Work Text:
Matthieu’s eyelids flutter open as sunlight pours through the stained glass windows of his quarters. The strong scent of Antivan coffee courses him awake, as he sits up in bed, trying to find the source. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a certain very charming Altus draped across his settee with papers and quill in hand. The Free Marcher carefully watches him from the bed, taking in the little motions like how Dorian taps the tip of the quill to his lips while he thinks or how the pleased look on his face as he sips the blend.
It’s completely unfair. Circle mages don’t court genius heir apparents of foreign noble houses, but here they are. Not that he’s complaining though. Why did he, of all the people in Thedas, get to be so irredeemably happy? It’s truly a mystery, but isn’t one he needs to solve today. Not when he has Dorian Pavus in his bedchamber as they fall into mutual domesticity while the world falls to pieces around them. He knows well enough that this isn’t a dream from Desire, but it might as well be: Nothing could match this.
He tries to gently get out of bed, as to not disturb his occupied partner, but fails at it desperately. He got his foot caught up in that ridiculous Orlesian down comforter that Dorian had pressured Josie to order for them. ‘It’s not selfish’ the Tevinter had insisted, ‘It’s protecting your delicate Inquisitor in this biting winter, Lady Ambassador. That is a rather selfless act.” He hears a light laugh from across the room and meets the Altus’ amused expression at his insolence. He’d usually disparage himself for being such a mess, but if it made Dorian laugh, well, he will make the biggest arse of himself each and every morning.
“I take it you’re amused, love?” Matthieu says with a light glare and the crossing of his arms that makes his partner smile expand by the moment. The Inquisitor rolls his eyes as he approaches the other mage and presses a gentle kiss to his forehead.
“Me enjoying your company? Perish the thought,” Dorian says with a smirk as he looks up at Matthieu, as if expecting something. To indulge his partner, Matthieu leans down as if to pull the mage into a kiss. The Inquisitor delights at the way the Tevinter’s eyelids flutter shut and his body moves up towards him. He delights in the enraged expression on Dorian’s face when Matthieu does not kiss him and instead abuses the momentary vulnerability to make a complete mess of the mage’s precious hair.
“ Really, darling? ” Dorian groans as he lurches to try and grab Matthieu who evades his arms like a neurotic fennec. The Free Marcher darts across the room with an altogether too pleased smile on his face for catching the Tevinter off guard. A smile, that is gone all too quickly, when his face is pelted with a snowball. Matthieu quickly rubs it off his face and channels his own, taking pleasure in the sudden fear in Dorian’s eyes.
It’s clear that the mage is ready to face the world for the day, but had been waiting for him to wake up so they could leave together. He would not take kindly to being mussed up more than Matthieu already had for ruining his blighted perfect hair. Matthieu approaches him like a predator does prey with a devilish grin on his face. The mage glares at him like a stern parent, “Matthieu. Sebastian. Don’t you dare or you’re losing that hand.”
Matthieu laughs allowing the spell to fizzle and instead decides to give Dorian a kiss on the cheek. He may have been channeling frost to his hand to make Dorian slightly jump as his face was cradled in Matthieu’s hand, but it was still a kiss. The Inquisitor drapes himself across his partner on the settee and fiddle with the collar of his ridiculously asymmetric robes. Dorian tries to focus on his papers, but after a moment or so he just gives Matthieu a sigh, “Amatus. I’m working.”
“What work has got you so uptight? Not that you usually aren’t, but especially this morning,” the blonde asks letting out a laugh and earning himself another glare. He swipes a paper from Dorian’s hands only to look at it and notice it is the official correspondence to some noble or another that he was supposed to fill out weeks ago. Matthieu sits upright and looks at his partner in disbelief, “Dorian, is this my work?”
Dorian avoids his gaze as he takes another sip of his Antivan coffee, “Perhaps.”
“ Perhaps? ” Matthieu asks leaning in closer, hoping he can press his partner for more information. Dorian had his own duties to worry about like Alexius’ research and certainly did not have time for Matthieu’s horrific bureaucratic nonsense.
“Perhaps,” he says affirmatively, placing the cup back down delicately, “You seemed overwhelmed and I know your cadence and handwriting well enough.”
Matthieu just sits in complete awe at the man sitting before him who should be too good to grace Thedas, let alone his presence, “Dear Maker, I love you.”
“Amatus, you know my name is Dorian, but I suppose if you insist,” the Altus says with a smug look on his face, altogether serious and not breaking eye contact. They stare at each other for a moment before they burst out into laughter together. Matthieu pulls the collar of Dorian’s robes to him so he can thoroughly thank his partner in the best way he knows how.