Work Text:
Darevas found himself at yet another ink soaked paper that had yet for words to be on them. He let out a sigh that was hours pent up and brushed the stem of his quil with his fingertips. He pried his eyes away from the unfinished letter to look out his quarters' windows, surprised to have the darkness that only comes about past midnight looking back at him.
An Inquisitor's job for the most part was action. Sealing rifts, defeating demons and setting tyrants straight. Sometimes he often forgot his reputation brought in many letters, those in which sometimes Josephine attended to specifically but the decisions fell on him for the most part and in part, the replies.
He was particularly stuck on this one and it certainly didn't help he was being drawn to settle another Orlesian squabble. He placed the quil back in its inkwell and he rubbed his eyes that he hadn't realized were so dry until now.
A recognizable knock offered a distraction for him and it was enough to feel a beacon through his dismal state. He got up from his study to approach his nightly visitor.
“To whom do I owe my presence at this hour?” Darevas mustered a wry smile as he opened the door, quirking a tired brow as he saw the expected Tevinter magister, looking rather irritated. “Do we have business to settle? You look like a nug just shit in your boots.”
“So my intuition was right ," Darevas' shoulders slumped as Dorian saw himself right in, arms crossed against his chest like a pissy maiden, and he shut the door behind them. “Slaving away again, are you?”
He knew they both knew the answer well enough. Darevas because he took it upon himself and Dorian always told him he was that predictable.
“As much as I'd love to pass out right about now, I can't.” said Darevas as he returned to his desk, reluctant upon sitting down, and blew a sigh. “Orlesians don't take kindly to delayed replies I'm afraid."
Dorian still stood, ready to challenge his excuses. “Truly? Is this the word of the same Inquisitor who tells the Chantry to kindly fuck themselves at every turn?”
“Truly.” He said, “Now, if you don't mind-”
Dorian scoffed. “If you really think I'm going to let you work yourself to death, then you're sorely mistaken.”
Dorian then took his hand and led him to his bed, hiding a smile as he helped him down. Dorian was never one for much affection. Living in a place like Tevinter, you grow accustomed to not feeling the affectionate touch of another man, the ghostly essence of it in itself felt forbidden even now that his homeland was behind him. Yet he swaddled a confused Darevas in his arms, frowning a little as he felt the tired, strained muscles underneath.
He brought a hand behind his head and Darevas breathed a slowly relaxing sigh as Dorian's slow fingers gently combed his hair. He would've protested further, but his thoughts were easily losf in the comfortable blanket of warmth he was wrapped in. His head fell against Dorian's chest and eyes defeatedly fluttered shut.
Dorian's heart clenched in its chest, adoringly, and he smiled. He let out a quiet breath of relief and continued soothingly stroking him. “Oh, Amatus.” He quietly mumbled, leaning back against the headboard and closed his eyes. “You'll be the death of me.”