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Dorian is drunk. He has a suspicion that whatever Cabot is serving was brewed up in that strange smelling room underneath the main hall that no one goes in, and he probably doesn't want to know what went into the making because...ugh. He is so drunk.
The floor under his feet feels like that fancy blancmange stuff Orlesians serve at parties. Squishy.
He sways.
Blackwall's chest is very solid when he falls against it. He likes that in a man. He pats a firm pectoral and tries to say something with his typical mix of flirt-and-snark.
'Beard,' is what he actually says.
'That's right,' says Blackwall. The words rumble in his chest, and Dorian wants to press his face into it. 'Don't have those in Tevinter, then? Just those little lip decorations that you're rubbing all over my shirt?'
Oh. So he is. Dorian tries to stand upright, but the floor is still all puddingy and Blackwall grabs his arms before he falls backwards.
'Watch it!' It's hard to tell with all the hair in the way (and also the swaying) but he thinks Blackwall is grinning. 'Wouldn't want you to get killed by a floor after you survived all that time travel stuff, would we?'
'You do care!' He flails an arm. Blackwall guides him towards the tavern door.
'I just don't want the Inquisitor to lose his favourite partner in sarcasm. Then where would he be?'
'Left with you, I 'spose. You're good, but you're not me.'
'You know, I think I detected a compliment in there somewhere.'
The outside is so cold, and ahead of them the stairs up to the hall look endless. Dorian wonders idly if he'll be asleep by the time he reaches the top.
He rests his chin on Blackwalls shoulder. 'I think I will.'
'Will what?'
'Be asleep.'
'Ah, so you're at the nonsense stage, I see. And you're a cuddly drunk. I'm shocked!'
'Mmmf,' Dorian agrees.
'I'm not carrying you, 'vint.'
But he does.