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Everyone had been run ragged with preparations for the upcoming ball at the Empress’ Winter Palace the Inquisition was making an appearance at. It seems as if every tailor, draper, diplomat, and political hand in Southern Thedas had gathered in Skyhold to ensure that their dear Inquisitor does not catastrophically mess up what might very well be the most important evening of his life. The Altus had barely seen the Free Marcher among the insanity, considering how much time Matthieu spent being scolded in etiquette, dancing, and diplomacy lessons with the Lady Ambassador and Sister Nightingale. Not that he had noticed, at all.
Matthieu had invited him to Halamshiral, but it was only on account of the Altus being a noble and knowing how to handle himself at such functions. And Maker, would it kill the Free Marcher to believe that any of their interactions were about more than propriety and duty. He had thought that after they started to finally overcome their differences that Matthieu would finally be more open in his affections with him, but this is very much not the case. It feels as if that former heat between them is all but gone, and it pains him to even think that their blind hatred is better than this awkward discomfort as they try to maneuver around one another.
Dorian thinks Matthieu had loved him once, in so much that an eleven-year-old can love anyone. And Dorian him. He does not think he will ever love him again, nor should he. He knows far too well that it’s better to let bygones be. Better that than sowing all his false hopes and reaping only his broken heart. But then he would catch a longing stare or manage to elicit a laugh from the broken man and he is beside himself again. It aches: Every stolen moment in the library, every brush of longing fingers, every syllable from a honeyed tongue, every witty repartee they kept up through veiled smiles. He hates that he allowed it to get this far. It is a mistake that he believed he had hardened himself to after enough times of being let down. Yet, here he was, falling all over again as if time had not passed, rendered again the yearning adolescent he was when Matthieu captured his heart all those years ago.
Thankfully, he had enough imported wine to drown out the feelings with and enough people to help him ignore the desperate need that pulled at his soul this and all evenings of the late. Tonight, Varric had convinced the Inquisitor, Josephine, and himself that they all needed a break from the Halamshiral preparations and should play Wicked Grace together. Well, they were supposed to, Matthieu and the Lady Ambassador have been running quite late, and at this point, it is not the fashionable kind.
Speaking of the Demon himself, Matthieu bounds into the Herald’s Rest with the Lady Ambassador in toe, both looking flushed and breathy, presumably from their run over here. Hopefully, from their run over here. Matthieu runs a hand through his slightly more-tousled than usual hair, not that he noticed , and remarks, “So sorry, we’re late. I might have neglected to keep track of time.”
“Any reason for that, Blue?” Varric says with a smirk. Matthieu pulls out a chair at the table for Josephine to take while the Lady Ambassador unclasps her cloak. It didn’t seem to be her usual style, the heavy blacks, and deep greens are different but not unbecoming on her compared to the usual warm tones she usually draped herself in. But since when does she sport feathers on anything but the ever-present quill in her hand. Oh.
That is the Altus’ cloak. Well, no. It wasn’t his per se, it’s Matthieu’s, but he had grown rather fond of the extravagant little thing in Emprise du Lion, so much so that it might as well have been his. Tevinter temperate climate had not prepared him for Southern weather, which is one of the biggest banes of his little stint with the Inquisition. This is second only to the man at its head, and the Free Marcher seemed to enjoy traveling to some of the South’s most inhospitable regions. Emprise du Lion was no different, and trudging through snow for hours on end in less than suitable attire for the weather was exactly what he did not wish to be doing with his time.
There was nothing fun about their little excursion to Sahrnia and the only good thing about it was when Matthieu had seen him suffering and offered his cloak to the Altus for the afternoon. It is, in fact, the very same cloak that is draped across the Lady Ambassador. When he tried to return the cloak that evening, Matthieu had remarked, “Well, greens suit your complexion better and it is much more becoming on your figure than mine. Besides, I’d rather you not freeze to death on my account. Think of the rumors.” For the duration of their time in Emprise du Lion Dorian shrouded himself in the mage’s cloak surrounded by the warmth of its furs and the scent of its owner. Natural musk mingles with the Lyrium from casting, elfroot from healing, and salt from crying to embrace his senses, and if for a moment, the Altus can imagine how the real sensation must feel.
He’s attached to that slightly abhorrent piece of fabric, and by the Maker why is the Lady Ambassador wearing it? There is, no doubt, a chill in the air. It is, after all, the Frostbacks in wintertime and the Tevinter and Antiva climates are similar enough. But that cloak certainly isn’t necessary if he isn’t pitching a fit. It just isn’t .
As she drapes it over the chair, it falls low enough that the delicately embroidered hem could potentially be dirtied by the Tavern’s grime. But it’s not his cloak. Josephine smiles at everyone, “Heirs to Thedosian noble houses need to know how to waltz. It’s a matter of honor. In fact, our representative should be prepared to not trip over the Empress’ feet.”
Matthieu looks at Josephine with a playfully perturbed look on his face as if he's scandalized by her revealing something she shouldn’t have. She lets out a small laugh and the Altus has had enough of it before snidely remarking, “I take it that our dear Inquisitor is out of practice. Typical .”
“Now. Now. I don’t believe I’ve danced in almost two decades, can you blame me?” Matthieu lightly scoffs as he rolls his eyes at the Altus. He adds with a smile in Lady Montilyet’s way, “I’m just glad I had a thorough teacher. Thank the Maker we’re going to the Duke de Montfort’s ball before my talents grace the Winter Palace.”
If Matthieu hadn’t danced in almost two decades had his last ball been that night? Dear Maker, had the Circle been that stifling? Though he dare not imagine that Matthieu would even want to be reminded of the evening that changed his life’s trajectory for the worse evermore. If only he hadn’t fawned over Matthieu’s cousin, then they would have likely studied in Tevinter together. Matthieu would have never been sent to the Conclave and they’d probably have been together in the way he desires, albeit secretly, for years now if things had worked out between him. Every fiber of his being curses the foolish adolescent he was that got them here today in a mediocre tavern with abhorrent drink and Matthieu being mesmerized with the Lady Ambassador.
“Varric, deal us in, won’t you?” With a nod from the dwarf who starts dealing the hands to everyone, Matthieu goes to the bar to grab a drink for the evening. As he does this, The Lady Ambassador puts down the starting bet for both herself and Matthieu. With a smile on his face, Matthieu returns to the table, two glasses in hand, and approaches the back of Josephine’s chair. He snakes her glass to her side and places a light kiss to her hair.
She warmly thanks him, before noticing the Inquisitor trying to sneak a peek at the cards in her hand. She lightly swats him and looks at him incredulously, “Matt, what did I tell—”
“Rule of Etiquette Number Fifty-Seven: A cheat at cards is a natural. A noticeable cheat at cards is a scandal,” he says with a light snort as he takes his seat to pick up his hand.
Matt? The high and mighty Matthieu Sebastian Trevelyan answering to Matt again is certainly news to him. Nobody is allowed to call him that, which he’s made abundantly clear on several occasions. Every time he’s tried, even since becoming closer with the man, the Altus has been shut down.
Yet here he is, answering Lady Montilyet with no hesitation as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Dorian respects Josephine, more than most people in the Inquisition. She without a doubt carries the whole organization on her shoulders and compensates for most of the leadership’s insolence. All this being said, and with all due respect, how is she the only one he’s bestowed this honor on. He would be more than willing to teach Matthieu etiquette and waltzing if that’s apparently what it takes. It’s just been so many months, and the Inquisitor hasn't caved to him. It's not as if the Ambassador braved the fade with them. It’s preposterous.
“That—” Josephine looks at him in disbelief as he smirks wildly at her with a twinkle in his eyes, “That is correct?”
“When aren’t I, my dear?” He says with a smile as he looks back to the table who are all sharply focused on his flirtations with Josephine. To try and redirect Matthieu’s attention the Altus goes to say something, but he’s cut off by a wagging finger, “Don’t answer, Pavus.” Oh, so he’s Pavus again and the lady is ‘my dear.’ Perfect.
Dorian had thought he’d been assured that Matthieu only was interested in men. That being said, that was going off what he knew of an eleven-year-old and the few moments he could arouse frustration and potentially something more in the mage. Other than that he was as lost as anyone else on the man’s sexual preferences which nobody seemed to have quite figured out, but if this is any indication, he might as well admit defeat.
He spends every round trying to focus on his hand, but can only focus on his. He cannot unsee the arm lazily draped around her shoulder and idly fiddling with the puffs of her sleeves with the hand not holding his cards. And Kaffas is it there another draft in here? If he was a few more ales in he would try and snag the cloak, but he has some decency and can simply try to allow the thinly veiled jealousy warm him instead.
The Free Marcher keeps trying to take a look at her hand and she scolds him, uttering “Matt” or “Matthieu Sebastian” under her breath. The syllables uttered are stolen from their usual place at his lips and come out of hers, claiming the rare smiles from the Inquisitor that should have been his. He’s never seen Matthieu like this, the man is so frustratingly averse to any sort of touch. Dorian had to warn him every time he tried and heal the insufferable man so that Matthieu didn’t shudder and hurt himself or his internally bleeding organs more in the process. Yet, here he is, a completely different man around the Ambassador to the point where this public display is beyond sickening. Maybe Matthieu is drunk? He has to be. He gets slightly touchier when he’s drunk. He’s just latching on to her because she’s nearby. That’s it. Please make that it.
At this rate, he’s losing money, but at this point, he doesn’t care. Varric can increase the Altus’ already astronomical debt based on his poorly placed betting decisions as long as it just ends the game quicker. He needs to leave, preferably soon, and reunite with a dear companion, better known as a Sun-Blonde Vint-1, so he can forget the blonde across from him. The blonde who is definitely not fondling the Ambassador’s forearm absentmindedly and looking at her like a lost Mabari this evening.
It is not often that Dorian had wanted to be somebody else, he likes himself very much and so did an abundance of his ex-lovers. Or so they said, but that’s beside the point. Tonight ? Tonight he wishes he was Ambassador. To be caressed with those soft, yet scarred hands’ gentle touch and to be looked upon with more affection than the Maker looks at his Bride. It’s as if he’s mesmerized by a Desire Demon’s trance, but it’s just Josephine. Lovely little Josephine.
It’s impossible to even dislike the Lady Ambassador. She is the only thing that keeps this incompetent organization together and looks good doing it. However, today is the closest he feels he will ever get to hating the woman, not because there’s anything wrong with her, but because there is everything wrong with him. She’s practically perfect in every way and her optimism, elegance, and cordiality would pair perfectly with Matthieu’s pessimism, ineptitude, and brooding. They say opposites attract and as much as he hates to admit it, Matthieu and himself both were so dreadfully similar: pride, masks, pariahs, and all. He could see why Matthieu would be drawn to her light like a moth to a flame to escape the all-consuming darkness of his mind. He would only bring Matthieu closer to the darkness: The fact that Matthieu has a Despair Demon named after him already has told him that much.
As Josephine giggles at whispered jokes, he feels the Varric’s stare weigh heavier upon him. It is clear to anyone with eyes, apparently, that he has been gone for quite some time on the Free Marcher. Everyone but Matthieu that is, unless he knew and didn’t care enough to reciprocate his longing. If he did know he should at least have the decency enough to let the Altus know so that he does not chase an empty promise for however long he’s in the South.
It isn’t as if he didn’t have other options, more than a few people including the Iron Bull had expressed interest in him. But he doesn’t want those options, he could not imagine anyone else at this point, yet it seems as Matthieu would just as well forget him entirely. The second time is apparently not the charm when it comes courting your spurned childhood paramour. It seems as if he’s moved on to much better people for him. Matthieu had no happiness in his life. The Altus wishes he could give Matthieu this, but he cannot concede this as the envy claws at his insides like Terror’s talons.
After they’ve played enough games to make his financial prospects as dead as he’s feeling at the moment, it seems as if the Lady Ambassador wishes to turn in for the night and the Altus thanks the Maker. He dearly wishes Matthieu will stick around, so he can test his hypothesis. The man has had two and three-quarters drinks, neglecting any he had shared with his dear lady before coming to the tavern. If he is lucky and can get the blonde cornered, Matthieu might even offer to kiss his hand like that one drunken evening, so many months ago. He was a fool to refuse it, as he can’t even relive the ghost of those lips’ touch on his knuckles. He can only imagine it, but by the Maker he needed to know. He knows Matthieu is drunk and he shan’t not take advantage of him, but a single grazing of the mage’s delicate touch would be enough. Just something, anything to indicate that Matthieu is not lost on him forever.
But all too soon, his hopes are dashed in a heartbeat as a flushed red and slightly tipsy Matthieu dramatic bows. “Please allow me to escort you to your quarters, milady Montilyet,” he slurs ridiculously, taking Josephine’s hand into his and pressing a kiss to it. She lets out a small laugh before turning to grab the cloak. That should be him.
Matthieu doesn’t even take notice of anyone else in the room, but it’s not as if he has all evening. He just follows her lithe frame with his eyes lovingly as if she is the only thing in the world handsome enough to tempt him. And she is. He shouldn’t be watching, knowing he’ll have but committed these images to memory if he doesn’t drown them in drink later this evening. But he allows himself to feel the knife already lodged in him twist as she takes his arm. The more he watches, the more he can try to end this disillusion that there is even an inkling of hope for him and the object of his longing. It won’t work. He spends every night trying to no avail, but mayhaps this will finally do the trick and end this torment.
As the door of the Herald’s Rest shuts he lets out a heavy sigh of relief. The bartender should be thankful for his constitution and decency, if he was a lesser man the tavern would be but ash by now.
“Thank the Maker. I thought they’d never leave,” Dorian bitterly remarks as he downs more of another piss poor dwarven ale. How many he’s had this evening he doesn’t quite remember, but at this point he’s quite beyond caring.
“At least he’s laying off you, Sparkler. Here I thought you’d be happy,” Varric says eyeing the Altus. Oh, he’s very aware that Matthieu is not paying him any mind of the late. He need not be reminded. As Dorian groans into his tankard, the dwarf lets out a laugh, “Wait. You don’t mean to tell me you’re upset?”
“I’m displeased by how much coin you’ve robbed me of tonight if that’s what you’re asking,” he waves off, stumbling to get up from his seat at the wretched table.
“I’m aware of that much,” he says with a chuckle before changing his tone to something more curious, “So, Blue and Ruffles.” Oh, he is not having this.
“If you mean to get a drunken confession out of me for your substandard creative endeavors, I implore you to find someone more willing,” Dorian says with another groan as he places a hand to his temple to nurse what is likely to be a mind-splitting headache.
“So there is a confession then?” Varric says with a smirk as he points a quill that seems to have come from nowhere at him.
“ Fasta Vass, ” he curses as he dismisses himself from Varric and the tavern without another word. He’s thankful he has been hoarding a small store of spirits in his quarters as it is unlikely he’ll want to grace the Herald’s Rest until he can purge himself of this evening’s imagery. Whether or not he has enough vices to do so remains to be seen, but that is a problem for future him to solve if he survives the onslaught of substance.
If nothing else, he must remember to not attend any future events with the Lady Ambassador and Inquisitor in attendance. Matthieu’s hatred almost drove him from the Inquisition after the events of Redcliffe, but a selfish part of him knows that this could seal the deal. Then again, if he does this right, he will forget that too. Maker give him the strength.