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Matthieu Trevelyan awakes in an altogether familiar bedroom in an Orlesian estate. He had spent much of the previous night here in this very room at Chateau Haine, the estate of Duke Cyril de Montfort. During the ball, despite Josephine’s insistence, he did not appear for several hours into court which really did wonders for the already fragile name of the Inquisition. However, considering he was fighting off the temptations of a Despair Demon in order to not throw himself off the balcony, he thinks he had done alright all things considered.
The Despair Demons were normal, they had been his constant companions for almost five years now, and he doubted any sign of their disappearance in the near or even distant future. Being the Herald only compounded these fears which led to these mental onslaughts as he consistently struggled to do a single thing correctly. He knows he is better off dead after all he’s done and he has failed to do, but the only reason he hasn’t abominated yet is that he cannot allow Thedas to burn because of his insolence. If it was only him deciding, he would have chosen to perish at the Conclave and he has a feeling after they defeat Corypheus and he is of no use again he will finish what should have happened when he is no longer of use to the world. Not that he ever had been, quite frankly, and it isn’t him they want, it’s the anchor, which just so happens to be attached to the ticking time bomb that was the perpetually haunted Matthieu Sebastian Trevelyan.
His short time out at the ball last night had shown him enough, considering he quite literally almost ruined several diplomatic connections beyond all repair because he was jealous of Dorian blighted Pavus again. Dorian who could charm an entire room with a single smile and insinuation, who would handle politics and parlor talk with such poise and decorum, and who did not notice him for a moment. The Altus should have been the Herald, he is much better suited to be a figurehead and altogether more stable than he was. Besides, people actually like Dorian, people only put up with him.
And he loves Dorian. He had for what was almost two decades now. His years of repressing and trying to build up hatred had done him a disservice the moment the Altus walked back into his life. For some strange reason, beyond his comprehension, Dorian hadn’t left despite how terribly they had treated one another for those two short months before becoming friends again. And now that they are friends again, he is undone. He never thought he would have this second chance with the only person he had ever felt things beyond friendly platitudes for, and here he is again.
It’s why he acted out last night and showed his vindictive side to the undeserving: he couldn’t lose Dorian again. He cannot lose him to some one-evening indulgence of a carnal fascination, not after how hard they had worked to get here. There are rumors the two of them were lovers since the beginning and he would give almost anything to make them true, but he cannot. He cannot break what they have just built especially when Dorian has never spoken to him in the frank manner the Altus was propositioning people with the previous evening. Nobody had ever wanted him, and the last person who would is Lord Pavus, that much he knows to be true, but it didn’t mean the one inkling of hope left in his soul on the subject did not wish to fight.
He doesn’t remember much of what he said or did as his head still feels like a complete blur after downing almost four glasses of kaffas wine in a short span of time, when he is known to get inebriated off just the one. And he certainly doesn’t remember how he got to this settee and why he is in the still asleep Tevinter’s embrace.
They were fully clothed and if he remembered anything of the previous evening, he is certain it would be if anything at all happened between them. They had never kissed, let alone anything beyond that, so why is he here? Especially after he had been such an arse last night and brought down the entire party per usual. He supposes that this is the reason he wasn’t assaulted in the Fade when he slept, considering he was intoxicated and not alone. But still, why is he here?
Dorian could have his pick of anyone at that party for the night and it would be well earned and completely expected, but he’s here with the worst option in the Chateau. Why? He doesn’t care in that way, he couldn’t so he must just be trying to be a good friend. But then again, good friends don’t wake up tangled in one another’s arms after balls. The Altus wanted other men last night, he made that abundantly clear to Matthieu last night. Why is he here?
He would never ask Dorian, it would be improper of him and he wouldn’t ever hear the end of it. Besides, then the Altus might presume that the Free Marcher still harbored affections for him after all this time and things would become uncomfortable between them once more. Matthieu would just write it off as another unexplained evening in the books, such as the one night when a hopelessly inebriated Lord Pavus relentlessly flirted with and propositioned him, likely out of desperation and forgetting his standards. He wonders if he did take the Tevinter up that evening if things would be much different, he at least wouldn’t be trying to figure out what they were and why they were here this and all other mornings.
As Matthieu ponders, he feels the Altus stir behind him, causing him to go almost rigid in place. He shuts his eyes once more, trying not to move, and works to steady his breathing so that Dorian does not now know he has been awake all this time. The half-awake man slurs, “Good morn—” behind him, before he utters “ Kaffas” as he frantically separates himself from the Inquisitor. Matthieu tries not to move as the man springs off the settee and lets out a frustrated groan as he paces back and forth across the floor as if disparaging himself for waking up in such a compromising position with him of all people. And honestly, Matthieu doesn’t blame him. He would be upset too.
He feels the Altus’ eyes pore him, but he knows he dare not move and dare not breathe, in fear of scaring him off. What Matthieu doesn’t expect is feeling a hand brush back his hair and a tender kiss placed on his forehead or another hand gently squeezing his forearm before it is quickly torn away. The Herald feels his heart beat wildly in his chest and prays the Altus pays him no mind as he crosses the room and places himself elsewhere. Why? As he tries to find himself, he hears the loose leafing of pages turn, meaning the Altus is reading some thing or another and had not left him already. Why?
He sits for a few minutes before he can bear the faking no longer, especially not as he inhales the scent of old vellum, fine wine, and sandalwood still surrounds him. He lets out a forced yawn as he arises from the settee and finds the mage on the bed behind him. The Altus lowers his book down and smirks at the Herald saying, “At last, Thedas’ favorite embarrassment is awake.”
And Matthieu is still left with one burning question: Why?