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The Four Times Dorian Pavus Thought He Was In Love, And The One Time He Knew for Sure (And Was Loved In Return).
The first was a pure accident.
He helped him rid the Chantry of demons, the scruffy, scarred face of the Inquisitor coming into view as he was helping him up off of the floor after the shockwave of closing the rift had knocked him back. The scars were interesting, one curving like a fishing hook over his cheek and to his bottom lip on the left, one over the right side of his top lip, drawing the Tevinter’s attention to the pink, chapped lips almost embarrassingly so. There was a few more on the right side of his face, like the one on his upper cheek, one sliced through his eyebrow and down his cheek while one more hid in the shaved hair on the side of his head. He wondered where the man, the mage, the proclaimed Herald of Andraste had received them.
“Are you alright?” he asked, big, strong hand still holding onto his forearm in case he was to topple over again.
Sweet Maker, that voice.
The second was a surprise.
The Inquisitor, ‘Noah’ as he had learned was his name, was covered in Venatori blood. One of the zealots had gotten too close, and he’d speared the man on the sharp edge of his staff, shoving them backwards with a foot and getting covered in viscera and blood in the process. He had laughed, spitting out the bit of blood that had managed to get onto his teeth. Even covered in muck and guts, he was a gorgeous man, and Dorian watched him wipe his face with his hands, realizing nothing was truly clean on his person.
A warmth filled the mage, and it took him aback. They’d come all the way out here so he could be with him as he killed Venatori. That action alone had made him ecstatic, but this feeling was not something he’d felt in a very, very long time.
He doubted he would get over it easy, but he would not act on it unless the Inquisitor showed interest first.
The third, he knew he was in too deep.
He’d been attempting to retrieve his birthright, and the man he’d sold it to was not making it easy for him to get it back. It was a few weeks after Noah had accompanied him to meet with his father, a few weeks since they’d shared that kiss in the library against the bookshelves to hide from the few curious eyes around at the moment. He’d begun calling him amatus, beloved, and the Inquisitor had yet to ask what it meant. Dorian was glad; he was willing to say the word but perhaps not the meaning as of yet. Exposing too much too soon could be disastrous.
The moment his Inquisitor laid the heavy amulet in his palm, he searched his expression for any devious thoughts or malicious intentions in his crystalline blue eyes.
‘A trademark of those Trevelyans,’ he thought to himself as he gazed at the other man, garnering a smile from the bulkier mage, ‘and Maker preserve me but I love them for it.’
The fourth he almost said it.
Adamant fortress was hell if he’d ever known it. Demons everywhere, blood magic abounding and Noah falling through a fucking fade rift. A fucking fade rift! He got out, thankfully enough, but it’d sent Dorian in a rage for a few hours. He should be with him, for fuck’s sake. But there had been enough blood magic done by those wardens that having a Tevinter mage help with the assault…
It wasn’t that the Inquisitor didn’t trust him, considering they were currently having relations with each other, but he didn’t want anyone to personally come after Dorian for anything that could happen. The South sure did like to play the blame game on mages from Tevinter.
When Noah fell back out of that rift, Dorian could’ve punched him. He did, but he did it with his mouth on his and tears running down his face once he had stumbled out of that keep like a wounded dog because for fuck’s sake you could’ve died you stupid ass how dare you. The Herald just held him, squeezing the smaller mage until he was less furious, his angry, shaky words turning into murmured praises to their Maker that he was returned alive, albeit a bit worse for wear.
The fifth they were safe.
Corypheus was a thing of the past. Past meaning five hours ago, but nevertheless. Noah held him close as they laid on his bed, the celebration going on below them heading into the wee hours of the morning but going just as strong as it had when it begun. The pair had ducked out an hour into the party for some time alone, and it was murmured in the healing touches and whispered in Dorian holding a little tighter, kissing a little harder. It went unspoken, but his amatus knew he was loved, and Dorian knew he returned it in the soft touches to his face, open kisses over his heart and pecks to his nose and forehead.
Dorian Pavus knew four times he was in love with Noah Trevelyan, but the fifth time he let himself fall and was caught and held and cherished and reassured that he was loved in return.