Work Text:
“Are you drunk?” Dorian has the nerve to sound put out - angry, even - as though Edraid hasn’t caught him deep in his cups every time he’s suffered some minor slight and sometimes for no discernible reason at all. “Don’t make that face. I’m merely put out that you didn’t invite me.”
The world is a bit blurry and so is Dorian, really, which makes it easier to ignore that false smile which is much more alarming than a concerned look would be. It’s much better to keep staring at the window at the total chaos he, Edraid, personally has wrought. The rank and file members of the former Inquisition are scrambling to pack, the political footing in Orlais as uncertain as their futures.
Dorian is having none of it, all but herding Edraid over to the side with his hip. “Look at them scurry. I can’t say I’m anxious to stay in Orlais myself,” and he must do something, grimace or stiffen or something because Dorian freezes for just a second and of course he’s leaving but does he have to DWELL on it, which he isn’t. Why would he. He’s made up his mind, easy as that, he hadn’t even planned to SAY and that was when the Inquisitor was as whole as the Inquisition. Dorian doesn’t dwell. Why would he. He’s back to breezy speech just like that with barely a pause for breath. “But this is all terribly industrious. I agree. It’s much better to stay here, in this charming closet, drinking straight out of the bottle.”
Edraid doesn’t even try to stop the snort, even though he knows Dorian hates that. Says he sounds like a horse with colic. A lame horse with colic, now. “I suppose you think I should just install myself at the tavern. ‘Hello, everyone! Sorry I casually ruined your lives and also went and lost my h… the only thing we know of that closes Rifts. I’m sure it’ll be just fine!’”
Dorian takes a firm grip of his shoulders, then, the comforting motion of his thumbs at odds with that thrice-damned smile. “Not in this shirt, certainly. You’re meant to drink it, you know, not wear it.”
Edraid’s laugh is a loud, bitter thing. “Who knew it would be so hard to steady a mug with my off arm?”
He nearly falls when Dorian yanks him forward, then, he’s clumsy and dizzy and he has to close his eyes to try to make his stomach behave. He tries to take comfort in the hard hold, familiar smell of leather and the scrape of those jeweled whatever-they-ares that press into him when he buries his face in Dorian’s throat like this. He tries. But it’s impossible to ignore the awkward new angles, the way he can’t hold tightly back with just one arm for leverage. Impossible to ignore the knowledge that this is temporary, about to end just as surely as every other damned thing that felt like forever. Having an arm, for one. Having a position, a calling, some use even…
He’s really very drunk. That’s the only excuse for the way his breath shudders and the tears leak from his stupid, useless eyes.
Dorian’s lips are warm against his temple and it should help more than it does. “I know,” Dorian murmurs. “I know.” He doesn’t. He doesn’t. But he’s here and Edriad is very drunk and will pretend, just for a moment, that he always will be.