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Dorian leans against rough-hewn stone in the shadows of the steps leading to the Great Hall, arms crossed over his chest and fingers brushing thoughtfully across the downturned curve of his mouth. From across the courtyard he sees two of his closest (only?) friends making truly sickening (adorable, damn them) eyes at each other, and it doesn’t seem fair.
It doesn’t seem fair that Adaar wears her ever-growing list of responsibilities as naturally as her horns. It doesn’t seem fair that beneath all his armor and trauma, Cullen stubbornly, genuinely clings to the hope that good will prevail. It doesn’t seem fair that they’re visibly drawn together like a knotted string—Cullen glancing up at the Inquisitor in clear admiration, even when tempered by frustration, and Adaar staring back just as fondly, often bestowing a soft brush of lips to carefully styled blonde hair when she thinks no one is looking.
(People are usually looking. For many reasons Adaar is impossible to miss, and after only one stern talking-to from Seeker to soldiers, Cullen’s pretty blush—while noticed—goes unmentioned.)
He’s happy for her. For Cullen. For them. He truly, honestly is. After months of visible longing the utter straightforwardness and guileless devotion of their relationship is charming, even more so now that Adaar’s entrusted Dorian with the profound contours of her (Cullen’s?) heart.
It’s a Fade-flash of memory, sometimes:
Adaar bursting into Dorian’s quarters after sundown one evening with wild eyes and worry etched into her face, confessing in a tangled rush “I’ve never even wanted anyone before Cullen, he’s asking me to lead but what if I fuck up, nothing should hurt him ever again—”
Dorian gliding close to put an arm around her shoulders, gently murmuring, “You are the last person who could ever hurt our Commander, but you’re about to hurt yourself. Breathe, amicus,” and once her breaths slow he adds, “I am shocked and astounded that the Herald of Andraste is a fellow invert,” and she laughs so hard she starts wheezing—
And sometimes when he thinks about that trust, some moments when he looks at his Inquisitor and her Commander, his pride lays flayed and silent and he regrets everything he was ever born. The wealth, the title, the power, all of it; the aimless jealousy and resentment and grief clouds his heart and head so thickly he can’t see anything else. He has the Iron Bull, yes, as often and voraciously as he wants… but every space Bull carves out of his heart is a tumble into frantic freefall, every hard-fought scrap of intimacy fraught with the question Dorian can’t bring himself to ask:
Can all that I am ever be enough?
“See something you like?” Bull drawls over his shoulder.
Dorian doesn’t jump. Kaffas, he smelled the brute coming several steps before he actually arrived, the salt-stench of sweat from the training ring and hours-old horn balm. “Like there’s room for anyone else in there,” he retorts, and—
Blinks, because that was not what he meant to say.
He’s still reeling when Bull laughs, boisterous enough that Cullen’s head rises, turning to search. Dorian sees the very moment when that piercing gaze locks on Bull, and the corners of his eyes… crinkle?
Bull waves, because of course he does. “Boss!” he shouts; Adaar grins and crosses the courtyard to them, Cullen striding tall and proud beside her.
“What are you doing?” Dorian hisses.
“You know that thing where I tell you what you need, and you let me know if it gets too much?”
Dorian stares at him, aghast, in rising frustration and incredulity and confusion. What in Andraste’s name is Bull on about, does the man seriously think he wants Cullen beyond an obviously meaningless flirtation? “This is not—”
“Bull,” Cullen greets, easy and light, his presence cutting off anything more Dorian intends to say. “Dorian.”
Dorian’s never seen eyes soften, not until meeting his amatus and amicus. But apparently Cullen can do it too because his eyes—so expressive, those things, too expressive for the world Dorian comes from—do indeed soften when they flick to him.
Dorian feels the color rise to his cheeks, but can think only, blankly,
What?
“—as you can guess,” Bull says, his hand landing heavy but grounding on Dorian’s shoulder. Dorian guiltily tunes back into the conversation as that huge, warm hand gives him a steady squeeze. “A few drinks and a nice meal wouldn’t go amiss.”
“That’s a great idea.” Adaar beams. “I’ve got some wine in the cellar I think you’ll love, Dorian.”
“Commander!” a scout calls from across the yard; Cullen sighs as Adaar presses a kiss to his cheek.
“Go on,” she nudges, her voice lilting. “But don’t make us start without you, or I’ll drag you to my quarters myself.”
“Never that,” Cullen says dryly, sauntering away with a hand on the pommel of his sword. It’s only because Dorian is on alert that he abruptly realizes all three of them are watching him leave.
He clears his throat and turns to Adaar and Bull, untangling himself from the promised embrace he so desperately wants to lean into. “Mind telling me what’s going on here?”
Bull grunts noncommittally as his hand falls, and Adaar’s face tightens as it so often does when she’s struggling for a diplomatic response.
“Don’t,” he protests, forestalling any drafted explanation with a raised hand. “I can take it.”
Adaar glances at Bull. “That’s the thing. You don’t have to.”
Dorian’s brow furrows and Adaar lingers closer, while Bull mouths “Later,” and walks away humming.
“You don’t have to be afraid here,” she says, soft and so reasonable it makes him feel like screaming. “I respect if you want to be more discreet with your affections, but it doesn’t seem like that’s what you actually want. Doesn’t seem that way to Bull, either, if the way he talks about you two is any indication.”
“What I want doesn’t matter,” he objects icily. It’s an immediate, instinctive reflex, and Adaar’s eyebrows shoot to the top of her forehead. “I am an altus, and—”
“—they fucked you up so badly you suffer in loneliness when your happiness is right here,” she argues, firm but not unkind. “Am I getting warmer? Because you deserve to be happy.”
Dorian growls, because Maker help him, apparently Bull is actually rubbing off on him beyond the bedroom, and turns on his heel.
“Dinner,” she calls at his retreating back, a pointed reminder that makes the flush return to his cheeks, as heavy as the sudden pounding of his heart.