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oftachancer · 5 years ago

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Day 10: Surprise Kiss (14 Days of DA Lovers)

(From the as-yet-untitled modern au I’ve been developing with @johaeryslavellan, featuring her OC Inky Tristan and my OC Inky Aran. Surprise!)

[Tristan:]

“Run this by me again?” Tristan said, straightening Aran’s bow tie for the third time, “We just say ‘yes’ to whatever is suggested? By whoever?”

Aran nodded. “Barring the items on this list,” he tapped. “No public sex, no strangers, no drugs.” He lifted his brows, “Anything else you want to add?”

“If something comes up, I can still veto?”

“Tris,” he cupped Tristan’s cheek. “Yes. You can always veto anything, even if we’re not playing a game.”

Tristan hummed, nodding slowly. “Okay. Then I’m fine.” He ducked his head to hide a smile, “Let's do it.”

“Yes!” Aran hopped up and down, “I have been wanting to do this with you for years!”

“Don’t be indecent,” Tristan kissed him lightly. “Let’s go.”

“You like my games!” Aran cheered, “I hoped you’d like my games.”

“I like some of them,” the taller man rolled his eyes as they headed to the front door.

“Most.”

“Maybe.”

Sera huffed, “Finally. Maker, how long does it take you two to put clothes on?”

“When we take them off first?” Aran asked, grinning. “A while.”

“Have fun,” Cole waved from the couch, cuddling his bowl of popcorn and settling in to watch his documentary about sea lions.

“First one of the night is yours, Cole,” Aran winked. “Yes, we will have fun!”

“Yes, we will,” Tristan echoed.

The night was snow-flocked, the glowing street lights reflecting brightly off the glittering white. Aran tucked his hand into the pocket of Tristan’s coat, twining their fingers together as they strolled down the street. Something about the snow made everything feel quieter, calmer, even though they could hear music and laughter from the others out and about, sharing the evening with them.

“So we just walk?” Tristan asked, glancing to his side where Aran and Sera walked arm in arm.

“Yep.”

“And… ‘let the universe guide us’.”

“Yep.”

“And what happens if it doesn’t?”

“Then it guides us to walk for a long time in the snow, together, and that’s great,” Aran smiled up at him.

Tristan chuckled, kissing him on the forehead. “Okay.”

And they did walk. Straight forward, up the high street, through the park towards campus.

“Hey! Do you guys like comedy?”

Aran grinned, nudging Tristan in the side.

“Yes, we do,” Tristan turned to the student with her stack of fliers.

“Really?” The young woman asked, blinking. “No one ever says yes.”

“We love comedy,” Aran echoed.

“That’s- oh, that’s great! Well, we’ve got two for one drinks at the Seed Club if you pay a cover charge of five royals for the show. Stand up, all night.”

“Right! Give us the flier.” Sera snapped her fingers and accepted the paper from the girl. “Thank you! Good luck!”

“Thank you!”

“See? We made her night,” Aran grinned as they headed in the direction of the Seed Club.

The Seed Club was a tiny, dark space down a flight of stairs from the street. The trio carried their drinks, double-fisted, to a small table and sat down as the comic was finishing his act.

“Next up, we have the Wise-cracking Wizard, Willem the Foe!”

Sera cheered loudly, stomping her feet, as Aran clapped and Tristan toasted the stage with his watered-down gin.

“Thank you! Thank you!” Willem stammered, flushed. “Everyone having a good night?”

“Yes!” they called back, laughing.

“Great! Great! So, I’ve got a few jokes here. Seeing as how… it’s a comedy show. So.” He shuffled some cards in his hands, “Okay. So, yesterday, my best friend auditioned to be the trumpet player in an orchestra. He blew it.”

Sera snickered.

“I bet everyone wants to hear a joke about ghosts, right?” Aran cheered, making Willem blush, “That's the spirit!”

“Oh, Maker,” Tristan finished his first glass and eyed the two idiots chortling beside him. Three comics and nine terrible drinks later, he was resting his chin in his hands and wondering if he should have agreed to Truth or Dare at home. Only… the idiots were having so much fun. Maybe he just needed to… embrace his inner idiot. But hadn’t he already done that, just agreeing to this silliness to begin with? The key must be to commit. Just commit whole-heartedly to the game. The game was the thing that was fun, not the terrible comedians.

“Oh, hey! Do you remember that joke I told you about my spine?”

“Yes!” he called.

The guy on stage paused, squinting into the audience to stare at him. “Uh…” he cleared his throat, finishing lamely: “It was… it was about a weak back.”

Aran ducked his head, laughing into his hand.

“You guys fucking with me?”

“Yes!” Sera grinned.

“Seriously. This shit isn’t easy, okay? You think you can do better?”

They looked at each other, then looked at Tristan.

He sighed, “Yes.”

“Fuck you!”

“Point of order: was that a question?” Sera asked.

“No, knife-ear, that was a fuck you. You wanna fight me, bitch?”

She narrowed her eyes, “I didn’t. But now? Oh, yeah.” She stood up.

Tristan scowled, rising. “Just apologize and we’ll go.”

“Me apologize? Screw you; you fucked up my set.”

“I may have done. But that doesn’t give you the right to speak to my friend that way. So apologize to her. Then I’ll apologize to you. And then we’ll leave.”

“Sure.” He turned to Sera, holding his hands out, “Bite me, you knife-eared whore.”

Tristan growled under his breath and then swore as Aran scrambled over the table and towards the stage. He grabbed hold of Aran, hoisting him back before he could leap onto the guy. “Calm down.”

“He wants to fight, let me fight him,” Aran spat.

Tristan struggled to hold him, gritting his teeth as he watched Sera as if in slow motion approach the stage just as the emcee hurried up to guide the ‘comedian’ off the stage. “Right! Okay! So we’re going to take a little intermission and be back with more laugh attacks in ten minutes.”

Sera snapped her teeth as the guy was guided forcibly from the stage. “He deserved a good bite.”

“We are… so, so sorry,” the manager hurried over to them. “They’re all first-timers. Not everyone knows how to respond to crowds, but I swear, we don’t allow for any racism here. We absolutely don’t approve of that language.”

“Good.”

“Can we offer you anything? Free drink passes, maybe!”

Sera stared at her, “...yes,” she muttered.

“Great! Thank you so much!” She held out a handful of cards, “We sincerely apologize and promise we will make sure nothing like this happens again.”

“Yes,” Sera pocketed the passes and headed towards the door. “Let’s go, okay?”

“Yes,” Aran agreed, walking with her up to the street.

“Shit,” Tristan sighed as they stepped into the snow. “I’m sorry. I was trying to play along. I didn’t think-“

“That the shit jester would be a racist prick? I think that was a surprise to everyone, right.” Sera rolled her eyes, waving to a couple heading in past them. “Hey, you two want free drinks?” She offered the passes to the grateful pair. “Okay, what next?”

“We go home?” Tristan asked.

“Home?!” Sera exclaimed. “On ‘say yes’ night? Pfffft.”

“You still want to play? After all that?”

“Of course! I’m not going to let him ruin the game.” She tucked her arm through his, “But let’s not stay here, because they’re probably going to kick the dickhead out and, if he talks to me again, I will bite him.”

Tristan nodded, noting Aran simmering. “Your call, Sera. Right or left.”

“Left,” she decided and started off with him in tow.

“Aran?”

Aran’s scowled, trudging along behind them, casting dark looks back over his shoulder. “They’re going to give him a slap on the wrist and let him go on being an asshole.”

“Yeah, well.”

“It’s fucking irritating.”

“Yep.” Sera wiggled her fingers back at him and scooped him up to her other side. “Now let it go. Ah ah- no-“ she shook his head, “It wasn’t you he called names, right. I get to say how we react; we’re letting it go because tonight is ‘say yes’ night and that means you have to.”

Aran exhaled hard but chucked his chin in the barest approximation of a nod. “Fine.”

“Good.”

“Either of you ever licked a lamppost in winter?” she asked cheerily.

“Veto!” Tristan rushed, “I veto that. I don’t want to spend the night in hospital.”

She snickered. “Fine. Clinic? If there are assholes there, Bull can deal with them.”

Tristan glanced at Aran, then nodded. “Agreed. The Clinic.”

[Aran:]

“I’m sorry,” Aran whispered as they followed Sera through the phone booth in the back of the laundromat and down the stairs into the Clinic.

“For what?”

“I was mad at you for not letting me hit that guy.” Aran chewed his lip. “But you were right. That would have been stupid.”

“Not stupid,” Tristan disagreed. “Just more trouble than he was worth. And our job is to support her as much as she wants us to. She could have taken him. He would have deserved it if she had.”

Aran kissed his shoulder. “Thank you for being my voice of reason.”

“Thank you for teaching me to be impulsive.” Tristan tilted his chin up, peering down at him with a long, slow look that hit Aran like a barrel of rich bourbon.

“Kiss me?” Aran asked quietly.

“Yes,” Tristan breathed with feeling and kissed him until he thought he might float right off the ground.

“Can’t leave you alone for two minutes,” Sera griped.

Aran braced himself against Tristan, inhaling and exhaling slowly and carefully. “Dizzy.”

“No shit. Come on; the game’s still on.” She dragged them both bodily after her into the bar. “You get drinks.” She shoved Aran towards the bar. “You change the music,” she shoved Tristan towards the old jukebox. “Have to keep them separated,” she winked at Bull.

“They give you any trouble, Sera, you just let me know.”

“Yes, I will! Hear that, boys?”

“Bossy,” Aran pouted, heading for the bar. The crowd was thick, but pleasant. He wound his way past familiar faces and hopped up to sit on the end of the bar to wait his turn.

“Hi, I’m Klewin.”

Aran glanced from the hand up to the smiling face of the redhead. “Hi, Klewin. I’m Aran.”

“Good to meet you, Aran.”

“Same.”

“So… you come here often?” Aran winced internally for the stranger. “I’m just wondering if sitting on the bar is a thing we’re all allowed to do.”

“Ooh,” Aran laughed. “Good save.”

“Thank you; I try. So, is it?”

Aran shrugged. “I think as long as you don’t stand on it, you’re okay. The bartender gets a mite tetchy about scuff marks.”

Klewin climbed up on the bar next to him. “It’s like you can see everything from up here.”

He grinned, “That’s pretty much why I sit here. Otherwise, it’s all chins and bobbing heads.”

“Tops of heads are much better.”

“Yeah,” Aran bit his lip on a laugh. “Sometimes.”

“Hey, you.” Anders brushed his spine, “Inviting other people to your perch?”

“Apparently. Klewin, this is Anders. Anders, Klewin. Klewin was just telling me he likes looking at the tops of peoples’ heads.”

“I’m so sorry, that sounded way more perverted than I meant it to.”

Aran winked. “See? I found you a pervert. Where’s my reward?”

Anders laughed, tugging him down to kiss his cheek. “I thought you were having a night out.”

“I am out; it is night. I have been tasked with procuring the drinks.”

“Okay, what’ll it be?”

“Yes.”

Anders lifted his brows. “It’s ‘yes’ night?”

Aran grinned, “Yes.”

“He’s letting you do ‘yes’ night?”

Aran wiggled his brows. “Yes.”

“Oh, this is priceless.”

“What’s ‘yes night’?” Klewin asked.

Anders poked Aran in the chest, “You go find a place to sit and I’ll send Lace to you with drinks.” He leaned to Klewin, “You stay right there and try to think of other terrible pick up lines. I’ll be right back.”

“Nice to meet you,” Aran shook Klewin’s hand. “Have fun!”

“What’s ‘yes night’, though?”

[Tristan:]

Tristan frowned at the jukebox, listening as the first notes of the song soaked into the chatter and laughter.

“Not your usual taste, is it?”

He turned to find Dorian smiling down at him from the row of booths above. “Trying new things tonight. Almost fought a comedian earlier.”

Dorian gazed down at him with mock-horror. “There’s a story. Come up and tell it to me?”

Tristan glanced towards the bar to see Aran laughing with a guy sporting a mop of red hair. Talking. Just talking. No strangers, they’d agreed. He trusted Aran. He’d gotten used to seeing him with Anders more and more, but still… still, it ached to see him free and easy with other other people. That was different. “Yes,” he said softly, crossing around to the stairs and settling in across from Dorian. He cleared his throat, “So, there’s a game.”

“A game about fighting comedians?”

“About saying yes.”

“Ah.” Dorian tapped his ear, “I see.”

“Right.”

“Seems like something that might get one into a host of trouble. Indiscriminately agreeing to things.”

Tristan chuckled wryly, looking down. “I think that might be part of the point.”

Dorian hummed softly. “Not enjoying the game overmuch?”

“It’s easier for them,” Tristan sighed, tracing drink rings on the table. “Sometimes I think everything is.”

“Do you?”

He shrugged. “Free as the wind, damn the consequences…” he shook his head. “I suppose I just don’t like risk as much.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“No. I know.” Tristan smiled weakly. “But there are some benefits to taking risks. I learned that with you, didn’t I?”

Dorian smoothed his fingers over his mustache, concealing the curve of his lips even as his eyes twinkled. “There is that.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Tristan sighed. “It’s just… more difficult. And that makes me feel like a bit of a buzzkill sometimes.” He cleared his throat, “Sorry. A buzzkill and a downer. What, uh, what were you doing here?”

“You needn’t apologize to me.”

Tristan glanced up, nodding. “Thanks.”

“Here you are!” Aran rounded the corner of the booth with a wide grin. “What’d I miss?”

“I picked a song.”

“Good choice,” Aran dropped to rest his chin on the edge of the table. “Are we sitting here?”

“Yes,” Dorian said before Tristan could speak up. “I hear that’s the name of the game.” He glanced at Tristan with a small nod. “If that’s all right?”

Aran drummed the table, laughing, “Yes! More the merrier!” He stepped up onto the booth and waved towards the bar, pointing down, then hopped off and dropped into the booth beside Dorian, facing Tristan. “Anders said he’d send us drinks when I found a seat. Where’s Sera?”

Tristan shrugged, eyeing Dorian curiously. His heart thundered in his chest. Had he ever seen them side by side like this? His two boyfriends. How had he come to have two boyfriends in a matter of months, after so long on his own? Of course, the answer was obvious, staring at him with a wide, crooked grin.

Aran. Topsy-turvy, risk-taking, free-wheeling Aran with his strange games and wild impulses and long-winded pontifications on syntax and rhyme when all Tristan saw was the beauty of the poem. Aran, covered in constellations he couldn’t appreciate and scars he wasn’t ashamed of. Aran, who was happily explaining the rules of his game to Dorian, including him, bringing him in, welcoming Tristan’s other heart-holder with open arms, like he did everyone. A living embrace.

And Dorian… Dorian who was always so careful and clever, joining into risk-taking mischief… for him, he realized. To keep him company. To just be with him. Even though he’d been warned. Dorian, who saw layers to the world beyond what others saw, and who saw layers of Tristan beyond what others saw, too. Dorian, debonair and devious, dark to Aran’s light, both of them so incredibly comfortable in their own skin.

Dorian tapped his fingers against his, smiling with a small comforting nod, and Tristan walked his fingers up to play with the rings on his fingers, watching Aran’s smile deepen. Maker, he really was happy for him. For them both. Of course, he’d said as much, been supportive every step of the way, but it was different to watch him watch. Nothing but pure, clear pleasure in those eyes, softening in appreciation. Months he’d been listening to Aran tell him that he loved him. Days and nights he’d felt the words and meaning shiver through and over him. And again and again, he found he’d underestimated his friend. He kept expecting him to love less than he claimed. There were many little things Aran did that drove him mad and got under his skin, but this… this look, this truth… Truth. Trust. He bit his lip and studied Dorian’s rings as Lace arrived with a tray of drinks. “Chef’s Special,” she announced.

Aran smiled, a little wistful, and stood up. “Thanks. Seen Sera?”

“Yup,” Lace smiled. “I’m stealing her now; you are my last table of the evening. There’s a late showing of Terra Fauna at the Regency I wanted to see and she said she’d join me. That’s okay, isn’t it? She said something about having to agree to things.”

“Yes, of course!” Aran nodded eagerly. “Craic on! Those are the rules!”

“I’ll have to ask her about them,” she laughed, serving out the glasses and accepting the tip Aran tucked into her apron. “Thanks.”

“Aye.” Aran picked up one of the glasses and toasted them lightly. “And you as well: have fun,” he winked.

“Where are you going?” Tristan asked quietly.

“Oh,” Aran shrugged. “Dunno. Wandering. No worries.”

“Aran.”

“Seriously, mate, it’s totally- it’s great, yeah? I know this isn’t your thing. It’s been a weird one. We can catch up later.”

“Stay here.”

“Tris,” Aran cleared his throat. “It’s not a big deal.”

He held out a hand, feeling his heart thudding loud in his ears. “Will you stay here?” he asked, lifting his brows.

Aran chewed his lip, glancing between them. “...yes?” he asked quietly.

“Right answer.”

He dropped down into the booth beside Dorian, ears red with awkward pleasure that reminded Tristan of a dozen moments he’d caught his friend off guard before. Happy. He was happy. Happy to leave. Happier to stay. He swiped his fingers across his eyes, busying himself with moving the glasses to their respective spots. “Well. I guess this means you get Sera’s drink,” he told Dorian.

“I guess I do.”

Tristan cleared his throat, flexing his hand silently, the rings of the tree wiggling with the motion. And he watched Aran’s lip tremble as he bit it. Fuck, he thought, that is love. How much is he still holding back? How much has he still not shown me? Aran stretched out his left hand, pressing their matching palms together with a squeeze.

“So, boys night out,” he joked, not willing to admit he was weepy. He lifted his glass. “Toast?”

Tristan squeezed both their hands, feeling the bass from the jukebox and the thud of his pulse from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. “To what?”

“You?” Aran nudged Dorian’s shoulder. “We should toast to him, right?”

“I have to say ‘yes’, don’t I?” Dorian teased.

“Catches on quick, this one. Might even get a doctorate someday.”

Dorian chuckled, lifting his fresh glass, “To Tristan, then.”

“I don’t have a free hand,” Tristan wrinkled his nose.

“Madman,” Aran laughed. “You can’t toast yourself, mate; you’d be a narcissist.”

“Can’t have that,” Dorian agreed.

“Void and Dark, can you imagine if he admitted how wonderful he is?”

“We’d never hear the end of it.”

“Day in, day out,” Aran grinned. “The endless list.”

“Talented,” Dorian sighed.

“Oh, sure. Talented. Sporting!”

“Right. Clever.”

“Too clever by half!”

“By three quarters!”

They clinked glasses as Tristan felt air rushing through his ears. Through them? Into them? Under them? His chest was vibrating. Was that the music? The bass?

“We can't even start on the looks, can we?” Aran asked, crossing his eyes.

“Oh, we shouldn’t,” Dorian shook his head. “We’d be here all night.”

“I mean, his hair alone would take a night, aye?”

Dorian nodded sagely. “And then the eyes.”

“Forget it!” Aran squeezed his hand, warm. Watching. Flushed with his ability to make him blush. “And that spot just below the ear,” he whistled under his breath. “It’d take me a solid day to register everything I liked about it.”

“Right or left?”

“Tough call,” Aran hissed. “Left?”

“You take left, I’ll take right. We can save a day of our lives right there;” Dorian’s dark eyes danced with delight.

“Sharing is caring.”

“Oh, if you like each other so much, you should just kiss and get it over with.”

They stared at him and Tristan could not blame them at all. He would have stared at himself if he could. In fact, he had a sudden strangling urge to run for the nearest water closet and stare in the mirror screaming ‘what? What? What was that? Where did that come from?’

Then he watched as Aran, as if in slow-motion, turned to Dorian and tilted his head, “Well. I mean… the game is ‘say yes’. I don’t make the rules.”

And Dorian watched him for a moment longer, curious, and dampened his lower lip. “Get it over with, yes?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Very well.” Dorian coughed into the back of his hand, eyeing Aran. “Right or left?”

Aran shrugged, eyes crossing, “Dunno.” He tilted his head back and forth, and landed to the left, “Here’s good. That work?”

Dorian snorted softly, “It’s a ridiculous game.”

“Yeah, that’s the idea.”

“Ah well.” Dorian leaned forward and brushed his lips over Aran’s.

And Tristan felt his heart stop.

[Aran:]

Aran blinked, then blinked again, staring at Dorian’s eyelids as lips brushed against his. He could have sworn Tristan was going to say something, call it off, veto. He’d been preparing jokes, teases… he couldn’t remember any of them at the moment, but he was sure there’d been… something… funny. Something funny about this. Something… What must it be like for them to kiss each other? Did rose petals cascade from the ceiling whenever they touched lips? Did Chantry bells chime sweetly on distant hills? How could something this light and lingering be so bloody pleasant? It wasn’t fair at all. Life was unfair and cruel. But at least now he would be able to think about this every time he sent Tristan off for his dates. What nice, fond thoughts those would be. Maker, his brows were sculpted, weren’t they? Not a hair out of place, even this close. How was that possible? And his eyelashes were long. Longer than they seemed. Dark and soft like ravens’ feathers.

Oh, breathing.

He needed to breathe. He inhaled quickly, lips parting with the sudden effort and then there was… lips and tongue and tongue, Maker save him, slick and hot and tasting of the gin cocktail Anders had thoughtfully sent over for the one bloke who hadn’t even tasted it. His eyes fluttered closed, weak, and he could feel his knee starting to quake under the table like a dog who’s had his neck scratched just right, and it was just right.

I did good, he congratulated himself silently as his breath was drawn out of him like smoke from incense. Oh, I did very good. I should set people up professionally. Tristan owes me at least a bottle of whisky for nudging him in the direction of this. This is… brilliant.

[Dorian:]

Brilliant. Dorian felt Aran’s lips part beneath his, the quick intake of breath, chilling. Brilliant, cold, diaphanous. The chip of ice still melting on the back of the fellow’s tongue. The sweetness of juniper curling around the smoke of whiskey. It shouldn’t have mixed well, but it did, perhaps due to the innate scent of fresh soil and southern evergreens that invaded his senses as he breathed. Breathed and tasted and took. He hadn’t expected the lips to be quite so soft, given the way the man terrorized them with his teeth. Nor had he expected them to give beneath his like snow melting under rain, given the intensity of his energy. But there he was, soft and folding and brilliant. Unexpected. Interesting. He leaned, twining his tongue against Aran’s, investigating, and found him more pliant still. Bending, breathing, a small coil of sound more vibration than noise curling up the length of his tongue to his own, buzzing his lips and humming down his own throat like a game of telephone. A game, he reminded himself, suddenly aware of the rapid pulse beneath his fingertips. Tristan’s pulse. Tristan’s hand still clasped with his as he… as he… He swam upwards out of sensation, breaking free with a gasp, and turned to find Tristan gaping at them open-mouthed.

To his right, he felt Aran sag, winded, against the back of the booth. “Right,” he breathed, sounding as shaken as Dorian felt. Sounding more willing to shrug and shake it off than Dorian was certain he could manage. “Well. That was a surprise. Good play.” He downed the rest of his glass in a single swig. “I’ll get another round, aye?”

He moved, then paused, caught. Anchored by Tristan’s unyielding grip on his hand.

Dorian touched his tongue to the back of his teeth, still feeling the cold sear of the kiss. “Tristan,” he murmured, searching the man’s expression. Maker, but he was always difficult to read, but this didn’t seem good. Eyes too wide. Lips still parted. Breath short. Pulse arhythmic beneath his fingers.

“Tris?” Aran asked softly, sliding back into the booth. “You just… take your time, okay?”

Dorian glanced at him, surprised by the sudden tenderness. The way he cupped Tristan’s hand between his own like something fragile and priceless. All his seemingly boundless energy suddenly focused and intent, pouring into the hand and the man it belonged to. ‘Sharing is caring’, he’d said.

“Just… give it a minute,” he said with a small nod. “It’s okay. Tris? Heart of my heart, you’ve got to breathe, mate, aye? Just breathe for me, love. Nice and slow.”

Tristan blinked slowly, swallowed visibly. Inhaled over a count of four and exhaled the same.

Dorian glanced between them, feeling the pulse continue to rush beneath his fingers. “Tristan…”

“Can you…” Tristan looked down, his gaze flicking between his hands clasping each of theirs.

“Anything,” Aran breathed, “Anything you need.”

Dorian nodded. “Truly.”

“Can you…” Tristan glanced up at them, cheeks stained red. “Can you do that again?”

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