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The king hardly has a chance to speak. People flock to him like moths to a flame, huddled around his chair. Some are loud, trying to outshout each other, gesturing exuberantly. Those who choose to remain silent step no further away from him than necessary, making sure that both his cup and his plate are constantly filled to the brim. All of this just for the briefest chance of being noticed.
The king doesn’t seem bothered by the attention though. He tries his best to listen to their stories and nods a quick thanks to anyone who pours him more wine. Throughout all of this his bright, proud smile doesn’t disappear from his face even for a second.
In the midst of this chaos, he looks up to meet Iago’s eyes. And for the first time in Iago’s life, the elf finds himself flustered.
X
The evening is even more hectic than normally. The hall is crowded, flooding with people wanting to take a seat as close to the most important figures as possible.
Iago is sitting by the king’s side; meek, quiet, overwhelmed. The king isn’t overbearing, let alone impolite, yet Iago, the usual star of social gatherings, can’t bring himself to utter even a word in his presence.
And so, when the king leans in to whisper something in his ear, his hot breath tickling Iago’s cheek, the Inquisitor’s face begins to burn. He can’t focus on what’s being said, he can’t focus on anything other than how immensely abashed he is. This is… New.
A question is asked — or so he thinks, judging by the king’s tone — and Iago panics. He draws a sharp breath and turns to the man, hoping that whatever explanation he manages to come up with will be at least a little plausible, but finds himself so very close to him, their faces almost touching, that words once again get stuck in his throat.
The king seems to be used to this, has to be, as there’s barely any reaction to Iago’s absurd behavior. He simply smiles, gentler this time. “I think we should speak in a more…” He looks around the hall. “Private setting. Perhaps once dinner is finished?”
“Yes,” Iago says, at last, in the tiniest voice possible. “I’d like that.”
X
The Inquisitor’s quarters, guarded by some of Iago’s most trusted men, are where they retreat, hoping not to be bothered, at least for a while.
The climb up the endless stairs leading to the top of the tower is completely silent, save for their footsteps, reverberating off the old stone walls. As they make their way up, Iago is frantically trying to come up with something to say, something reasonable that won’t upset the king. Of course, he could tell him the truth — that he doesn’t remember the last time a man has charmed him so much that he would forget how to speak any language he knows — but should anyone dare say something like this to the king?
They arrive before the last set of stairs and Iago still has nothing. The king may be friendly — a Fereldan thing, Iago suspects — but even his amiability has to have its limits. And how awfully must it seem when the Inquisitor himself continues to be completely noiseless, while the commoners refuse to stop their constant stream of words? He should be the one speaking, the one holding a conversation with the king — a courteous one, at the very least — but he can only blush when the king as much as turns to him with a smile.
The door closes behind the two of them and Iago’s mind is blank. He looks at the king, his heart racing, pounding so hard as if it’s trying to break out of his rib cage, and he’s wishing a rift would open up right under his feet and swallow him whole. Being torn apart by demons doesn’t sound nearly as terrible as making a fool out of himself in front of the king.
And then, a glimmer of hope; a question so unexpected that it makes Iago’s eyes go wide.
“Did I offend you somehow?” the king asks bluntly.
Iago’s heart skips a beat so abruptly that he feels a sting in his chest. He’s left with no time to contemplate — he has to answer now.
“What? No! Of course not, it’s just…” he looks away, unable to meet the king’s eyes. “You’re so kind and— And so, so handsome I just… I’m not myself around you.”
The king sighs, seemingly with relief, and smiles softly. Iago isn’t sure how to understand it, until the man speaks again. “I could say the same.”
Iago’s confusion has no end. Is he hearing right? He can’t be. Or perhaps his knowledge of the common tongue is much worse than he thought. He pouts, once again unsure how to progress. Why must dealing with nobility be so exceedingly troublesome?
“You...” he begins, his fingers picking at the cuffs of his shirt nervously. “You think I’m… Handsome?”
This one time it’s not pride that makes him ask this question; he doesn’t expect to be admired and praised. This one time, he doesn’t believe the compliment.
“Did I— Did I say that out loud?” Alistair pinches the bridge of his nose. “Well, I have to say it now, don’t I? So… Yes. Yes, you are. I mean— My advisors did tell me a lot about you and your accomplishments, but it seems that they forgot to mention how beautiful you are. I wish they didn’t, though, I wouldn’t be so— Maker’s breath, I’m babbling.” Alistair shakes his head with a long overdue exhale. “I apologize, Inquisitor.”
“Iago.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I’d be honored if you could use my name instead of the title.”
“Oh… Yes, I’d like that. But it goes both ways, of course, so please, call me Alistair.”
Iago’s stomach twists, like there’s a rampant swarm of butterflies in his insides. The king is smiling at him again, plainly but genuinely. How is he so effortlessly alluring?
He detests how much Alistair’s charm is affecting him. His usually unparallelled charisma was gone the moment the king entered Skyhold and there’s no perspective for its return anytime soon. He has to put an end to this farce. Now.
“I think you can go safely now.” He wishes his voice wouldn’t sound so bitter. “Everyone should be gone from the hall by now. Unless…” A soulful pause. He’s always been easily seduced by the thrill of the inappropriate. “Unless you’d like to stay, of course.”
Alistair doesn’t say anything. His intense stare is enough to tell Iago that the king is anticipating how the situation will develop.
“I have a bottle of wine stashed somewhere,” Iago continues, wanting to get his words out before anxiousness catches up to him. “I know some hilarious jokes, and…” The following sentence should never leave his mouth. “My outfit is very easy to remove.”
Alistair forces the air caught in his lungs out, his cheeks puffed, arms crossed over his chest, before sitting down on the nearest chair with an unreadable expression.
The weight of Iago’s own words is heavy on his shoulders — he thinks that’s why his knees are beginning to give in. He knows what he wants, what he’s been wanting since he lied his eyes on Alistair for the first time as the king was passing the main gate, but now… Now he begins to think that he shouldn’t want it.
He wipes his sweaty hands on his pants, chewing on his lower lip. Each second the silence drags on for feels like eternity.
“I think…” Alistair finally speaks. “I think we should start with the wine.” His voice is full of doubt, yet the he chooses to continue. “But I'd like to try the other two… Entertainments as well.”
X
Alistair chuckles as Iago places yet another kiss at his collarbone, the elf’s hair tickling his skin.
“So,” Iago begins, “how are we going to explain that the king is sneaking out of the Inquisitor's quarters?”
Alistair nuzzles against Iago’s neck with a sound resembling a purr. His embrace tightens, warm hands pressing to Iago’s waist, sweat making it needlessly hard to grip. “I’m trying not to think about it,” he whispers against his skin.
Alistair may not be thinking about it, but Iago is. He’s thinking three steps ahead, trying to come up with a way to sneak the king past the curious gazes and something convincing to say, in case they get caught.
“Don’t worry about it too much,” Alistair says as he pulls away to look the elf in the eyes. “I won’t leave you alone with this.”
“Thank you.” Iago’s lips twitch and soon curl into a smirk. “We can always tell them…” He pushes the king to lie on his back and crawls over to straddle him. “That we’ve been discussing the possible outcomes of the Kingdom of Ferelden invading the Inquisition. Or rather…” He leans down. “The Inquisitor.”
Alistair bursts into laughter, his hands moving to rest on Iago’s thighs. The elf can’t help but to chuckle as well, hearing Alistair’s sincere laugh, feeling the king’s chest rumble underneath his palms.
“An invasion ? Really?” Alistair asks, trying to calm his breathing.
“Yes! Though right now…” Iago arches his back, tilting his head to the side. “We should work on strengthening our alliance.”
Alistair’s grip of Iago’s legs tightens. “Again?”
“We should work on it all night long. Very hard and very—”
Alistair snickers again, having to look away to stop himself from laughing again. The king may be amused, but Iago can tell that he is in the mood to work on their alliance. He can feel it , when he shifts his hips.
Iago straightens up, hair cascading over his shoulders. With the only source of light in the room being a candelabra somewhere behind him, it almost looks like a halo. He looks…Ethereal.
It’s Alistair’s turn to be flustered.