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The Free Marcher’s head rests in the Tevinter’s lap, bruised and bloody, as Dorian works to clean it with an embroidered handkerchief and lukewarm water. Dorian grumbles, wondering why he puts up with the reckless man before him who thought it apt to throw himself in front of multiple Red Templars to defend him. Again.
It was sweet at first, the slight possibility that Matthieu cared for him beyond their recently rekindled friendship. But then he kept doing it, and kept doing it. Every time they came across adversaries now there was the danger: the fear that Matthieu was going to be too reckless in defending him, that Matthieu was going to push himself too far this time, and that Matthieu was going to get himself killed for real. Maker knows, that’s what the Inquisitor wants. It’s not a secret to anyone in Skyhold.
And it eats away at the Altus like a poison. It was so much easier when all that was left between them was hate and anger, there were no tangled threads or contradictions. Now there’s care and the inklings of dare he say it, love, and it’s becoming too much to bear. He had almost lost Matthieu entirely at Adamant, and the fear that he will lose him again is the only thing that propels him to volunteer for these horrific little adventures all over the South. What if he’s not there?
And he almost lost him today, his injuries make that abundantly clear. The Inquisitor is more delicate than he is, yet here he goes thinking he’s some sort of knight, it’s preposterous and frustrating and oh so Matthieu. The blonde tries to swat at him as Dorian washes off the blood on his face, careful not to harm the nose which may or may not be broken by the looks of it. Dorian looks down at him condescendingly and wipes the man’s face with one hand while defending the onslaught of Matthieu’s own with the other. Matthieu fumbles like a petulant child, “Dorian. Please .”
“No. I’ve already dirtied my best handkerchief, and I owe it to the delicate embroidery to finish the job,” He retorts as he wrings said handkerchief out over the bucket of water and wets it again. Matt tries to grab it from him, but he seems to be in too much pain to even muster the energy to move to be threatening.
He rolls his eyes and lets out a slight smirk. “So this is about the handkerchief then?” Good. The mage has some life in him, but did he really need to push him in the moment? That’s a question for the ages.
“Well, it’s certainly not about you, is it?” Dorian says as he swats the Matthieu with the wet handkerchief on his shoulder before getting back to work. Of course, it’s about him.
“I don’t know, you’re the one caressing my face with it,” Matthieu says as he looks up at the Altus with a pleased look in those enchanting blue eyes. When it seems as he finds his sparring partner is trying to not flush, Matthieu lifts his hands and rests his arms behind his head, before settling back down in Dorian’s lap.
He ignores this, making himself busy with ensuring that the man’s face is clear. It is aside from a split in the mage’s lip that he has been avoiding for no reason in particular. He had tried to graze over it with the cloth before which cleaned some of the fresher blood, but not one spot that had dried and mixed with whatever dirt and sod that got in there when the Inquisitor was downed. Dorian sets the handkerchief down for a moment and runs a finger over Matthieu’s upper lip, only because he needed to apply more pressure and the handkerchief was very dirty and could contaminate something. If the Inquisitor got an infection on account of his poor medical hygiene, it would severely damage his reputation and stir more rumors he is trying to kill Matthieu as the evil magister from the North. He couldn’t have that , he tries to convince himself as he grazes over his exceedingly soft lip with a wet finger and what little is left of the soap he always brought into the field.
He’s certain he’s breathing heavier than a wounded Mabari right now and tries to avoid Matthieu’s watchful gaze. The man is analyzing him and seemingly enjoying watching him falter above him. The more he works at the Free Marcher’s lips the more his thoughts begin to wander. Dangerously. He must chastise himself for even beginning to think of other things right now, as the mage’s head and arms are indeed in the Altus’ lap and Matthieu would never let him live that sort of thing down.
Thankfully, Matthieu eventually closes his eyes, relaxing into Dorian’s touch and Altus’ wandering hand that has moved away from holding his face still and up the back of his neck, lightly fingering through his tresses. He shouldn’t be doing this. Matthieu could very well be dying, but it seems as if his hand has a mind of its own. But it’s not as if the other mage seems to mind, the hums below him tell him than that much. He cannot help but feel warmed at the thought of this being his doing, that Matthieu who had once scorned his every look, comment, and touch was finding solace in him once more.
Then, the gentle kiss pressed to his fingertips sends a shock through his system, far worse than any Energy Barrage could. It was a simple brush, nothing more, but he is the recipient at this moment and it’s as if he can feel nothing but the lingering shadow of their touch. He pulls his hand away quickly as he can, this sort of affection between them is forbidden and they both know it. Yet, with each moment like this, each minuscule slip-up more loving than the last, he’s tempted by the fruit all the more.
“What was that?” He bites out in a manner that sounds less disturbed and more wistful than he would have wanted. Composure seems to be lost on him as he knows he sounds like a single brush of lips to skin has rendered him breathier than an evening of lovemaking.
“A kiss,” Matthieu states in a matter of fact matter, as if what just happened between them was as regular as the sun.
“Thank you for the dearly needed clarification on that,” Dorian grumbles, trying to find his footing despite being firmly seated on the ground and endeavoring to make sarcasm his salvation once again.
“Could it have been anything else?” He smugly retorts. Fuck this man, in every sense of the word.
“Vishante Kaffas ,” Dorian groans as he places his recently blessed fingers to the bridge of his nose.
“I’m thanking you Dor’, nothing less, nothing more,” he says with a smile as he closes his eyes once more, content with rousing him in such a way, “Try not to get your hopes up.”
“That’s implying there were any to begin with,” Dorian says with a huff as he tries to make himself busy with other things. Anything other than gazing upon the handsome visage before him. Anything other than indulging those hopes that they have something more and wondering if each kiss, each word, each brush, and each look means something. He wants it to, more than he’s ever wanted something in awhile, and he is nothing if not a very frivolous and needy man.
He wants to take these soft lips into his. He wants to grab fistfuls of this hair in the throes of passion. He wants to be looked upon with these blue eyes with wanton wanting. He wants this hand with the Anchor to anchor him, holding him closely and daring to never let go. He wants so much, but knows he shan’t hope lest it turn to the Despair the man before him knows so well.
“Hush. Just bandage my face, won’t you?” He says with a soft smile that sends, yet another pang to his chest. The man beneath himself has surrendered himself completely to the mage’s healing hands that have seen and caused more hurt than anyone deserves. Yet, Matthieu is still happy with him and keeping up a repartee with him. And wanting his touch, even if it is for practicality alone. The more he thinks, the more it aches: How incredibly close they are and yet so incredibly far as they stand on the precipice afraid to falter.
“And if you want to play with my hair, once more, who am I to deny you,” Matthieu says with a light laugh as he relaxes further into the Altus who is finding himself increasingly tense. Matthieu Sebastian Trevelyan had made it his modus operandi to make Dorian of House Pavus meet his end. Whether he intends to do it in this fashion or not is beyond him, but by the Maker is it working.