Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was only ever a matter of time, Dorian supposes, with them being this far south and high up in the mountains, but still, he groans when he walks outside and sees the heaviest snow yet, covering the entire view under a massive white blanket.

Lone figures hurry through, treading single paths into the white pest – eager to continue their duties, now that the looming apocalypse had receded somewhat.

Reluctantly, Dorian joins them. There is after all a cozy library full of books eagerly awaiting his presence. It's up to the rim of his boots, but at least it's not getting any higher – at the moment.

“Unbearable,” he curses, as he drudges through the snow, with a colorful comment for every remotely friendly greeting that is offered to him. It was only a few steps outside the door and Dorian was already done with this natural phenomenon for years to come.

“How do people live with this every year?” he snaps at Cullen, who's standing on the stairs to the Keep and had the decency to greet him with an all too cheery 'good morning'.

“A better attitude, for starters.” Cullen says, shrugging, with that damned lopsided smile on his face, the one he always gets when he knows he made the winning move in their weekly game of chess.

Of course the Commander would be unfazed by this adversity, going about his duties as if it was a gentle spring day. If anything, he seemed in a better mood than Dorian had ever seen him – apart from victory celebrations and the times when he dealt out a particularly crushing defeat at chess.

“A good attitude hardly warms you.” Dorian says, rolling his eyes. He would have had a better comeback, but most of his concentration goes towards desperately trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

“And neither does a bad one, but that is not stopping you.” Cullen says, laughing, and looking better than any man has a right to in this dreadful weather. The red in his cheeks does nothing but add to his good looks, Dorian thinks bitterly.

The only thing keeping him from throwing a rude gesture in Cullen's direction was the fact that both his hands were clutching his flimsy coat, keeping it wrapped around his rapidly cooling body.

“Who knows, you might even come to enjoy the snow, if you gave it a try.” Cullen adds. Why on earth was the man so happy, considering the sky could once again drop on them any moment?

Dorian snorts. “I don't think so. That concept seems foolish, and better suited to those raised is the finer Ferelden environments – such as barns and sheds.” He snaps and stomps past the Commander, missing the man's sly grin and his crouch as he bends down as soon as Dorian's back is turned.

The mage has not gotten much further when a dull thud shakes his bare shoulder, followed by a burst of cold. A strangled gasp falls from his own mouth.

He whips around on his heel, the assailed patch of skin already aching with the cold, the snow seeping through his cloak almost unhindered.

“What” he yells, scaring a hurried messenger passing him by. “was that?!”

The Commander grins – grins?! He has the cheek to grin as the back of Dorian's shoulder slowly freezes into permanent immobility.

“That,” Cullen says, grinning. “was a snowball.”

“I know what it was, Commander, I was speaking figuratively.” Dorian hisses, teeth grinding. “I was questioning your motivation – which I can only assume must be sudden insanity.”

Cullen seems entirely unfazed, shrugging. “It was a demonstration, if you will. Of the fun that is possible.”

“Fun? My dear Commander, I know you are not the most well-read man but I assure you that fun is an entirely different emotion from the one I am currently experiencing.” With that, Dorian turns makes an attempt at a dignified exit.

Another thud. Another pang of cold.

This time is his leg is the assaulted party.

Dorian's eyes narrow.

“Fasta vass.” he hisses, twists and grabs a handful of snow. It hurls through the air, loosing half its substance on the way and hits the metal of Cullen's pauldron with a soft plod, disintegrating rather pitifully.

Cullen laughs, kneads the batch of snow in his hands into another missile. “That was terrible! You're technique is severely lacking.”

“I'll show you what's lacking!” Dorian yells, mushes together another batch of snow. This time, Cullen is prepared and retaliates.

Dorian's snowball once again shatters in a sad display of structural weakness – while Cullen's hits his chest, sending ice-cold fragments down his collar and the air out of his lungs.

Dorian grits his teeth; he is at a disadvantage, his enemy has clearly more experience, a higher skill level – if he is to win this, it will have to be by strategy.

His eyes search the courtyard – he smiles.

Another swoop, another mediocre attempt at a snowball – all while he retreats, with Cullen following him, like a good little soldier. Were his face not frozen solid he would smile at how well his plan worked.

One of his snowballs hits Cullen's face – quite by accident, too – loud, cruel laughter escapes Dorian's throat as Cullen shakes himself, spluttering snow.

The Commander's eyebrows draw together, his hands crushing the snow he's holding into a small, stiff ball of 'please don't'.

“That,” Cullen says, breath coming out in pants, fogging up the air in front of his face. “was a mistake.”

Dorian shakes his head, turns and runs, through the muddled paths of predecessors spanning the courtyard, his boots slipping in places where there's ice under the snow. Cullen is not too far behind him, Dorian knows he is – he needs to finish him, and soon.

Then – finally – the crumbling remnants of a wall, like there were at every corner in Skyhold – entirely covered in snow.

“Alright, alright!” Dorian yells, ducking behind the wall. “I know when to admit I'm beaten.”

“Do you now?” he hears Cullen leer, his hurried steps over the snow slowing down – the other man is close, Dorian needs to be ready.

“I do.” he says, flexing his frozen fingers, preparing for what was to come. “And right now I am not.”

Magic bursts from his fingers, blasting the snow off the wall.

He hears, rather than sees, his avalanche hit the other man – snow crunching, a cut-off gasp, snow cluttering down, making a mess of what was left of the untouched beauty outside their tracks.

As he peers over the edge, Cullen stands like a statue, visible only in small patches where the snow has fallen off.

A shudder frees Cullen from most of his icy prison. He's blinking – slowly, lashes rimmed with from out of his deeply red face, he looks dumbfounded, as if he's still caught in the middle of processing what just happened to him.

“I retract my earlier statement,” Dorian gloats, as he watches the other man shiver – so it was actually possible for Fereldens to suffer in cold weather, who'd have thought? “These conditions can be rather enjoyable.”

“You play dirty!” Cullen exclaims, wiping the snow out of his face. He actually sounds indignant – how adorable.

“I play by Tevinter rules!”

“Tevinter rules for snowball fights? Are you even listening to yourself?”

“Now, now, Commander, no one likes a sore loser.” Dorian teases, turns to leave.

Snow crunches behind him.

Before he can turn something solid and cold hits his back, the white ground races up at him, smacking him in a rush of cold.

Everything dulls as Dorian submerges into the snow.

He rolls onto his back, blinks the snow out of his eyes and looks –

looks at Cullen's grin, and an armful of snow, inches from his face.

“Yield!” he yells, three pitches higher than he knew he could. “By the Maker, I yield. Please.”

The Ex-Templar laughs, drops the snow aside. “Very well then. I shall bestow a mercy upon you that was never granted to my siblings.” Cullen drops the snow to the side, leaning back from where he was hovering over Dorian.

“Bless you for your leniency, then.” Dorian mutters, sitting up before his back becomes permanently attached to the ground. Cullen is kneeling next to him and Dorian's face almost knocks into the bulk of that massive chestplate the Commander insists on wearing everywhere. “How did you even move so fast with … that.” he says, rapping his knuckles against the metal.

“Sheer force of will.” Cullen chuckles and the warmth of his breath grazes Dorian's cheek. “And years of practice in my younger years. It's like swimming – you never forget how to do it.”

Then, Dorian is all too aware of the warmth from where their legs are touching.

Cullen tilts his head, smile slowly fading from his lips, as he looks down at Dorian.

There are snowflakes tangled in the stubble of his beard and in his eyebrows and the melting snow is making a mess of his groomed hair. There isn't a patch of skin visible that is not tinted a rather troubling shade of pink.

Dorian must be imagining the way his eyes dart, must be misinterpreting the way nervousness creeps into Cullen's features. He is acutely aware that his heart is beating too fast – the numbness in his limbs is manifold and not all is caused by the cold.

“Dorian, I – ”

Snow hits Cullen's face – again.

Dorian's hand remains raised as he puts on the most innocent look he can muster.

And if he tries hard enough, he will soon forget the minute frown on Cullen's face, before the Commander laughs again.

Cullen flops to the side, shaking his head. “You yield and then you attack; I should drag you in front of the Inquisitor for your war crimes.”

Just like that the moment is over and it's for the best, really, Dorian tells himself. He wouldn't want the Commander's poor judgment of his character get in the way of their tentative friendship.

(Dorian himself is to blame, no doubt. The flashy pieces of his armor do distract from his personal flaws.)

“What in the Maker's name is going on here?” a heavily accented voice startles them both out of their awkward eye contact.

Cassandra stands nearby, expression on the confused side of annoyed, for a change, eyes darting over the surroundings.

Per Dorian's doing there is not a patch of undisturbed snow around them. If Dorian didn't know better, he would suspect some of the Inquisitor's mounts escaped the nearby stables and went on a terrifying rampage.

“Well, I assure you, it's not what it looks like.” Dorian teases.

“Really? Because it looks like two of the most important men of the Inquisition are making utter fools of themselves.”

“So be glad it is not what it looks like, Seeker.” Dorian shrugs, earning a laugh from Cullen. There's even a curl at the edge of Cassandra's lips, if his senses did not leave him entirely.

The Seeker shakes her head as she stomps off, leaving them once again down in the snow and still close, close enough that their legs are touching.

Cullen sighs deeply. “Let's get ourselves inside, before we truly freeze to death.” he says, standing with easy grace, extending a hand towards the mage.

Dorian shakes his head. “There is no hope for me, not anymore. I shall never be warm again.”

Cullen laughs and grabs his hand anyway.

Dorian's knees are shaky as Cullen pulls him to his feet, and he sways into the man's side. Cullen catches him, one arm wrapping around Dorian's shoulders to steady him.

“Maker's breath,” Cullen says, finger's brushing along Dorian's upper arm, then his shoulder. “Is this coat made of woven nothing? How do you endure it?”

Dorian huffs as his aching legs protest their joint movement towards the tavern. “As I do everything, Commander; with grace and charm.”

The fire in the tavern is crackling and Dorian almost falls over his numb feet trying to get to the fire, startling the few patrons who had not been deterred by the storm.

“There may be hope for me yet.” Dorian says as he holds his hand close to the flame, their heat sending a warm tingling through his fingers.

No reply comes.

Dorian looks over his shoulder, finding the room empty of Cullen. The bard sitting in the corner – what was her name again? – looks up from her meal and smiles at him.

He returns the smile and ignores the pang of – regret? Guilt? Best not to dwell on it. His last attack may have been cold – Dorian chuckles. Cullen might have laughed at that pun, Maker bless his simple sense of humor – but leaving without a word was just plain rude. Typical Ferelden.

What does he care? He has a fire now and he's already on the way to feeling warmer than he has the entire blighted day, if not week.

“And now get out of my kitchen, you're dripping all over the place!” the cook shrieks and next there's the sound of metal connecting with wood, as Cullen walks out of the kitchen behind the counter, backwards, armor connecting with the door. He turns and holds two steaming tankards, a smile spilling over his lips as he sees Dorian.

He sets the second mug down on the table, sinking back into the chair with a loud sigh while holding onto his own. “I promise this is the best part about the snow.”

Dorian warily eyes the liquid. It's a suspicious shade of white, but gives off a heavenly smell. Not that he would ever admit that. “Haven't you put me through enough for today?” he complains, as Cullen stretches out in the chair. Dorian takes a couple of moments to inspect the – milk with something stirred in, no doubt before taking a sip.

As the – honey is involved here, too, some herbs no doubt – meets his lips, and the heat spreads from the inside out, it's all he can do to keep from letting the sigh that's building in his throat.

He feels a pair of expectant eyes resting on him.

As he looks up, Cullen is watching him, unblinking, gauging his reaction, his own mug clutched to his chest. His hair is beyond all hope, probably from running his hand through it in a futile attempt to fix it. Only little red is left in his cheeks and – Maker's Breath, he was staring.

Dorian swallows heavily. “It's, ah … good.” he says.

Cullen's eyes widen almost comically. “Really? Not a jab, not a qualifier? I'm baffled.” He stretches back against the back of his chair.

Dorian clears his throat, straightens his shoulders. “Well, for something of Ferelden at least.”

“There we go.” the Commander says, rolling his eyes, with the smile never leaving his face.

“I mean, relatively speaking it is good. I have been working on adjusting my judgment to the local cuisine. In Minrathous it would have been a clear case of 'Are you trying to poison me? Get out of my sight!', but,” Dorian shrugs and lifts the mug. “for these parts, it's almost heavenly.”

Cullen chuckles, gently shaking his head. “Then I am glad we are here so you will not have to chase me away.” He empties the mug and sets it aside, letting out a contented sigh. “You know, it always tastes best after snowball fights, I've found.”

Dorian raises an eyebrow. “Do you mean to tell me that a romp in the snow changes the taste of honeyed milk?”

“I know how it sounds, but, ah.” Cullen shakes his head, looking contemplative. “When I was a boy,” he starts then, and Dorian has to roll his eyes. Tales of domesticity, wonderful. “me and my sister, we would always play in the snow for as long as Mother would let us. And after she had chased us inside, she would make us this. It's the only time we ever drank it really, and it tasted just like … ”

Cullen trails off, looking into the fire. He shakes off the last of the cold outside leaves him with a shudder. “I don't know. It tasted good. I tried to drink it, years ago, in Kirkwall but it just didn't taste right.”

Cullen's eyes meet his, with his mouth curled into a shy smile. A blush creeps onto Cullen's features and another Dorian from another time in his life wonders if there was a message there, some grand underlying metaphor, something between the lines for him to find – that the Commander was trying to gauge his reaction to something, that this was a confession of some sort, but this Dorian, the Dorian of now and here knows that's silly.

“Maybe the farmers in the Free Marshes just feed their cows strange hay.” Dorian suggests through the lump in his throat, taking another sip from his milk.

Cullen nods solemnly, a smile tethering on the edge of his lips. “Maybe that's it. Anyway I – uh. I haven't had a snowball fight since I left my home to join the order a terribly long time ago.” He laughs nervously. “I hope I did not batter you too terribly. It may have been the most fun I've had in years and I would hate to have had it at your expense.”

Dorian huffs, thinking back to bright eyes looking down at him with enough affection to make his stomach turn. He smiles at the apprehension evident on the Commander's face.

“We're quite alright, Commander. No harm done.”