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Even the Orleasian Imperial players break out the Antivan waltzes, this time of night. The viol is a bit pitchy, the drum a bit slow, but the mistakes are forgivable, in Dorian’s eyes. He’s not in there trying to dance, after all. He’s out here, with only his thoughts for company.
His thoughts, and whoever’s lurking behind the rosebush.
He’d thought they were more than one person, at first. Perhaps a couple looking for privacy-- it is a nice little side-garden, after all. Then, he’d thought perhaps they were that duke he’d locked eyes with once or twice. But no-- whoever they are, they are far too tall to be him.
Dorian runs his hand along the banister at the end of the garden, weaving between the vines that have been allowed to grow on it. There’s really only two people it could be.
That it’s Adaar would be… unlikely. There’s the attentions of the court to contend with, and the attentions of the Ambassador. Her odds of escape are vanishingly low, especially as she comes to appreciate those attentions more and more.
Politicians really do grow up so fast.
So: “I can hear you skulking, Bull.”
“I’m not Bull,” says the rosebush. “I’m an innocent fennec, hopelessly lost and in need of a friend on whom I can bestow the Maker’s blessing.”
Dorian laughs. “I never should have left you and Sera alone with that book of Fereldan children's stories.”
“Probably not.” Bull comes around the corner, smile and shoulders unforgivably broad. “I swiped some cognac from a room somewhere. Want some?”
“Did you happen to swipe cups as well?”
“Tired of victory laps already?”
“It’s only the eighth straight night of toasting the Inquisition and dining on the finest snowfleur pate, how could anyone ever tire of such self-congratulatory idleness?” Dorian gestures widely at the gardens around them. “We should be out there, saving villagers from shambling corpses and fighting dragons and-- I don’t know, preventing the end of the world?”
“Hey.” Bull sets the cognac on the banister. He touches Dorian’s chin gently, lifting his face.
Dorian smiles at him. Even if everything else around him is dull, Bull never is-- he’s far too handsome. “You know I’m all for fighting dragons, kadan, but did something happen?”
“Nothing’s happened, that’s the problem.” He slumps against Bull’s chest. “I’m watching for assassins in every corner, and finding none, and it feels so much like being back in Tevinter, but more… boring.”
Bull wraps his arms around Dorian’s back, and Dorian relaxes just a little bit further. Not far enough to wrinkle his uniform, of course, but enough to breathe. The assassins are a real concern, but if one comes at them now, Bull can cover for whatever watchfulness Dorian’s losing by closing his eyes and leaning against him.
“Orlesians have always been boring.” Bull shifts his weight from foot to foot, turning them until Dorian’s back is to a wall.
“I just feel like we should be out there, doing things. Helping people. That’s why I joined this group of assholes, you know. To do something about Corypheus, not sit around in a colder, damper version of Tevinter.”
“And to meet intriguing men,” Bull adds.
Dorian’s worked hard to train his laughter into something genteel and cultured, but he can’t help the way he snorts at that. “You were eavesdropping on me and Sera that night.”
“Hard not to.”
“We were in her room, the door was closed.”
“Closed doors don’t mean you’re quiet.” He smirks and leans closer. “Usually means you’re not.”
“You know what intrigues me right now?” Dorian slips around Bull, one hand on his wrist. “Dubiously acquired cognac.”
“No glasses,” Bull reminds him.
“I’m sure we can improvise.” Dorian opens the bottle and takes a sip-- more like a swig, really. It’s good cognac.
Bull’s gaze lingers on Dorian’s mouth.
Dorian holds the bottle out after a moment. “Drink?” he asks.
Bull takes the bottle and leans on the wall. Dorian levers himself onto the banister, heedless of moss or if he tears the fabric on the stone. If he ruins another pair of trousers, perhaps Josephine and Leliana will let him wear his own clothes again.
“What if we headed back to Skyhold early, took my boys, Sera, maybe a squad or two from the main force, kicked some ass along the way?” Bull takes a pull from the bottle. “Maybe you just need to get moving again.”
“Maybe.” Dorian watches him drink. “Or maybe I need a distraction.”
Bull puts the bottle down on the ground, and comes to stand in front of Dorian, hands on the banister bracketing his hips. “I can help with that.”
Dorian smiles. “You certainly can.” He slides his hands over the red linen coat, down Bull’s sides, resting on his waist. He slips off the banister, pressing close against Bull. “Let’s dance.”
Bull looks down at him. “Come again?”
Dorian guides him backwards a couple of steps. “Later, I promise. For now, let’s dance. The band is tolerable, the weather is decent, and if I must be surrounded by Orleasian frippery, let’s at least have fun.”
Bull lets Dorian move his hands, one on his shoulder, one held out to the side. “I’m not really--”
“Don’t worry about precision, we’re not putting on a show,” Dorian tells him. “Just follow what I do.”
Bull’s back straightens. “I know how to waltz, I just… don’t, often.”
“I never said you didn’t.” Dorian had seen him and Vivienne, twirling on the dancefloor while he was trapped in conversation with some viscount or other. He’d been scorchingly jealous. “Neither do I.”
He turns them, following the beat of the music drifting out the windows. They move gently around the courtyard, a little slower than the trilling viols suggest.
“I thought you didn’t want to,” Bull says quietly. “Or, not in front of people.”
Dorian keeps them moving. “You don’t want to dance with me in front of people.”
Bull frowns. “That’s not what I said.”
“I’d make us a spectacle. I wouldn’t be able to help myself. I’d see someone-- everyone-- watching, and I’d just--” he sighs, and leans his forehead against Bull’s chest. They stop turning, but they keep swaying. “You deserve better than that.”
“It’s okay to be embarrassed,” Bull tells him, but his tone is off.
Dorian jerks his head up. “I’m not,” he says, trying to put every ounce of surety he can muster into the words. “The last thing in the world I might be is embarrassed of you. I’m just a spoiled child who likes to push too far.”
The noise Bull makes is noncommittal. “Honestly, Dorian, I don’t buy that.”
“The things people would say-- and I would encourage them, I’m sure. Back in Tevinter--”
“This isn’t Tevinter,” Bull cuts him off.
Dorian sighs. “You’ve heard what people say about me here. You have a professional reputation to maintain, you should be making connections for future contracts. Being linked to me too publicly-- it’s not a good idea.”
Bull drops Dorian’s hand. “So this is all for my own good, not because you’re scared? You’re trying to protect me.”
Now he understands. Dorian nods.
“Fuck that. I thought we were past lying about this shit, Dorian.”
“What?” Dorian demands, punching the word out past the bile in his throat. “What exactly do you think I’m lying about?”
“I’m sure you think you don’t care what they say, but--”
“So you can read my mind now? You know my thoughts better than I know myself?” he spits, vicious. “How very Qunari of you.”
“You’re misunderstanding me on purpose,” Bull says lowly.
“No, I don’t think I am.” Dorian presses his lips together. “I was just trying to do what’s best for you.”
“That’s not up to you to decide, big guy.”
They’re not touching anymore.
Dorian is breathing heavily, hands balled tight at his side. Bull, his face in shadow, is inscrutable. A yawning void begins to crack open in Dorian's chest as they stand there, neither saying a word.
He had known that this would all come crashing down, sooner or later. He’d just hoped that he wouldn’t be such a fool as to cry, not before he was alone, where no one would hear him.
"If you don't want us to be seen together, Dorian, just say that." He can't see Bull's expression, but maybe that's one of the Maker's small mercies.
The truly awful thing is, he hadn’t seen this coming. He’d been jealous when Bull danced with others, but he’d always felt sure that Bull would come back to his bed at the end of the evening, and they’d talk and laugh kiss and eventually-- wonder of wonders-- just sleep together.
And Dorian had danced with a few insufferable Orlesians, who rushed off to their friends immediately after to crow about their scandal and bravery, but it’s not as if he actually cared about any of them. Their poor excuse for a Game was nothing more than gossip and backstabbing, but he had seen the way Bull turned away from the people who wanted to talk to him, the way his hands tightened when they called him an ox behind his back, or to his face.
The whole palace could burn to the ground and he’d only mourn the library and this garden, because for a scant few minutes, he’d been truly happy, alone with Bull.
"I don't care if people see us or not," Dorian retorts. "But I don't want you exposed to any more of their viciousness than necessary. Who knows what vile dogshit their minds would produce? The things they already say--"
Bull takes a step, towards him or away from him, Dorian isn’t sure. It doesn’t matter, because his foot lands on the forgotten cognac bottle and he hits the ground hard.
Dorian’s at his side in a moment, kneeling on the gravel path.
Bull groans. “Shit.”
“Can I touch your knee?” Dorian asks.
“Sure.” He levers himself into a sitting position. “It was the other leg, but not a bad idea to check.”
Dorian prods gently at the side of his leg and skims his hand overtop of the knee. Bull doesn’t seem pained by any of it. They sit on the ground in silence.
“I’m sorry,” Dorian finally starts.
Bull’s hand finds his own. “It’s okay, kadan.”
“It’s not,” he says. “I’ve never been embarrassed of you, or by you-- I’m embarrassed by myself. I want to dance with you, not put on a show for the court, trying to scandalize them. You’d hate it, everyone whispering and talking, and I’d react to that by being… more.”
“If they’re going to talk anyways, why not give them something to talk about?” Bull asks dryly.
“Exactly.” Dorian cautiously turns his hand to twine his fingers with Bull’s. “I thought it would be better, if it was just the two of us, if I could focus just on you. I didn’t think of how it might look to you.”
“I’m sorry too,” Bull says. “I said the wrong thing, before. I’m not sure what I was trying to say. I was… I don’t know.”
“Hurt?” Dorian offers. He sighs, and Bull echoes the noise. “This is new to me, too, you know. In Tevinter, there’s really no point explaining your feelings at all.”
“Yeah, I don’t really give a crap about Tevinter.” Bull pulls on Dorian’s hand until he’s halfway into Bull’s lap. “You know, It was sweet of you to think about my professional reputation, but if I lose a contract because someone has a stick up their ass about Vints, I never wanted it in the first place.”
Dorian chuckles. To his horror, it comes out strained and watery. He turns his face into Bull’s shoulder and takes a shaky breath. “I truly was thinking about what would be-- what would make you happy. I spend an appalling amount of time considering the subject, really.”
“Me too, big guy. Me too.” Bull’s lips press against the top of Dorian’s head.
“You make a mess of it less often,” Dorian says.
“Give it time,” Bull says. “I’m sure I’ll fuck up plenty.”
“How much time?” Dorian asks.
Bull squeezes his hand. “We’ll just have to wait and see. But a good while, I think.”
"And will we be sitting in the dirt for all of it?"
Bull laughs. "We could go inside, if you wanted."
"I'm afraid these trousers are no longer fit to be seen. I should probably remove them before I expose the Inquisition to ridicule." He doesn't move from Bull's warmth. "There's another party tomorrow night."
"There's a party every night until we leave," Bull says. "We could-- let's talk about dancing in the morning. I bet if we practice a little bit, get a routine together, we could leave 'em all speechless."