Work Text:
I composed a beautiful letter to you in the sleepless nightmare hours of the night, and it has all gone: I just miss you, in a quite simple desperate human way.
/ Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf, January 21st 1921. Milano.
They made no promises, when the Inquisition was finally settling into its post-war reality and Dorian had run out of excuses to stay. What could they have said? Oh, yes, I have no idea when I'll be back, or if I ever will be—If I die, it'll take weeks or months for you to know—but how about we pretend to be continuing a relationship which was largely about sex to begin with?
Ignore for a moment the lie hiding in there.
Letters by the roads, arriving slow and damp. Leliana's network doesn't stretch reliably this far North; no carrier birds to help them, if she'd agree to spend her resources like that. It's Mae's runners down to the border via the Dwarven supply lines, and a deposit box in Nevarra for Leliana's people to pick up and take to Skyhold. Meant more for covert political correspondence than melancholy letter-writing to a man one can claim only as a friend—
All the same, letters are something.
Perhaps one shouldn't. But there are limits to his strength. Naughty letters, then, Dorian said. Tell me about all the best parts. And the Bull laughed and kissed him and then sent him an utterly filthy retelling of their last night together which caught Dorian when he paused for a week in Nevarra before crossing the border. It'll be about someone else next time. Just let me have this one.
So here they are. A sporadic correspondence, the Bull often on the move. But a correspondence nonetheless.
It's so warm, Dorian writes. I barely need clothing.
He writes, I sleep naked these days. I'm sure you'd appreciate that. Fine white cotton goes so very well with my skin.
He writes, I'm not sure Valerian appreciated it the night I leapt out of bed to avoid assassination and he came rushing in to see what the fuss was, but not everyone can have good taste—
Stares at the words, and burns the prospective letter with a flick of the wrist.
It's so warm. I barely need clothing. You know, I fucked a man on a balcony the other day—high up over the city, summer robes half-parted—not a thought for the weather—imagine that happening in the charming South. Not a chance! Missed opportunity, really. Hope you're finding your bed partners tolerable. I suppose you always do.
He was very handsome, although not as handsome as me. He adored it when I slid my cock between his thighs—made very pretty noises. I put my hand on his throat as he bent himself over with his arms braced on the rail—didn't press down—he liked that, too. That little thrill at a hint of some fantasy, perhaps?
How's that? Approved?
Preserve me from politics, though—I may expire from boredom alone, and I'm not even the one who has to sit in on the debates.
Dorian
Carefully folded and sealed, and sent.
Killed a giant. Good week. Not as good as the dragons. Shit, remember that first dragon? Got me with its tail, but you were right there, bringing down lightning, and you still had time to do that freaky slowing trick on me—never gonna forget that one. Badass.
K's making nugs again. Putting these little wings on them. Should get him to make you a cow. You can throw it out the window. Reenactment.
Hot, the bit about the balcony. I've been busy. I'll get some sex stories for you for next time. Can't let you get ahead.
You'd like the debates.
Bull
Always, now, only Bull . A curious little thing.
Dorian turns the fact over a few times in his mind, and, finding nothing conclusive, lays it carefully down for later study.
From Dorian's office window in the circle tower, he can look down over the slope to the sea—the ports busy with life, the slums dark, their buildings precariously balanced on rotten footings. Familiar places, once. How have the years changed them? Perhaps less than the years have changed him.
He can see, too, the smoke rising from Seheron. It's bloodier this autumn, he's heard, and the jungle is burning. The Qunari are gearing up for something, and the Magisterium is arguing about what, and Dorian's stomach turns every time he thinks too hard about it.
The Bull was there once. Dorian was drinking in the tumbled ruins of the lower city, or falling breathlessly into the bed of a man he loved but would never confess to, and just across the water the Bull was wavering on the edge of a terrible breaking point, a sharp hole about to be punched through the story of his life. There are other people there now, children, people fighting a dozen small wars that don't mean anything except to the people whose lives they ruin. Some young Qunari soldier is struggling to keep the peace on the streets of Alam.
He never thought about it at all, before.
The cows didn't have wings. You very well know it—you're only trying to provoke me. Well, it's working—but stop it all the same. I'm quite provoked enough every single time I read Mae's notes on the latest argument about our proposals to the Magisterium.
The work of change is so terribly tiring. I hope we may make some progress, but it'll be terribly compromised. I knew it wouldn't be strides, but all the same . . .
Only two assassination attempts at the last party, which was rather tame, and only one of them succeeded—no, the other one wasn't directed at me, you needn't fret—I'm far too insignificant for most of them to put in the effort, I believe, although I suppose if the season continues at this sedate pace I'll need to reconsider that assessment. Sucked a man's cock behind a tree in the garden. Adequate. Not good enough to give you the details. Why do some men think all they should do is stand there and take it? A regrettably dull trait. Still, a cock is a cock, as the kitchen maid said to the farmer.
If I'm ahead, at least you can look at my arse.
Dorian
It's a damn good ass. Maybe I won't bother catching up.
Weather's crap. Talking about the weather's crap too. Make your friend M send cocoa. Know she can get it. She's Varric's contact, right?
S says shit on everyone's tongues. Don't recommend it. Asks about the arrow shop. This about my archer somehow?
No wings, as ordered.
Bull
Dorian, lying on the bed he has never allowed anyone into and clutching a Maker-forsaken toy cow, has frankly never felt more ridiculous in his life.
Well, perhaps it's good to laugh. He did it a good deal more when he was in the Bull's bed than he has in the year since.
And how's the Bull's bed doing now, without his charming presence? Just fine, presumably. It's only that the Bull doesn't say —
I hate you. You are the most detestable of men. I embarrassed myself thoroughly, and poor Valerian has had his idealised image of me ruined by the sight of that damnable cow sitting on my writing desk—now he believes that I have no taste whatsoever—and I'm sure he'll tell the rest of the little wretches, and then where will I be?
My arse is very good, I know. But I would like a story, when you have one.
The arrow shop is closed for business. Sorry.
Dorian
If you were here—
I think I may be—
I miss—
Not even put to paper, these fragments. They tumble through his head, only, incoherent and aching where they collide with memory. A little unfair, perhaps, when one is lying on one's back in a stranger's bed, with careful hands cleaning come and sweat from one's skin.
Rather a good fuck, as the anonymous goes. But imagine lying with one's head in the Bull's lap as it happened, his hands soft on one's face, smoothing over one's cheek as one lay there, mouth thrown open on a drawn out cry. Imagine how damn proud he'd look, watching Dorian get screwed by someone else.
Perhaps he'd take a turn afterwards. Press his fingers gently into Dorian's loose hole. Press his cock in so slowly, even though Dorian would be able to take it fast—
Certainly he'd be the one to make sure Dorian was clean and comfortable.
Not actually a kind of game they played, before, although they whispered those kinds of fantasies back and forth between them in the dark hours, maybe somewhere between the second and third orgasms of the night, rocking their sensitive bodies slowly against each other. Quiet laughter. No, perhaps it isn't something Dorian would actually want to do, but the thought is warm. Oh, he really did laugh a lot when they were in bed together—
How often he thinks about <em>that</em> these days.
"Well," Dorian says. "This was nice." A tired sigh. Not displeased, but wistful—he didn't mean for it to be wistful.
"Losing my touch," the man says. "There you go. Go on with you."
"I'm sorry, that was rather rude of me. You really were very good."
"Alright," the man says. Smiles. "You're not bad yourself."
Don't be shocked, but I think I may be getting a little tired of casual sex. Is this a thing one simply gets too old for? I suppose not—you're older than me, after all—and you never seem to have any problems with it. I had objectively quite wonderful sex with a man whose name I never learned last night—and would you believe I spent half of it drafting documents in my head?
I suppose that means I'm just made dull by work, and one may hope for improvement. For now the children are so tiresome—how do you deal with the Chargers in their more truculent moods? I know Rocky has blown up several important buildings, but at least he isn't trying to start a political party.
Dorian
Beat them up in the ring. Skinner loves that shit. Never pays attention to a dressing down but you get her knives out of her hands in a good fight and she'll listen. You tried duelling? Hear you used to be an expert.
Don't know. Only fucked one person since you left. It was fun I guess. Hoped it was going better for you. The stories were good. Don't push yourself.
Bull
I will be lost, Dorian thinks, if I waver now.
Brisk footsteps through the corridors of the Magisterium, its high dark walls hung with gold and green, curling ornaments and soft fabric which entirely fail to mitigate the harshness of the architecture.
"Dorian," Mae says, looking up from her chaos of papers in the library, "you're late. Oh—you don't look well, darling."
Fighting words, from anyone else. Still some censure there, with concern the undertone rather than the overtone. Hide yourself better. It's dangerous. Dorian shakes his head; not here.
She watches him closely as he folds into the chair beside hers.
"Look, here," she says, flipping through papers. "There isn't really recent praxis for the judgement, but I dug up a Storm Age case in which a household was compelled to free its slaves for negligence. I doubt the case can be won, but it's enough of a basis to make the attempt. We can't simply be dismissed out of hand."
This was the battle between them that Dorian won. The Lucerni's policy on slavery is his work. How could he have looked Lavellan in the eye otherwise? Any of his friends, who might be nothing more than slaves here. Bull, whose face goes terrifyingly blank talking about the slaves on Seheron.
It surprised her rather. Well, why shouldn't it? He wouldn't have had much to say, before. She knew him as another person, once—quite thoroughly self-absorbed.
And it was in all fairness a position which guaranteed their portrayal as insane and possibly toeing the line of treachery.
He allowed her most of the rest in exchange.
Work. Work.
That's the thing.
By the time they're done, the once-over Mae gives him results in an approving little smile.
"Drinks tonight," she says. "Don't forget."
They have no prior engagements for the night, and so Dorian takes it as the veiled order it is.
Sorry if that last letter made it weird.
Bull
How many times has Dorian written a response and burned it. Composed one in his head in sleepless hours that never made it to paper.
How he aches, and aches, and aches, at the thought of the Bull—so many miles away, and alone.
More alone than Dorian? Oh, no. Not in the ways that matter. But somehow, somehow—there's something in those letters. Go ahead, Pavus. Pretend not to know what it is.
"Mae," he says. "I hate to bring this up, but you know about hopeless love. What is one to do ? One simply feels all these useless things. It's so entirely unnecessary."
In truth, these aren't the terms that he and Mae are on—shouldn't be the terms that they're on. But where else are they to turn?
Mae's look is sharp.
"It's nobody here," he says, weary.
"I should hope not," she says. Her mouth twists. "You know exactly how that would go."
Her marriage was good, while she had it. He isn't quite insensitive enough to ask whether it was worth it. But he certainly wonders.
"Would you believe me if I said he was a Qunari?"
Mae gives him another of her wonderfully unimpressed looks. "Dorian, your type has always been whatever will annoy people most."
"You mean annoy my father most."
She shrugs one shoulder. "Once. I have a feeling you've diversified."
"He told me much the same thing himself."
"And you seduced him anyway? Marvelous. Or is this one of those terrible melodramas about chaste longing?"
Dorian swallows the hot memory of that one night when the Bull gave him obscenely explicit instructions as to how to touch himself, and then came on his face as a reward. Why that one in particular?
"There was really nothing chaste about it, I'm happy to say," Dorian says. Sighs. "I think I may be on the point of resigning myself to chastity now, however."
"Andraste's bosom," Mae mutters. "Are you fifteen again? Am I to expect a sobbing fit on my floor in a few days? I've had two performances in that direction this week. Am I going to be forced to set up a calendar? I'm not actually a healer, darling. And you can tell Agatha that when you next see her, by the way. Enough is enough. She can cry on your floor next time if it's so terribly important."
"You like them," Dorian says.
"Hah!"
"Mae," Dorian says, sobering, "we didn't have that kind of relationship. It was sex. It's admittedly all quite horribly familiar except for the part where we're friends, and he was very kind, and we carried on for months. It began to feel, well—" He shakes his head, fingers to his lips, the old unconscious gesture—jerks his hand away to wave the comment aside.
"And you're still in contact, or you wouldn't be complaining to me now ."
"You don't know that," Dorian says. "I could simply have been moping in isolation."
"Hmm," Mae says.
"Yes, yes, you're right, stop it. I got a couple of letters that made me wonder—well—if I might not be the only one feeling a little tangled. And then I was amazed at my own ego, which you must grant is very impressive. Naturally I'm reading into it in the most unfortunate way. You know I love to talk, and I can't think of a thing to say."
"Dorian," Mae says, very severely, "may I offer a suggestion?"
He gestures assent.
"Get over yourself and ask, or let it go."
"That's very good advice," Dorian says. "Really quite beautiful. You are a wonder of reason."
"You're not going to take it, are you," Mae says. She doesn't even bother to make it sound like a question.
Dorian raises his eyes to the ceiling in a show of wounded pride. "I might ."
He might. In fact. Eventually.
Another of those small flips to his stomach that might be fear or regret or anticipation. He's grown quite used to them lately.
You're apologising for not writing me inappropriate letters? Goodness. I'll take whatever letters you care to write, if you must know—how's that for a confession? Dorian Pavus, interested in the minutiae of mercenary life—not merely the muscles but the whole qunari—? One would think we were friends. Bizarre. Disturbing, even.
I may make it as far south as Cumberland come Molioris—Summerday, I expect—I suppose the Inquisition is keeping you far too busy for me to demand you travel hundreds of miles North for the mere pleasure of buying me a drink as I fly through. Don't offer—I'll only feel bad for being a nuisance. Even I do have some limits. But your letters may find me more directly—a bit of novelty to add to this correspondence. Imagine, receiving messages in a timely manner!
Other than that, it's the usual—hopeless legal battles and even more hopeless legislative work, and I a sort of glorified secretary in the middle of it. Rather horrific things continue to happen, of course—the magic gave out on the southern harbour tower last week and made the most gruesome mess—beginning to think you're right about the merits of dwarven architecture—let's not even speak of the rest.
Wish Sera well. A little something for her in the package.
Dorian
And those are only the words one sends. Scrawled on discarded papers: but it's a shame, Summerday being the festival that it is—what was it you said about coming together? I suppose my hand and I must do all the work ourselves—
Other things, more deeply secret.
Funny thing about that. Got a job up North anyway around then. Pretty sure I can swing it.
Sera says thanks and won't tell me what it was. That's not ominous.
Bull
And nothing else. Dorian examines the letter, its two meagre lines. The uneven slant of the Bull's handwriting, never really up to scratch in Common, used to writing in careful Qunari cyphers. A little bit of a shock, one of those early nights he spent in the Bull's room, to see how gorgeously he wrote in his native language—old reports that never quite got sent lying in a heap beside the bed, like the Bull was being careless about it.
It was probably a reminder.
Regardless, before that he'd only seen scribbled notes passed to Lavellan over breakfast and all the rest of it, and thought the Bull rather clumsy.
And that's probably the point.
No clues here. The Bull's hand is no neater or more sprawling than usual, the words written in the same ink that he always uses, carefully brushed from some diminishing ink block. The paper, too, is the same as ever.
And Dorian feels curiously shaken, all the same. Feels his pulse thudding in his hands where they curl around the letter.
Possibly the Bull is lying. Inventing an excuse. Possibly he's making up some excuse to Lavellan right now, or else telling her the truth—yes, it would be the truth, although in what level of detail Dorian couldn't say.
He also isn't entirely certain what the truth is, outside of wishful thinking.
Say no, you fool of a man. It's not as though you can stay.
Very well, if you're quite sure. Do you know how unnerving your briefer letters are, by the way? I'm always looking for the code that will reveal the fact that you've actually been kidnapped and need me to leap to your rescue—please don't start, I know it doesn't make sense—work with me here. I'd be very dashing doing it and you know it.
Summerday. Ask Lavellan where I'm staying, I shan't send it with this message.
Dorian
And it's a terrible idea. He knows it. Knows it when he writes the letter, and knows it when he walks into the restaurant below his hostel for lunch to find the Bull leaning against the wall just inside the entrance with every appearance of being casual, except for the tension in the muscles at his shoulders. Knows it in the way his whole body reacts to the sight, the visceral relief of it, a release of tension which feels all the same like something tearing, a shift away from a misalignment which his body has grown used to. How much more it reacts to the Bull slinging an arm around him, hey, Dorian, shit, it's really you—look at you—
Knows it when one drink becomes two becomes dragging the damn thing out as long as possible, heads bent close together. A terrible idea. Even worse than the letters.
But there one finds oneself, lying on one's stomach on a really quite comfortable bed, with the Bull's weight pressing down on one. His curve of his stomach firm against the matching curve of one's spine. His hands framing one's head.
The Bull's hips are barely moving, the smallest shifts, grinding rather than thrusting, and it's been so long, and Dorian has missed this so, and he feels it in every part of his body, the arousal, although the Bull has barely done anything but prepare Dorian, press his cock slowly into him—
It lasts a very long time, and when the Bull finally spills inside him Dorian is blindsided by the heat of a fantasy, so intense that his cock makes a valiant effort to harden again—of plugging himself up with the Bull's come still inside him, keeping it all in there until they're ready to fuck some more.
No toys on hand. Well, what's one more missed chance.
"Oh," Dorian says, gasps the sound into the pillow as the Bull's hands stroke across the backs of his shoulders—too soft for a massage but not by much. "Why are you so unfairly good at this?"
"Practice," the Bull says, and leans down to press a kiss below Dorian's ear. A pleased grunt. "A lot of practice."
And yes, that's certainly true. But Dorian also knows very well what love can do to the simplest acts, for him. Oh, not that he doesn't enjoy complicated sex—that would be more of a lie than he can in good conscience justify. Not that he doesn't enjoy sex with strangers on occasion—currently growing lack of inclination aside. It's just that he remembers very well how it felt to fumble with Rilienus in the dark, which was in no way objectively good—
The combination of the Bull's skill with Dorian's strength of feeling is—well, it's certainly something. And how is the Bull feeling, if it comes to that?
"Come on, big guy," the Bull says. "Roll over for me."
His lips are gentle against Dorian's. They linger, and when the Bull begins to pull away, it's still too soon—the feeling sharp enough under his ribs to make him reach for the Bull, hands on the back of the Bull's head to bring him back down.
The Bull groans against Dorian's mouth, a sound from deep in the throat.
Huffing like some beast of burden, Dorian said, not so long ago—a year and a half, only. Looking to provoke a fight in a fit of—well—exactly what the Bull had taken it for. What a cruel choice of phrase, though, whatever excuses he might come up with about the typical flirting style of the Imperium.
"I guess," the Bull says, "this forgetting about it and getting on with our lives thing isn't going so great, huh?"
His eye is closed, his face still tilted down towards Dorian's. The dead socket is striped with scar tissue, the line of the brow above it uneven. He seems very naked. Down to the soul.
"One grows accustomed to a good thing, I suppose."
"Yeah. Seems like it."
The Bull's breath against Dorian's parted lips, a great sigh. The slightest shake of the head, which could mean—anything, really. And then the Bull is rolling away, getting his weight off Dorian. Sitting up on the bed, leaning against the headboard.
"Want to tell me about your Lucerni properly now we're not sitting out in public like we're inviting people to listen? Or we could call for food. Food's never a bad idea."
"The latter," Dorian says, "and then the former. Oh, put some clothes on, don't torment the staff."
"Oh, right," the Bull says, halfway to the door. Scratches his chest absently and bends to grab one of his eternally obnoxious circus tents, discarded a few hours ago on the floor. In rather a hurry, really. Flattering.
"Uncharacteristically distracted, I fancy," Dorian says. "I suppose that means I'm every bit as enticing as I imagine myself."
"You're something alright," the Bull says, like he's following the script, giving Dorian something to snipe back about. But he's still got that softness to him. It just doesn't quite ring true.
What if, what if—
What if I'm right after all?
Food, bathing, so on—all of it only to make oneself filthy and hungry again. It's grown dark, finally, with the summer days rather longer than they are in Minrathous or Qarinus, even though Nevarra is hardly the South proper. They were busy kissing when the light faded. And doing one or two other things—but it's the kissing Dorian will remember.
"Well," Dorian says, "I don't see why we should pretend not to have an arrangement. We're clearly very compatible." A smile. "Not that I'm ever bad , per se, but you know how it is."
"Sure," the Bull says.
"Even if it's only once in a while—"
"We're allowed to have fun. Works for me."
Does it?
And does it work for Dorian?
"Anything else?" Dorian leans in against the Bull where they're lying on the bed, rolls his weight sideways so that he can throw his leg over the Bull's hip. His thigh settles gently against the Bull's cock—soft, for now. Something luxurious about that, to lie naked against a man he likes without the immediate prospect of fucking him. Only intimacy. And silence.
He allows it to stretch for a while, to allow the Bull a space for thought, but the Bull only settles his arm around Dorian, strokes his hand up and down Dorian's spine.
Dorian props himself up on his elbows to look down into the Bull's face. "Nothing? I know you love ground rules."
"Can't really think of any," the Bull says, and he sounds so baffled that Dorian could almost laugh—might have, if he didn't understand the importance of boundaries to the Bull.
The problem, of course, is that Dorian doesn't know where he can reasonably draw boundaries either. Not right now. Not in this confused mess.
"I see," he says.
The Bull's chest rises and falls heavily. Again. Again. Breaths through the nose, eye closed, then blinked open to look steadily up at Dorian. "If I say it's doesn't have to be an exclusive thing, you know that means I'm not saying you have to fuck other people? Could be something else instead."
Still that peculiar uncertainty to his tone. Well, perhaps some of Dorian's more melancholy letters weren't any more comfortable than the Bull's curt ones.
"Of course I know," Dorian says. "I'm a walking scandal, not an idiot."
"And if I say I maybe don't want to fuck other people—"
"I was developing a suspicion," Dorian says. "Although I'm not entirely certain what in all of Thedas that means. Surely you're not suggesting—"
Please, please, please—
"Dunno," the Bull says. His fingers are in Dorian's hair now, rubbing little circles on his scalp. Always one of Dorian's favourite things, if it's the Bull doing it. "I—gotta think about it, I guess. I figured we were done, before, and then—maybe there's other stuff going on. Maybe it'll settle down and I'll be able to write you those filthy letters you've been after. But right now—"
Like he's echoing Dorian's rather too confessional letter. What should one feel about that? And besides, it rather implies—
"You did make up a story about coming North," Dorian says, a little startled, and then confused by the fact that he's startled.
"Not like there wasn't work needed doing," the Bull says, and, good grief—he actually sounds defensive.
"Well, why wouldn't I be flattered that you missed my presence in your bed so much?"
"Because that wasn't really the deal, I guess."
"It can be," Dorian says. Watches the guarded lines of the Bull's face carefully. "All the reasons why not remain, but I—I admit, I didn't know then how much I would—"
"Miss me," the Bull says. "Aww, Dorian—"
"I can still change my mind," Dorian says.
"Yeah," the Bull says. "You always can. Hey, you want one more go for the road?"
"Maker, yes," Dorian says, and spends what's left of the morning fingering the Bull as he sucks his cock. Fucks him, hard and rough, with the sheets a wreck and the sun high in the sky, the light of it filtering through the dusty window, people going about their noisy everyday business on the street below.
Digs his fingers into the Bull's hips until he's sure they'll bruise, and almost loses his mind when the Bull orders him to do it harder.
Ties the Bull firmly to the bed with some clothes he's never cared for and sits on his face, which has always been one of the Bull's favourites—and the way the Bull moans against Dorian's skin, oh—the obscene press of his tongue into Dorian's hole has Dorian's cock leaking a slow trickle of precome. The fact that it's doing exactly the same thing to the Bull's cock is another of those moments, Dorian's physical control slipping—
The Bull's horse is all saddled, laden with his packs, ready for the Bull to go pick up the Chargers from where they're camped outside the city. Clearing out demons. Work I'm glad to miss, to be honest, the Bull said, around the time when they got distracted from fucking by some particularly loud shouting outside the window—descended into laughter, and then into idle conversation, although the Bull's cock stayed inside Dorian the whole time, never quite getting soft.
Absurd.
"See you," the Bull says. Looks Dorian up and down, studying—committing to memory, maybe, the way Dorian tried to do with the Bull late last night.
Be safe, he said last time they parted.
Perhaps that older line ought to seem more laden with significance, but it's this one that sharpens Dorian's awareness of his own heartbeat.
"Of course," Dorian says. A deep breath. "Well, off you go."
A quick brush of hands. That's all. They kissed goodbye at the door of Dorian's room—or more accurately, against it.
Dorian's skin tingles at the touch.
The boys are giving me so much shit. You should be proud. It's pretty hard to mark me like that. Almost never bruise. I can still feel it, too.
Krem picked up some papers from Red and I went over them this morning. Pieced some shit together. Did you know that Magister R—— is a Venatori agent? Watch out for that one.
Bull
None of it is a solution. Love is the question that Dorian asks himself. But what's the answer?
And what will Bull's answer be?
His unsteadiness, the quiet moments when he had only been still against Dorian, perhaps closed his eye, like he wanted to live in that place—what does it become? Does the Bull have the slightest idea what he's doing?
Question after question. They never end. How does Dorian feel?
How hard can it be to work a thing like that out?
Well, it's harder to work it out than to simply ignore the issue, anyway.
"Julia," he says, in the sharp tone that he very well knows they all call the Pavus Voice, "are you determined to die the first time someone challenges you to a true duel? Is this what you consider to be good form, or do you think it looks impressive?"
"You get to look impressive," she says, unconvinced.
"I get to look impressive , as you so blandly put it, because I can back up any threat I care to make."
Mae kindly doesn't encourage the petulant mood going around by pointing out exactly how much of a terrible showy little shit Dorian himself was at the age of nineteen.
The necromancy would probably have done the trick regardless, but it's nice not to have one's job made more difficult than necessary.
"Really, Dorian," Mae says, devoting herself to playing the White Divine to his Black, her voice all gentle reproach. "Were the walking dead strictly necessary?"
One day the darling children will actually get the message about putting on masks in the shifting game that Dorian and Mae play in their instruction.
"I have it on good authority that this is an effective method," Dorian says, and smiles.
But that thought leads back to the Bull.
Well, don't most things right now? It was like this in the beginning, in a way—a sort of heavy weight placed in the corner of his mind so that all thoughts rolled towards it, towards the idea of the Bull taking him apart in new and creative ways or what story he might tell the Bull to make him laugh. It's been like that with other people before. But that it should feel like that again, should tilt towards the same person for a second time, and in this terribly uncertain position—
Back in Skyhold. Real bed. Kinda weird. Felt like you'd be here. You know you left a pile of handkerchiefs here. Never told you. Figured you could afford more. Stupid crap to be sending across Thedas.
Rainier stopped by Skyhold for a couple of days. Told me to tell you that the Grey Wardens don't care about soap either, and that he's pretty sure you're the weird one. Maybe not those exact words. Everyone seems to think I'm the one to pass messages through. Boss get fed up with it?
Thinking about you this morning. Last night too. Makes it sound romantic. I mean I was jerking off. Great respect.
Maybe you were too drunk to remember that talk, actually. Kind of a long time ago now. Early days. Look at us, ageing gracefully . (Madam de Fer's line.) If you don't remember I'll tell you next time.
Bull
Next time, next time—
A little hope and a little fear.
Dorian curls himself around a pillow in his own bed, objectively of much higher quality, objectively very comfortable; curls himself around the feelings, makes sure to hold them both close. It's an impossible thing that they're skirting the edge of, and still—
Some days it's hard to sleep. It's not the Bull's fault only—the bulk of it is Tevinter. Is poison in wine-glasses and blood rising where it should fall. Is the overwhelming scale of the task before them, these young idealistic Alti with more enthusiasm than skill—is the cost they may pay.
The walls of Minrathous crumble, and rather than repair them they prop them up with magic, and when the magic fails people die. And here we are, Dorian thinks: come to unravel the spells while standing beneath the arches.
Believe me, I may never forget about your great respect.
Mae asked me before we met in Nevarra if I wasn't being a dramatic teenager again—and naturally she's right, that's entirely how I feel—but I can't tell her so. She'd be too smug to bear. She hasn't said anything since, but she's definitely thinking it.
I told her about you—I can't be open, not really, not for your safety—but the secret isn't a dirty one. Yes, regardless of what happens. That you're my friend is alone quite nearly as bad as the fact we have sex, of course, as far as any of the vipers here are concerned, and I'm not ashamed of any of it but I won't give them the tools to ruin the people I care for.
I think something is going on in the Magisterium—something about my father. I don't know what. I've only seen him once in my time here, rather in passing, and it was—well—I don't really know what it was.
He'd like me to have tea with him. In public with chaperones, he said. As though it were a joke, when it very well isn't—I suppose he took our discussion somewhat to heart, although I sincerely doubt we'll be able to have a properly familial relationship again. I don't think I'd want to, although those of us not raised by the Qun do have some damnably difficult ideas about that sort of thing sometimes. Do you know, the thing is that we're really very alike—I suppose that's part of what scares me. I'm glad I talked to him back in Redcliffe, but that isn't the same as forgiveness.
I don't miss your bed in Skyhold, although the fact that I could lie on top of you instead of it did improve matters—it's lumpy as a giant's arse—have some standards when it comes to your sleeping arrangements, won't you?
This letter is entirely too confessional and I'm afraid I'm going to suffer some sort of fatal allergic reaction, so I'll end by saying that Lavellan really needs to do a better job of keeping her correspondence away from Sera—not that I don't enjoy a ridiculous penis sketch as much as the next man (that's you), but all the same. Tell her the drawers are clearly going to need better locks if she persists in taking Sera to her bed. But then again, it's just as possible she knows and doesn't care . . .
I imagine she still hates the diplomats enough to feel they deserve it. I'm not trying to suggest that she's wrong. But possibly people ask you to send me messages because Lavellan is a terrible correspondent to begin with and also because anything Sera dislikes may be obscured by obscenities? A thought.
Dorian
Qarinus. The windows in Mae's study are high and narrow, the glass stained in brilliant colours in an abstract pattern along the edges. Slanting rows of shadow and light cut across the desk and the floor, the paintings on the walls, the delicate blue hangings.
"Don't fret, Dorian," Mae says. "If you can't stomach the thought of seeing him, don't see him. Maker knows he's done enough to forfeit any claim on you."
"We need to be on good terms with him," Dorian says. Keeps his hands firmly away from his face—just one more tell to unlearn. "You know he's one of the only people who can be persuaded to back you in the Magisterium, even if it's not on everything."
Mae flicks the argument away with her beautifully neat nails. "If Magister Pavus would withdraw his support because his son refused to have tea with him then he would be a worse man than I thought, and my opinion of him has already been significantly dented. If he has some genuine desire for reform he'll keep working with me. We don't have to be friends ."
"Ah," Dorian says. "Yes. I see. Maker, I'd rather talk about work. Please tell me we have some sort of hopeless cause on our hands again. I do so love them."
"I think we have about ten today. What flavour would you prefer?"
"Hm. Seheron. It's time to decide the policy for the next year soon, I think?"
"You would rather talk," Mae says, in absolute and genuine disbelief for once, "about Seheron than about tea with your father."
"I would very much prefer it. Yes, I know. But it's an absolutely Maker-forsaken mess, Mae. I don't suppose we can make the military stop poisoning people's food, but—" He shrugs helplessly.
"You talked a lot about politics when you were in the South, didn't you. Your Qunari—Tal-Vashoth, I suppose?"
"Oh. Yes."
Mae sighs. "And you're angling to be executed for treason if that fact ever comes out in connection with your views on Seheron. Lovely."
"I'm trying to do what's right," Dorian says. "I can't leave the foolish idealism entirely to the young."
Mae taps her finger against Dorian's chest, right above the sternum, accusatory. "I won't allow you to throw yourself away. Have a care."
"You're—truly upset."
"You aren't the only one who's lost friends, Dorian Pavus," she says. "Some of us have lost a very great deal. You aren't a teenager any longer, fits of dramatics notwithstanding. Remember that."
"I don't mean—of course. But believe me, I have no interest in dying. I only feel that the thing is too disgusting to leave alone."
Mae's mouth twists in distaste. "Well, it'll have to be a proposal that comes from someone else. You're too involved. I'll see to it. I believe I have enough material to bend Magister T——."
Balance everything. To live up to the person that his friends have taught him to be, hope him to be. To stay alive. To bargain and to stand firm.
How tiresome. And how vital.
Did you see him? Did it go OK? Damn, letters take too long.
You're not going to be Halward Pavus.
Stuff's rumbling down here too. People starting to figure realise the Inquisition's only getting bigger even though the war's over. Don't blame them for muttering about it. Could have gotten their heads out of their asses sooner if they wanted shit done their way, though.
Josie brough back cakes from Val Royeaux. Real pretty. Even kept the weirder crap the Orlesians like in their food out of it. She's going to take me next time. Get me to loom where they see and listen where they don't. Been a while since I played the dumb beast. Change of pace.
Thinking about you a bunch. Not sex. Well, partly. Wasn't just sex when I sent the last letter either. Come to Skyhold some time. I'll get a new mattress.
Bull
No name set to the things from their last meeting, the tentative motions, the promises to consider. But an implication. An implication. Yes.
Letters take so long. Oh—
Dorian Pavus, you fool. Of course there's a reason that he didn't take measures to secure a quicker route for communications sooner, but now—
He writes another letter, not a reply to the Bull, but an inquiry to a more or less reputable source of obscure magical items. Perhaps the Bull won't accept the thing. Perhaps Lavellan won't either. But even so. One makes the attempt.
Making attempts is more or less the stuff of his life, now.
"No, no," Dorian says. "It went perfectly well, we were very civil—he asked about the apprentices and praised my writing, and I managed not to say anything too entirely incendiary. But I still think something is going on. I can't understand what."
"I think he's been collecting too many enemies by wavering," Mae says. "I'll look into it, of course. I'm certain it'll blow over—how many times has he provoked the Magisterium in his life? Don't mind it so terribly."
"I suppose so." Dorian shrugs his coat off, hands it to Mae's footman. Servant, not slave. No slaves permitted for the Lucerni, any in their possession to be freed rather than sold on joining the party. Foul word, possession—Lavellan's face when she spoke it won't leave him soon. Quiet rows in the early days at Skyhold, the ravens flapping above them and the librarian pretending politely not to notice. How conscious he is now of his own thoughts on the matter. The process of change is internal as well as external.
They walk together along the corridor to Mae's reception room, sink tiredly into their respective chairs. Tea's the thing, with brandy in it.
"Oh," Mae says. "I quite nearly forgot—some letters have come for you, and a parcel."
Esteemed Dorian Pavus,
We write to inform you of the decision of the Magisterium to appoint an Ambassador to Orlais. It is our honour to offer you this post, eminently qualified as you are by the extent of your time in the South. An office will be prepared for you in Val Royeaux and you will be supplied with a stipend intended to aid in the maintenance of such a standard of premises as may cause no embarrassment to the greatest Imperial power of Thedas. This post is yours effective immediately.
Tarun
Undersecretary for the Bureau of Diplomatic Affairs
Minrathous
"Fascinating," Dorian says. "So I've annoyed them enough for them to wish to have me off their hands, but not quite enough for them to try and assassinate me in a more formal and emphatic sort of way?"
"Apparently," Mae says. "Oh, well. We can use this, I'm certain. It's only that I can't think of how at this exact moment. Give me a little time."
"Of course."
But his heart is beating, beating, beating—how is one to feel—how does one feel—
Yes, it went fine with Father. No attempted blood magic, not even an attempt to marry me off. Rather novel, really.
Here's something for you: expect me in Val Royeaux within the month. No, it's not going to be a short visit. I've been given the honour of a non-voluntary voluntary appointment, and it's going to be a terrible disruption to our work in Tevinter but—well— you have the honour of corresponding with the newly appointed Tevinter Ambassador to Orlais.
How's that?
Perhaps I should give you all my other news in person. What do you say? Send your reply to Val Royeaux, would you—it won't find me in time here, and you know how the messengers hate chasing people on the roads.
Dorian
And then—well, then it's Val Royeaux, pompous and oddly familiar, thought of with odd fondness—a puppy flapping its ears around and pretending to be a wolf. A very handsome puppy, granted—but all the same. News of the coming Exalted Council found him a week earlier, strapped to the leg of one of Leliana's oddly murderous messenger birds. He will have some month to arrange his lodgings, and then it'll be the Winter Palace and another round of endless arguments through which he very much hopes Lavellan will make it with her skin intact.
The sending crystals are tucked deep in his pack: two whole sets. A single half is tucked into a carefully hidden pocket at his waist, its pair in Mae's possession. Perhaps one won't need these others immediately, but one day one will leave again—even before one leaves, one will live a busy life—there won't always be the opportunity to be in the same place as people one cares for.
No letter from the Bull—no correspondence beyond that from nobles and other ambassadors, all the usual invitations to parties, invitations to negotiation, vague threats. Dorian looks through them four times, to be sure—finds nothing—feels—well, anxious, largely. Anxious until the afternoon, when someone knocks on his door, and he throws it open in the unreasonable hope of receiving a delayed letter from the messengers to instead find—
The Bull.
Dusty from the road, breathing like he's been running—
"Dorian," he says. "Dorian—"
It's a crushing hug, lifts Dorian from his feet, shocks the breath from him—too hard, and still they could be closer. still he wants so many things.
"You'll break my ribs," he protests, unsure whether he's about to laugh or cry and rather afraid that the answer may be both.
"You're really back." The Bull's lips brush against Dorian's brow as he speaks, the words thrumming through Dorian, a physical sensation. "Shit, this is wild. Hey. Hey. Let's get inside."
"You're the one who hindered that particular project, thank you," Dorian says, settling slowly back onto his feet as the Bull releases him. "Maker, it's good to see you."
"Yeah," the Bull says. Closes the door behind him, glances around at Dorian's still largely unfurnished quarters, that little look he gives every new room he enters—always check the exits, the dangers, the possibilities—does he even know he still does it?
"Well." Dorian gestures grandly. "Here I am."
"Hey," the Bull says again, his usually loud greeting turned soft. Leans down to rest his forehead against Dorian's, takes Dorian's head between his great hands and tilts it slowly up until there's an inch between their mouths, no more."Hey, I've been thinking. I want to talk about my feelings."
"And what are those, precisely?" Dorian asks. He feels a little dizzy—closeness and anticipation and a touch of fear—
The Bull—kisses him.
Deep and slow. His thumb brushes across Dorian's cheek.
Dorian feels deeply flushed when they part. "Those were hardly words," he manages, voice hoarse, betraying him.
"How about these," the Bull says. "I love you, Kadan. Let's make this good. Make it a proper damn romance. Whatever happens next. We'll figure it out."
"Please," Dorian says, shocked into honesty, startled by himself, by the emotion that spills out. "Kadan?"
"My heart," the Bull says. Touches his hand to his own chest.
Touches it to Dorian's.
How serious he looks.
"Oh," Dorian says. "If we must—you great sap—"
And stumbles forward into the Bull's arms again, the word amatus held carefully on his tongue, just waiting to be spoken.