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“You look terrible,” his voice says as Matthieu walks through the library in a complete state of disarray. Lovely. He really just needed Pavus of all people here right not to improve his Maker-forsaken morning.
This was the seventh meeting on the whole Winter Palace situation and how to handle it with ‘delicacy.’ If he has another lecture from the Lady Ambassador on how to act like a proper diplomat to look forward to, he would honestly prefer to just jump off his Skyhold balcony. He loves Josie to death, but is definitely wondering if Thedas is worth it anymore. He’s so infuriated with all cordiality this and chess games that. It’s moments like this he thanks the Maker he isn’t the eldest son, but Andraste preserve him.
Matthieu turns to glare at Dorian, who is reading some tome in Tevene in his little library nook. Matthieu curses himself for not remembering to avoid the floor when on his way to speak with Leliana. He knows walking through this area is asking for it, yet here is. Maybe it’s because having spats with his lovely Tevinter ally was the only sense of normalcy in his life, but he would never stroke Dorian’s ego to let him think that.
“You don’t look so wonderful yourself,” Matthieu retorts, “Did you forget to use two jars of hair product this morning?”
“At least I use hair product instead of letting my untamed mane exist like that,” he says, gesturing to Matthieu in disgust after momentary shock at his slander. Alright, so the glimpse of offense on the Altus’ face just made the morning’s horrors worth it, try him for perjury .
Before Matthieu can reply, Dorian continues his amusing tirade, “Also, those dark circles under your eyes? Ghastly . You’re not a corpse Mathieu, I implore you to not look like one.”
Fasta Vass. Does he really look that bad? So, he hadn’t slept or bathed for two days, but it’s not for an abundance of time. He has been so incredibly busy with useless paperwork and meetings that are part of the bureaucratic and geopolitical shitshorm that is running the Inquisition. He is at least eating once a day which he couldn’t say for other weeks, so he counts it as a win.
“If I were, I wouldn’t have to listen to your nagging or have to deal with our dearest Lady Ambassador,” Matthieu says as he leans up against a bookcase, and is suddenly grateful for the weight keeping his body from collapsing. Conceal it , this is going to become increasingly difficult if he realizes how exceedingly weak you are. He lets out a scoff, hoping it comes out haughty and not exhausted, “Believe me, death is preferable.”
Matthieu notices Dorian’s eyes soften for a second, which is most definitely a foreign concept. It must be the sleep-deprived hallucinations. Lovely. The Altus gets up from his armchair and assertively points to it, “Sit. Now.”
“I’m not taking your pity, that is not why I came up here,” Matthieu says, crossing his arms assertively. The other mage simply rolls his eyes and casts a Winter’s Grasp on the bookcase. Reflexively, Matthieu’s body jumps away from the frozen chill radiating off the bookcase in shock. He doesn’t even register the gentle shove on his shoulder as he falls into the armchair.
Frazzled and trying to process what exactly happened, he looks up to a smug smirk inched across Dorian’s face. If his body did not feel like a dead weight in the plush cushioning of the mage’s armchair, he would wipe it off that infuriating charming visage. He looks up to the mage with a flustered pout, “Happy now?”
“Exceptionally,” he replies, clearly pleased that he has the upper hand, per usual. “I am famished. Considering, I will be in the kitchen, I am getting you something. Out of convenience, of course.”
Maker, the thought of having actual food right now is tempting. He’s honestly quite baffled that he hasn’t been approached by a Hunger Demon yet. No. He couldn’t let Dorian win and mother hen him like this, he is the leader of the Inquisition and he is not going to be waited upon by the worst human being in Skyhold. He protests, “As much as I would enjoy you slaving over me, I do have a meeting with Leliana.”
“If you so much as move, I will cast a Force Field upon you and then you will be sorry,” Dorian asserts. He watches him like a hawk, and as the blonde endeavors to get up he can see the magic emanating from the Altus’ fingers. So this isn’t an empty threat?
Matthieu allows himself to relax back into the chair, knowing it will be futile if he tries anything different. He also will be in for much worse if he isn’t there when Dorian returns, so he will suffer in silence as the Altus lords his power over him. Fuck him. Matthieu waves Dorian off with his hand, “Fine. Go, I will not try anything.”
Dorian throws a devilish smirk at him before he saunters off. Matthieu rolls his eyes as he catches the mage glancing over his shoulder one to ensure he is indeed remaining in place. He cannot fathom how one man could be so completely insufferable.
As Dorian is out of sight, Matthieu allows himself to relax into the armchair, which is the most comfortable thing he’s rested on in the past few days. He feels his breath steady and the exhaustion ripple through his body. He really did need to allow himself to unload for just a moment and Dorian is right, as much as he hates to admit it. Letting out a deep breath, he is slightly struck as he inhales the soothing scents of a musky old vellum, sandalwood, and Antivan red that radiates off the Tevinter. He tries not to think too much about how exceedingly pleasing it is as he closes his eyes and nods off until the Altus stirs him with a warm meal.