristan lifted his eyes to watch him as his mouth worked up and down, slowly, almost reverentially, tongue sliding over the ridges of his cock. Dorian was watching him too, his breath coming short and fast, lips slightly parted. The firelight was doing wondrous things to his body; making shadows pool in the dip of his collarbone, gather in the contours of his chest and his navel, like rivulets flowing over polished stones. He was warmth and fire and tenderness, all smooth planes and soft angles, and Tristan wanted him. All of him.

Dorian’s hold on his hair tightened when Tristan took him in deeper, the tip of his cock reaching the back of his throat, his tongue moving in broad strokes. The moan that left him was low and throaty when his cock twitched with his climax, and Tristan held him fast as he greedily swallowed every drop.

He had barely taken a breath before Dorian pulled him up impatiently, tasting himself on Tristan’s tongue. Tristan hovered over him, palms running down his exquisite body as they kissed fervently, all tongues and lips and teeth.

“Filthy clothes come off now,” Dorian murmured and pushed him playfully away. Tristan got up with a groan and hurriedly tugged at the hem of his undershirt, when Dorian stopped him with a raised finger. “Slowly.”

Tristan laughed at the teasing glint in his silver eyes, sleepy with the afterglow. Dorian propped himself up on his elbow, watching him. “You’re very demanding, you know.”

“I know. It’s one of my characteristic traits.” Dorian quirked a perfectly groomed eyebrow at him, and the sight of it made a fever swell in Tristan’s chest. He wanted nothing more than to pounce on him and get lost in his welcoming warmth, but he was determined to give him a show. He pulled his shirt off slowly, purposefully flexing his muscles, biting back a smile at the spark in Dorian’s eyes. Next came the laces of his breeches. He pulled at them leisurely, taking his time working each one free, until Dorian huffed impatiently.

“Oh, just take it off and get over here, you tease,” he said, crawling to him and hooking his fingers over Tristan’s waistband, pulling them down, letting his hardness spring free. Tristan couldn’t help a moan when Dorian’s long fingers curled around his length. A small smile curled his full lips when his tongue darted out to lick the bead of moisture that had gathered at the tip, then his mouth wrapped around him in a wet and warm embrace. Tristan threaded his fingers in his luscious hair, shivering as he was taken in deeper, the velvet heat of Dorian’s mouth chasing away every other thought in his mind.

There was something about the sight of Dorian on his knees before him, watching him intently as his lips were wrapped around his cock, that made his blood course that much more swiftly through his veins. He didn’t bring up any resistance when Dorian pulled him down on the sofa, kneeling between his legs. His mouth worked him steadily, harder, faster. He brought his long fingers up to caress him alongside his tongue, until it was a tangle of lips and fingers and tongue, driving him closer and closer to the edge.

The look in Dorian’s eyes was feral and indecent when he slid a long and slick finger inside him. Tristan bit back a moan at the unexpected pressure, pleasure and lust building inside him, spreading like wildfire.

He reached down to cup the back of Dorian’s neck, drawing him up, seeking his hot and velvet mouth. The flat of Dorian’s tongue brushed over his lips as he eased another finger, and Tristan gasped.

Dorian pulled back to look at him. “Good, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Tristan breathed. “Yes, ah-”

Three. There were three fingers inside him, yet he wanted more. He kissed Dorian hungrily, moaning against his lips as his deft digits drove deeper.

“I want to feel you,” Dorian rasped. His breath was hot against the shell of his ear when he leaned closer to whisper, “I want to fuck you so hard you weep.”

Tristan nodded eagerly, licking his lips. “Yes. Please, yes.”

The soft feather mattress sank under their combined weight as Tristan lay on his stomach, Dorian hovering over him. His breath hitched when he felt Dorian’s cock brushing against his entrance, then came out in a soft hiss when the tip of his hardness slid inside him. Dorian leaned down, placing soothing kisses between his shoulder blades as he sank, inch by agonising inch, inside him.

“You feel so good,” Dorian whispered, burying his face in Tristan’s neck. “So warm, so wonderful…”

Tristan felt full. Unbearably full and uncomfortably stretched, but he dug his fingers deeper into the plush pillows, taking a deep breath. Soon, as they gently rocked together, the pressure gave way to pleasure, deep and slowly building. His moans were muffled by the pillow as Dorian thrust harder and faster, deeper, as deep as he could go, hitting that spot again and again. Dorian’s gasps and the garbled Tevene that crashed against Tristan's skin like waves made the already burning fire inside him unbearable.

The seconds stretched on languidly, seemingly endlessly, as Dorian fucked him hard. Everything was him; he was on him, behind him, around him, inside him, his scent and the feel of his cock and the softness of his hands blocking out anything else. It felt odd, losing himself into someone else like this, not being in control for once. It was with some surprise that Tristan realised that it felt… good.

Dorian leaned forward over him, and Tristan twisted his head, searching for his lips. They kissed deeply, Dorian’s tongue brushing the roof of his mouth as he drove himself deeper still, faster, burrowing as much of his cock inside him as he could.

“Fasta vass,” he moaned, deep breaths expanding his ribs where they touched against his back. “Amatus-”

Tristan met him, thrust for thrust, his tongue twining with his, seeking more, more, more. “Yes,” he whispered. “Fuck, yes, yes-”

Dorian hooked an arm underneath him to stroke him firmly, thumb brushing over the weeping head. Blinding white light exploded behind Tristan’s eyelids, all the warmth and ecstasy and tension that raked his body and clouded his vision finding their release on Dorian’s curling fingers. Dorian followed him soon after, shuddering with his own climax, his guttural groan drowned against Tristan’s skin when he sank his teeth in his neck.

With the rapture of the moment easing away slowly, albeit steadily, Tristan was soon lulled into an unusual sort of calmness by the beating of Dorian’s heart against his back. He felt warm, content, sated. Dorian’s weight on him was comforting, his breath on the back of his neck even more so. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt like this in the presence of another person. He couldn’t even rightly remember how long it had been since he had slept with someone before Dorian - the last few years of his life before the Inquisition seeming like a dark, unending, agonising dream. He had probably managed to sleep with a few people when nigh on black out drunk, not that he would be able to recount much now. He had felt empty, so empty back then, and those encounters had left him emptier still, and it hadn’t been long before he had written off any thoughts of companionship or affection or… or love. Was that what he was feeling now? Was that what he and Dorian had? Love?

His heart was suddenly gripped in a vice, and his breath felt constricted in his lungs, pinned as he was under Dorian’s body. He dug his palms in the mattress, gently shrugging Dorian off as he pushed himself up. Dorian eased himself off him with a sharp inhale, his palms lingering on Tristan’s hips before pulling away. Tristan rolled on his back with a sigh, resting his head upon his curled arm. He took a deep breath, stretched his legs. Stared at the ceiling.

Dorian shifted on his side to look at him. Soft fingertips glided down his chest, following the lines of his muscles, making the hairs on his body stand on end. Tristan hummed softly, closing his eyes. “That feels nice.”

Dorian exhaled a soft chuckle through his nose, smoothing his palm over Tristan’s stomach. He slithered closer to him, nuzzling his ear. “How does that feel?”

“Even better.” Tristan turned his head to him, their noses brushing. Dorian’s lips parted on a sigh, his warm tongue darting out to explore the contours of Tristan’s mouth, as it had done so many times before. Tristan kissed him back, palm gently running over his sides. There, in the half dark, in the comfortable silence, it felt like nothing else existed beyond them. It was just them, and the warmth of their bodies as their limbs tangled once more, and the sounds of their breaths when they met and mingled.

Even in that moment, though, doused in the golden light of the afterglow, Tristan couldn’t help the thoughts that slithered in, cold and invasive; was it really just them? Had it ever been? Did Dorian feel the same way, or was Tristan simply chasing an impossible dream, one that he stretched bodily to grasp yet was never meant to have?

The bitterness that he had been trying all those days to suppress rose to the surface in a wave, choking him. He pulled away, untangling himself from Dorian’s embrace. He lay on his back again, resuming his thorough examination of the high ceiling of his quarters. The moonlight slithering through the tall windows played along its surface, illuminating the swirls and knots in the grain of the wooden beams.

Dorian’s gaze on him felt as keen and sharp as a metal object piercing his skin. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

Tristan gave a sharp nod, eyes still fixed above them. Dorian stared at him for a long moment before clearing his throat. “That’s an excellent ceiling you have here. Very sturdy. Fascinating, really. They don’t make them like that anymore.”

“Mm-hm.”

Another long stretch of minutes where no one spoke. A soft click of his tongue, an exasperated huff and Dorian sat up to glare at him. “Will you tell me what is wrong, or do I need to pry it out of you by force?”

Tristan glanced at him, throat constricting painfully before he looked away again, pursing his lips. “There’s nothing wrong," he said, his tone sharper and far more curt than he intended. "I’m just tired. I’ve been travelling for days.”

Dorian gazed at him for a moment longer, silence stretching heavy between them. “Perhaps I should let you rest, then," he whispered. "It’s late as it is.” He waited for a breath. Tristan never answered.

With slow, unhurried movements, Dorian rolled out of bed. Tristan’s eyes followed him as he padded across the room, around the couch where he had left his clothes. He was retrieving his shirt from the floor, when panic, deep and visceral, rose in Tristan’s chest.

“Dorian, wait.” Sterling grey eyes snapped to him, blazing with anger. Tristan swallowed thickly, sitting up on the mattress. “Please stay.”

Dorian’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, then crossed his arms before his chest. “Whatever for? You seem quite over my presence already. We haven’t even been together for an hour and already you’re making it very clear that I am not wanted here. I think…” He paused for a moment, looking away. “I think it’s best if we just let things be.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means…” Dorian gazed sadly at him, the distance between them suddenly seeming wide enough to engulf them both. “It means that I’m not certain whether this can work,” he whispered.

Cold tendrils slithered through Tristan’s stomach, freezing him to the core. “You don’t mean that.”

“I’m afraid I do.” Dorian’s eyes were soft, gleaming eerily in the waning light. He seemed so tired all of a sudden, bone weary, but his movements when he pulled his trousers on were steady and precise. Tristan watched him motionless, numb, sinking deeper and deeper into the mattress, like a stone sinking in dark waters. Drowning. He should just let him go, he knew. It would probably be for the best. For both of them. It wasn’t like whatever they had could possibly last. Everything fell apart in the end, and this was no exception. Better to end it then, while it was still early. While there was still time.

Don’t push away those who care about you. There may come a moment when you’ll regret it.

Hawke’s words echoed in his mind, jolting him awake like a cold shower. Dorian was halfway to the stair landing when Tristan stood up abruptly. “Don't go,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. He raked a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. "Please, just… wait. I-” He paused, worrying his bottom lip. “I need to talk to you.”

Dorian turned to glance at him over his shoulder. Tristan’s hands opened and closed at his sides as he tried to arrange his thoughts. His face felt hot like a pan on the stove. “The other day, when you were here... Before I left for Crestwood. You said that we- that I, uh... That you- we aren’t-”

The flush in his cheeks grew warmer and warmer as Dorian’s frown grew ever more perplexed. Tristan let out a sharp exhale, dragging his palm over his face. “Perhaps I should start over.”

Dorian tilted his head to the side. “Yes, I think you should. You’re just making noises at this point.”

Tristan shifted uncomfortably on his feet for a moment before gingerly walking towards him, closing the distance between them as he came to stand before him. He cleared his throat and looked up into his eyes, trying to appear as composed as he could, despite the fact that he was stark naked. “Before I left for Crestwood, you said that we… that we aren’t exclusive. That we’ve had our fun, and we are both free to do whatever we want, with whomever we want. That was the way you put it, wasn’t it?” Dorian’s lips tightened as he gave him a slow nod. Tristan took a breath to steel himself. “Is that what you want?”

“Is that what you want?”

No. “I…” Tristan looked away, clenching his jaw. The evening cold slithering through the windows was making his skin prickle, and he hugged himself tightly. “I don’t know.”

He heard Dorian inhale sharply, drawing himself up. Tristan glanced at him just in time to see him squeezing his eyes shut. “Then what else is there for us to say?” he snapped. He looked angry, yet his voice sounded at the edge of breaking. He turned to leave again, when Tristan reached out, catching his arm.

“I don’t know,” Tristan started, a whisper so low he could barely hear it himself, “how to be with someone.”

Dorian brows were furrowed in confusion when he turned his body to face him. Tristan held on to his arm with both hands, as if afraid he would float away if he let him go. For a moment, it felt like his entire life was whirling in his mind, a torrent of tangled images and thoughts that he struggled to put to words. He took a deep breath, willing his voice to stay level. “I’ve been on my own for too long. I don’t know what it’s like, having someone so close to me. After my sister died, I… I could barely live with myself. I thought I didn’t deserve to be happy, not when Tilly wasn’t around anymore. I wasn’t even sure if I deserved to be alive. Bloody hell, some days I still don’t.” He paused, blinking as his eyes burned like coals under his lids. His heart was beating so hard he could feel his pulse in his throat, but he made himself hold Dorian’s gaze. “I vowed that I’d never let anyone get too close. That I’d never let myself be happy, or in love. And I had succeeded in that, until… I met you.”

Dorian moved closer to him, and Tristan's hold on his arm tightened ever so slightly. “I don’t know what it is. About you. About us. But I feel like… Fuck, I’m drawn to you. I can’t explain it. I want to be close to you. I’ve tried to fight it. You know that better than anyone. Yet I always come back to you.” His thumb brushed over the fabric of his shirt, feeling the pulse beating underneath it. "I want you, Dorian. I don’t want anybody else. Void take me, it’s never even crossed my mind. Not since the moment I saw you. I don't know how to be or how to act around you, but I still want to be with you. More than I’ve wanted anything before.”

He reached out, fingers hovering only a breath away from Dorian’s cheek, when a sharp pang of panic made him draw his hand back. “I-I can’t expect you to want the same things I do. If you want to sleep with others, then… Then I can’t stop you. I wouldn’t even dream of it. And, let’s be honest, you’d probably be better off with somebody else. I know that this, all of this, the Inquisition, my predicament-” He stopped abruptly, closed his eyes, opened them again. He exhaled slowly, swallowing through the knot in his throat. “I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Least of all you. I want you to… I want you to have everything. Maker knows you deserve it. I’m not sure if I could even give you half of that.” He let out a quiet, defeated laugh.“Selfish, isn’t it? I don’t know if I can ever make you happy, yet I want to be with you all the same.”

Tristan lifted his eyes to Dorian’s once more, searching his face. Dorian was still watching him carefully, his expression unreadable in the shifting light of the fire. He hadn’t uttered a word, simply listening as Tristan talked on and on. Tension coiled in his gut like a snake, and he bit the inside of his lip down hard. “I understand if you think me a fool. I would too,” he mumbled. He ran his fingers through his hair, eyes burning. He let Dorian's arm go, taking a step back.“Let’s- let’s just forget everything, alright? I’m probably not making any sense. I just- I’ll…”

Dorian’s fingers closed about his wrist, pulling him close. He leaned forward, his velvet lips finding Tristan’s, drawing him in like a magnet. Relief washed over him in waves, enough to make his head swim. Tristan kissed him back eagerly, savouring the sweetness of his mouth, breathing in the scent of him, his fingers tangling in his shirt as he held him. He clung to him, as though he were a piece of driftwood floating on stormy seas. His only chance at keeping his head above water.

Dorian pressed their foreheads together, taking a deep breath. “I want to be with you, too.”

“Y-you do?”

Dorian nodded, a soft smile curling his lips. “Of course I do, you idiot. Couldn’t you tell?”

Tristan’s heart fluttered in his chest with the gentleness in his voice, but he shot him a sullen frown. “Couldn’t you have said so before I spilled my guts?”

“And stop you when you were finally talking for once? Perish the thought.” He held him close, fingers sinking in his hair, holding, pulling. "I didn't really intend to leave, you know. Or if I did, I'd probably come back. If only to kick some sense back into you.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes." He let out a soft sigh. "I've told you before that I can't stay mad at you for very long. You have that effect on me."

“Oh.” Tristan laughed weakly, rubbing the dampness from the corners of his eyes. “Good,” he breathed. “That’s good. I hope.”

“It is good.” Dorian’s thumb ran in a smooth semicircle over Tristan’s cheek, brushing a stray tear away. “It is for me. You are the one that I want, amatus. You will have to do a great deal to change my mind about that. I...” He paused for a moment, as if searching for the right words. There was a tinge of sorrow in his eyes when they met his own. "I wish you could see yourself the way I see you."

Tristan couldn’t describe what it was he felt when Dorian’s gaze swept over his features, sadness mingled with care and so much tenderness. Even if he could find the words, he didn’t think he had any strength left to breathe them into being. He wrapped his arms around Dorian’s waist, pulling him flush against him, burying his face in the crook of his neck. Dorian hugged him tightly, pressing kisses on the top of his head, his temples, his cheeks, the shell of his ear.

“Now,” Dorian whispered after what felt like an age and a blink of an eye, “let’s get the stench of horse and dirt off you, shall we? It’s quite overpowering.”

Tristan hummed with amusement as he pulled him towards the bed again, deft fingers tugging at his shirt. “Not just yet.”