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PART I
The shifting grew louder, itching and snagging, restless. He didn’t speak. He never spoke, only made coy suggestions with his eyes, the slant of his mouth and the curve of his back. Black hair slicked back, damp curls slicking over his forehead. It’s not him.
Dorian wishes it was.
Sometimes Dorian sits cross-legged in front of him, gaze searching, looking for the man who saved all of Thedas twice over, who gave up his arm and his home and his family. So far Dorian hasn’t found him. All he sees is the Fade leaking from his eyes, bitter smoke curling over the imitations tongue as it made obscene gestures with his mouth and fingers. Dorian remembers the first time Rhyleigh showed him that gesture; how gauche he thought it was and uncivilised southern nobles were. Dorian remembers how it made it him laugh and how Rhyleigh lit up, delighted to make Dorian happy. It doesn’t make him laugh anymore.
The thing inhabiting Rhyleigh’s body has not yet spoken, hasn’t offered temptation. It just looks. It stares and twists and sits languidly in the centre of the ward Dorian had to
construct especially for this particular demon, bright, effervescent lilac. It stares.
PART II
“I hope you know that sooner or later you’ll have to concede defeat. You are, after all, trapped and at my mercy.”
A weak threat; they both know that Dorian could never hurt the demon. Not whilst he risked hurting Rhyleigh. Nevertheless, Dorian ambles over to the desk containing his latest research, feigning confidence he hasn’t felt in weeks. Yesterday ended in a fit of pique after another failed attempt at banishing the demon within his lover. The crux of the problem does not change: Rhyleigh is a mage yes, but a remarkably weak one. Rhyleigh favoured daggers and flashy grenades over magical theory, before he lost his arm. His family always preferred to pretend his magic didn’t exist and therefore gave him only the most minimal of training to ward off demons; they didn’t account for their son physically entering the Fade. Dorian almost wishes they had carted him off to the Circle and had his lover properly Harrowed, wishes that he could find a cure for possession out of thin air. Wishes he could hold Rhyleigh in his arms, fall asleep beside him and wake up next to him. Instead, Dorian clings to the picture of Rhyleigh in wrapped in thin cotton sheets, haloed by early morning. Blurred around the edges, like a memory half-remembered. Safe and warm and with Dorian.
Dorian wishes but wishing will do nothing. He must act.
He prays to the Maker every day that he doesn’t have to.
PART III
Dorian doesn’t remember going to bed; his world has narrowed down to dusty tomes and the fizz of magic in the air, humming from the ward and the constant reinforcement he has to make so the demon doesn’t escape.
“So are you gonna wake up or what?”
Dorian may not remember going to bed but he is almost positive that Sera wasn’t in his room last night.
Sera stared- glared, his mind supplied –at him. Her hair had grown a little wilder, her cheeks ruddy and wind-chilled and Dorian was certain that she didn’t have that scare on her lip when they left each other after the Exalted Council. Noticing Dorian staring, she narrowed her eyes and stuck her bottom lip out in the most annoyed looking pout he had ever seen on her face.
“You gonna stare all day or you gonna get outta bed? Thought you were tryin’ to make Rhyles better. Can’t that with your ‘tache looking like a dead rat.”
Dorian blinked and his hand flew to his face, brushing over his moustache for a few seconds before he processed her words.
“Excuse me? I’ll have you know that my facial hair is considered the height of fashion in Qarinus! And really, you’ve no room to judge. I thought we agreed that garden shears were not acceptable utensils for cutting your hair.” He huffed, smoothing down his moustache. Dead rat, honestly.
“Yeah, yeah whatever. Bet your blood mage-y noble knobhead friends in shitty Tevinter think spots look good too. Look, everyone ‘cept Cass is downstairs, obviously, she’s busy doin’ whatever with those top hats in the Grand Cathedral. Viv says she got you some fancy mage books so you can talk complicated bullshit at each other. Hurry up!” She snarked back, sticking her tongue out at him whilst thrusting her middle finger up.
With that, and leaving Dorian scrambling for a mirror- he did not have spots, Sera, you lying doglord! –she propelled herself off the foot of his bed and out of Dorian and Rhyleigh’s shared room, clomping down the stairs yelling “Vint’s up! Can we get started now?”
Dorian huffed and threw off the sheets. Waving a hand, the washbasin filled itself with cool, fresh water. He spent the next few minutes getting ready for the day, taking particular care with his moustache that by no means looked like any sort of dead rodent. Pulling on clean trousers, Dorian wandered over to Rhyleigh’s wardrobe. He opened the door and pulled out one of Rhyleigh’s cotton training shirts; plain and soft, it smelt exactly like his lover. He yanked it on, and spent a few moments just standing there, in a patch of warm mid-morning sun, eyes closed and nose pressed against his elbow and breathing in the smell of the man who looked at Dorian like he hung the moon and stars in the sky. He opened his eyes, heart aching.
He had work to do.
Ten minutes later, he stepped through the drawing room door and found himself face-to-chest with Bull. He heard murmurings in the library, through the opposite door, telling him where the others had appeared to congregate.
“Dorian! There you are, thought we lost you in that walk-in wardrobe of yours.” Bull grinned, huge paw of a hand coming to rest solidly on Dorian’s shoulder. Bull’s hand squeezed and his grin faded to something kinder, more concerned. “You alright?” Bull asked evenly.
Dorian sighed, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Ask me again when we fix this. Come, we’ve better things to do than stand around talking about my feelings, Sera mentioned that Vivienne has brought along some tomes of interest.” He replied shortly, moving away and shrugging off Bull’s hand, only to be stopped when that same hand pressed against his chest.
Bull stared down at him, calmly with concerned eyes. “You’ve not slept or eaten properly in days, and I’m willing to bet the Inquisition coffers that today is the first time you’ve bathed in a while. There’s dust all over the spines of your books in the library and I’m informed you dismissed all your house-staff weeks ago. You,” Bull concluded “are not alright. Why do you think we are all here?”
Dorian was speechless. Rhyleigh had always told him that Bull was the smartest man he’d ever met but Dorian had preferred to accept Bull’s carefree and laidback attitude at face value, with the assumption that whilst Bull was certainly intelligent, he was no more so than anyone else in the Inquisition. Then again, Rhyleigh did always have a knack for seeing through the carefully constructed personas people created for themselves. How do you think I knew that you had the hots for me? he remembered Rhyleigh jokingly telling him one evening, after what had to be the most acrobatic round of sex Dorian had ever experienced. It seemed like years ago now.
Pressing his lips together, Dorian shook his head, shoving away Bull’s hand. He strode over to the small table with a glass decanter neatly placed on top of it and poured himself a snifter of brandy, throwing it back and promptly pouring another one. Raising the glass to his mouth for a second time, he glanced over at Bull who was frowning at him, arms crossed and leaning against the doorframe.
“What?” Dorian snapped. “You have something to add? Because I honestly think you only do your little mastermind observer routine when you feel like reminding everyone in the room that you were a highly trained Ben-Hassrath agent and aren’t we all just intellectually inferior compared to your extensive training.” He ranted, slamming the glass back down on the table.
Dorian stalked over to where Bull stood impassive, face carefully blank. Jabbing his finger in the Tal-Vashoth’s face, he continued.
“If you’re so fucking smart, why haven’t you bothered to come earlier and help? I sent letters! To all of you! Oh, you make pretty speeches about friendship and being there for each other but when it came down to it, you all fucked off and left me! With, with that thing masquerading as the man I love! Where were all of you?”
Throughout the speech, Dorian’s voice steadily grew until he finally roared the final question, face flushed and whole body trembling. Abruptly, Dorian felt the fire burn out in him. He sagged on to the sofa, head buried in his hands. Mortified, he realised he was crying, hitching breathless sobs that wracked him from his core. Wiping away the tears, he croaked quietly, “It spoke to me, last night. For the first time. Used his voice. Told me that he loved me.”
“Aah, shit.” Bull sighed, sitting beside Dorian and rubbing him comfortingly on his back. “Dorian, we didn’t come because someone was blocking your messages. We only found out three days ago. We all thought that you and the boss decided to have some alone time before you went back to Tevinter.”
Dorian looked up at Bull in disbelief. “What? I don’t- blocking? Why?” Bull shrugged helplessly, heaving a great sigh that rocked the whole sofa. “It was a rogue faction of the Venatori. Wanted to get revenge for us all kicking Corypheus’s head in, even if it was two years later. Seems they found out ‘bout Boss being a mage, albeit a weak one, and came up with this plan that’s been two years in the making. Basically, the thought was to make him susceptible to possession. They originally planned to just send a load of demons his way in the Fade when he was asleep, kinda like stealth bombing, but instead found out that we were all runnin’ around in the Fade through the eluvians. So they changed their plans, decided to just weaken his defenses and sit back and watch him fall.”
Dorian gaped at Bull in disbelief. Then-
“Are you fucking kidding me? Two years! Two fucking years and they decide to enact their great revenge now? This is ridiculous!” He stood up and rubbed his brow furiously. Hissing in frustration, he waved his free hand through the air. “This still doesn’t change that fact that my lover is currently still possessed and entombed in a ward in the bloody basement!”
“Yeah, see, Vivienne had some thoughts about that.”
Dorian whirled around to stare at the Bull. “What thoughts?” He demanded, then cut Bull off as he opened to speak with a wave of his hand. “Nevermind, I’ll ask her myself.” He decided in a clipped tone. Striding through the doors to the library, he passed Josephine, Leliana and Varric and slid by Cullen and Blackwell, ignoring all of them in favour for Vivienne.
“How?” He demanded.
Vivienne arched a finely plucked eyebrow at him, reading glasses perched delicately on the bridge of her nose. “Well, hello to you too, darling. I’m wonderful, thank you for asking.” She responded pointedly. Dorian grit his teeth, fists curling.
“Vivienne, I have spent the past seven weeks holed up in this house with only my demon-possessed lover for company. Forgive me if I feel that social niceties are not a priority at this point in time! Now,” he demanded, sitting opposite her “tell me what you’re thinking.”
Vivienne scrutinised him, before nodding shortly. She selected a thin, worn book from the pile next to her on the table and laid it out in front of Dorian, opened to the relevant page.
“It took some looking for, but I’ve stumbled across what appears to be a theory from 600 years ago. The author is long-lost, of course, but the theory remains. This text suggests that the spirits and demons that we know are not the same kind of spirits that existed in the time of Arlathan. Instead, spirits were closer to people, more sentient and capable of cognizant thought but retaining the essence of what made them spirits. That is,” Vivienne explained “defining themselves by a core ideal, such as Wisdom or Study. When the Veil was created, however, this dual nature of spirit and human was torn in two. They lost that human quality, becoming more like the spirits we know today.”
Dorian narrowed his eyes, mulling over the theory. “It’s certainly interesting, but I’m failing to see how this applies to our current situation.” He responded.
“Ah, but it has everything to do with our current situation,” Vivienne smiled smugly. “As it appears the Inquisitor is possessed by a spirit that is from the Elvhen Ruins in the Eluvians, and therefore from Arlathan itself. As you well know, demons cannot be stricken from a mage once possession has taken place. A spirit however, is an entirely different story.” She smiled at Dorian, almost gleefully. “Spirits can be made to leave, my dear.”
Dorian stared at her, before lunging for the text, frantically scanning the pages. “Maker’s breath,” he murmured. “It’s not a demon!”
Why else would it not offer temptation, or try to move onto a more powerful mage such as Dorian himself? “It’s been observing. The first time in thousands of years it has contact with the physical world, of course it’s been observing what changed! And last night-“ Dorian’s breath caught in his throat. “My God, that was Rhyleigh.” He croaked. Dorian shot out of chair, running through the library doors. He heard the others behind him, hurried footsteps and voices clamouring to know what they could do to help. He skidded to a stop in front of the door leading to the basement and fumbled, dissipating the spells placed on the door to keep it secure. Once gone, Dorian threw the door open and stumbled down the stone steps into the cool, magic-scented air of the basement-cum-laboratory. He rushed to the table, shuffling through the myriads of papers strewn across it’s surface. Fumbling, he plucked up the right page, illustrating the method of dissolving the ward he’d constructed to contain the spirit. Spinning around, he ran to where the spirit using Rhyleigh’s body sat calmly, blinking up at him, and Dorian frantically erased the chalk lines. It cocked Rhyleigh’s head.
“You would banish me.” It murmured, mouth shaping the words as if it were tasting them, savouring the consonants and vowels like a fine wine. “Why?”
Dorian stared down at the spirit, throat getting tight. In the corner of his eye, he saw Cole edging closer, apparently fascinated by the spirit. The spirit returning Cole’s questioning gaze with its own, blinking questioningly. “Compassion.” It said quietly.
“Truth,” Cole mumbled. “Honest, raw, sometimes it hurts. Cuts like glass, like knives, like when you were sundered from yourself. Gone. Home is gone and I do not know this world full of liars.”
Truth stared unblinkingly, before nodding imperceptibly and returning its gaze to Dorian. “You miss him. You want him back. This is the truth. He loves you more than life itself. This is also the truth.”
“Then give him back,” Dorian croaked, wide-eyed. “Give him back to me if you know that that’s the truth.”
“Why?”
“Because this is not your world anymore, and you no longer have a place in it.” He replied softly. “You know that that’s the truth as well.” The spirit turned its head to face the wall, nodding absently. “The truth.” It breathed, closing Rhyleigh’s eyes. It took once last breath, as if to remember one last time what it felt like to be corporeal, and relaxed. The next moment, Rhyleigh slumped over, green-grey eyes opening and peering around blearily. The whole room moved forward as one, hands reaching out to heave Rhyleigh up to a nearby chair. Rhyleigh’s hand reached out to Dorian blindly, fisting in his own shirt and tugged Dorian close. In return, Dorian tugged Rhyleigh’s face to his stomach, his top body curving over dark brown hair. “Amatus.” Dorian rasped hoarsely.
“What happened?” Rhyleigh murmured dazedly. Dully, Dorian realised that Bull had hustled everyone out of the room, and had stationed himself in front of the doorway, quietly observing from afar to make sure that everything was as it should be.
Dorian choked on a laugh. “Amatus, you get yourself into the most awful of predicaments.” He whispered, nosing behind Rhyleigh’s ear, getting a yelp and shiver in return as Dorian’s breath ghost over sensitive earlobes. Dorian chuckled wetly.
“Come. You need rest.”
PART IV
“I was possessed? What the fuck!”
The sun shined brightly into the dining room the next morning, Rhyleigh seated at the head of the table with Dorian sat to his right, watching Rhyleigh like a hawk, watching for signs of fatigue or weakness. Sera sat on his other side, brazenly stealing ham from Rhyleigh’s plate.
“Darling, I’m honestly more surprised you haven’t been possessed before now,” Vivienne lectured, brandishing her fork delicately at him “for Maker’s sake, you’re perfectly skilled with your daggers but you’re hardly a remarkable or even strong mage. It’s pure luck you’ve gone through life thus unscathed.”
Rhyleigh pouted dramatically at her, resulting in an eye roll from Dorian. Varric, before now content to let the mages solve this one, cleared his throat. “Well, since everything seems to be in order, I should probably be getting back to Kirkwall. Hawke sent me a frantic letter last night whilst you were all demon-y,” He informed Rhyleigh, whilst standing up and busying himself with checking over Bianca “apparently Fenris got really drunk and toppled the statue of Meredith. Honestly, it sounds like an improvement to me.” He shrugged, and then cast a sly grin at Cullen who was sat across from him. “Of course, I might have slipped Fenris the design plans, which show the structural weaknesses in said statue.”
Rhyleigh cackled, and ended up snorting his orange juice and choking, clutching at Dorian’s arm whilst Sera hooted, giggling at him. One by one, the Inner Circle excused themselves, departing from Rhyleigh and Dorian’s summer house and back to their own lives. Before he left, however, Bull took Dorian to one side and pulled him into a rib-crushing hug. “Told you he’d be alright, Vint.” He grinned, and hitched his travel pack higher up onto his shoulder. Dorian rolled his eyes.
“Yes, yes, the ex-spy was right all along, who would have thought. Now shoo, I’ve my amatus to see to.” With that, Dorian spun on his heel and left Bull standing laughing in the foyer. Marching back into the dining room, he stopped at the threshold, staring at Rhyleigh who sat along and valiantly attempting to eat all leftovers from breakfast within his reach. The sun glittered through the large windows behind him, framing Rhyleigh’s tan skin and curly, cropped brown hair. Rhyleigh glanced up from trying to fit an entire leg of ham into his mouth, and smiled around his mouthful. Dorian felt his heart stutter and begin to pound in his chest. It’s going to burst right through, he thought dazedly. Across the room, Dorian was too caught up in his own panic to realise that Rhyleigh had frowned and made his way over in front of him. “Doe?” Dorian heard distantly.
“Tell me it’s you, amatus. Maker’s breath, I can’t bear it if it’s not.”
“Doe, what-?” Rhyleigh questioned, wide-eyed, hands curling around Dorian’s biceps. “Doe, it’s fine, it’s me, you saved me, I promise!”
Dorian ignored him, frantically trying to pull Rhyleigh’s shirt off over his head, needing to touch skin and feel sun-warmed muscles, the scars from battling and that stupid, stupid tattoo of a Tevene orchid Rhyleigh had gotten on his bloody ribcage of all places when Dorian had taken him to meet Maevaris for the first time in Minrathous. Rhyleigh complied, confused and concerned, eyes never leaving Dorian’s frantic face, hands latched tightly for fear of letting go.
Dorian yanked Rhyleigh close, hands running up and down sensitive sides, and held Rhyleigh still when he inevitably tried to squirm away. “Please,” Dorian choked out “amatus, please, I just need-“ Dorian cut himself off, trying to lose himself in the smell and feel and touch of Rhyleigh.
“You’ve got it, Doe,” Rhyleigh offered quietly, now standing still and allowing his lover touch everywhere Dorian could reach. He trembled as Dorian began to mouth at his pulse point, and fisted his hands in Dorian’s shirt, tugging Dorian back. “Doe, no.”
“Why not?” Dorian snarled, snapping red-rimmed eyes up to glare at Rhyleigh, who bit his lip but nonetheless stood his ground.
“It’s too soon, Dorian,” Rhyleigh explained “this isn’t what you need.”
“Don’t try and tell me what I need! I’ve spent weeks trying to find a way to save you, being close to you, knowing I couldn’t touch because it wasn’t actually you! I know what I need,” Dorian snarled, eyes fever-bright, spittle collecting at the corners of his mouth.
“Doe,” Rhyleigh said softly “this isn’t what you need. It’s too soon.”
Dorian stared at him and suddenly sagged back into Rhyleigh’s arm, as if someone had abruptly cut all of the strings holding him upright. Rhyleigh curled his arms around Dorian’s back and guided them both through the door and up the stairs to their bedroom. Rhyleigh noted absently that someone, most likely Josephine, had come up at some point and changed the sheets, clearing away dirty clothes and aired the room. He set Dorian down on the freshly made bed, tugging his shoes off and arranging him back against the pillows. Once done, Rhyleigh efficiently stripped down to his breeches and curled up beside Dorian, pillowing his head on the curve where Dorian’s head met his shoulder. Dorian shifted, silent, and slid his arms around him in return, burying his nose in Rhyleigh’s hair. They stayed like that, curled together atop cool sheets and soaking in the presence of each other, for what seemed to Rhyleigh like forever. Eventually, though, Dorian began to speak.
“Why is it, amatus that the world seems to want to steal you from me?” He murmured, eyes half-lidded and staring into the middle distance. “First Corypheus, then the anchor and now this half-cocked Venatori scheme. Not to mention that fact that our dear friend Solas is probably going to destroy us all in a few years anyway.”
Dorian felt Rhyleigh squirm up a few inches and turned his head to stare into determined green eyes. “Dorian Pavus,” Rhyleigh said sternly “I am not leaving you. We might be apart for a time but I will always, always come back to you. This I promise.” Dorian stared. Rhyleigh looked so serious and solemn, as if swearing marriage vows or a blood oath. He began to chuckle; even after all this time, seeing Rhyleigh act so seriously was still so strange to him, so far removed from the troublemaking, adventuring noble-man Dorian had fallen in love with.
“What? I’m being serious!” Rhyleigh looked indignant, mildly offended that his lover wasn’t taking this seriously. “I’m never leaving you!” He insisted, pushing himself up onto his hands and knees over Dorian, trapping him and making him look eye-to-eye with Rhyleigh.
“I know, amatus,” Dorian smiled indulgently “it’s just, well, you’re rarely serious, and it’s still rather odd for me to see, is all.”
Rhyleigh gave him an exaggerated pout, batting his eyelashes, making Dorian chortle.
“See! That’s exactly my point! You’re much more yourself when you’re, I don’t know, begging Leliana for one of those nugs she breeds.”
“Why the hell won’t she give me one?” Rhyleigh flopped down beside Dorian again, glaring at the ceiling. “I’d take great care of it!”
“Amatus, you barely remember to shave in the morning.”
“Not true. Also, hurtful.” Rhyleigh snarked back, grinning at Dorian. The grin slid off his face however, his expression turning equal parts contemplative and concerned. “You gonna be alright, sweetheart?” He asked, lacing his fingers with Dorian’s, stroking the back of Dorian’s left hand with his thumb. Dorian gazed at him, mulling the words over and then sighed, giving Rhyleigh’s hand a reassuring squeeze.
“Eventually, amatus. I just need some time.”
“All the time in the world,” Rhyleigh promised, encouraging Dorian closer, kissing him chastely but sweetly on the lips. When they broke apart, Rhyleigh brushed a stray strand of hair off Dorian’s forehead.
“As long as you need.”
PART V
Five weeks later, and Dorian was finally feeling stable again. The weeks since banishing the spirit had sometimes been tense, Rhyleigh sometimes too quick to joke about the ordeal and Dorian too quick to “push his own recovery”, as Rhyleigh put it. At first, Dorian refused to consider the idea that he had anything to recover from, but a frank talk had set him straight. Now, he was able to recognise the depression he’d fallen into, so focused on trying to save Rhyleigh that he neglected himself. On the other end of the spectrum, Dorian was insisting on training Rhyleigh to resist demonic temptation and possession, citing the reason that Rhyleigh had been possessed by a spirit was due to his weakened mental barriers, ones Rhyleigh barely knew how to reconstruct.
“Doe, you got that frowny thinking face going on again.”
Dorian was dragged from his thoughts abruptly, chin resting in his hand and elbow resting on his desk in his study. Rhyleigh was sprawled across the loveseat set in the corner of the room, throwing a particularly ugly desk ornament Dorian’s mother had sent him up and down in the air.
“Nothing bad, amatus.” He reassured. Dorian stood up, stretching. His top rose a few inches, exposing a strip of skin and the beginnings of the hair leading down to his groin. Rhyleigh, he noted, was staring transfixed, swallowing roughly. Dorian grinned, and slid his hands down his toned stomach, coming to a stop just above the hem of his low-slung breeches. “See something you like, amatus?” Dorian purred. Rhyleigh said nothing but nodded frantically, eyes glued to the outline of Dorian’s cock in his breeches. Dorian snickered, beckoning his lover closer with a carelessly graceful hand. Rhyleigh shot up, scrambling up out of his chair, reaching out ad tangling his fingers in Dorian’s hair. He tugged the altus down into a searing kiss, catching Dorian’s lower lip between his and sucking, nipping, begging entrance. The smell of Dorian, the feel of cool silk over well-muscled arms honed from battle, the feel of his tongue gliding along Rhyleigh’s teeth. He felt more than heard Dorian’s chuckle, just before he pulled himself away from Rhyleigh.
“Amatus,” he murmured, reverent.
Rhyleigh’s breath caught in his lungs, hitching. Warm eyes, honeyed in the evening light, stared down at him, soft and blurred with love and full lips curved into an indulgent half-smile; Dorian bent and Rhyleigh felt those lips skate over his earlobe. Dorian tugged him closer once again, settling broad, warm hands against Rhyleigh’s shoulder blades, nudging Rhyleigh’s head into the curve where neck met shoulder. Rhyleigh ducked his head, shamelessly rubbing against Dorian. No longer sexual, the contact was more akin to desperate reassurance.
“There will always be things that will try to tear us apart, won’t there? Solas promised a few years of peace, but eventually he’ll come back. And we could lose each other.”
Rhyleigh spoke quietly, as if afraid speaking the words would damn them both. Dorian clutched him tighter, breathing deeply. Reluctantly he nodded. Absently, he mused on how their positions had switched; weeks ago, it was Rhyleigh reassuring Dorian.
“I cannot lie to you, amatus,” he said “and I cannot promise that we will always be forever.” Here, they both shuddered, clinging ever-more tightly together. “But I can promise this: so long as I live, I will fight to remain by your side. Don’t ever doubt that.”
Dorian pulled away and stared solemnly into Rhyleigh’s eyes, dark and serious. Rhyleigh swallowed, gaze skittering anxiously around the study. Abruptly, his gaze hardened and stared back into Dorian’s eyes, as equally serious, fists curling in the front of Dorian’s shirt.
“Marry me.”
Dorian blinked, brow furrowing.
“What, now? No sweeping, dramatic proposal? I demand a background orchestra.”
“Please, you’re already sweeping and dramatic! No need to add to the drama. And yes, I mean now. Well, not now-now but in-the-near-future-now. If we’ve only years left, I want to spend them with your ring on my finger.”
Dorian’s faux-cocky expression melted, leaving only quiet love and admiration. He nodded, eyes fluttering shut and brushing their lips together delicately. When he righted himself, eyes open half-way, he murmured, “with this kiss, I thee wed.”
Rhyleigh’s face split into a fantastic grin; Dorian was sure his cheeks would ache something fierce later on and rather thought that he looked slightly demented when he smiled like that. Nevertheless, Dorian returned the smile (in a much more charming manner, thank you) and abruptly pulled away.
“I suppose I’d let everyone know. Maker knows Josephine and Vivienne are going to demand to be in charge of the planning but I’d rather get a head start; I’m envisioning cream and gold, offset with midnight blue. No flowers, of course, you sneeze louder than a druffalo but I imagine some dragonbone table-ornaments would look rather nice. What do you think?”
Rhyleigh blinked, arms still out in the air where they’d been curled around Dorian’s waist. He looked dumbfounded and was pouting slightly.
“Um, what?”
“Table ornaments, amatus, yes or no?”
“Yes?”
“Excellent! Leave everything to me, this will be the most extravagant wedding you’ve ever attended.” With that, Dorian spun on his heel and strode out of his study, muttering to himself about guests, venues and where to get the alcohol, leaving Rhyleigh standing alone and feeling rather like a sudden storm had just blown through the study.
“Well,” he said to himself mournfully “I guess engagement sex is put off for a while.”
Later Rhyleigh padded out of the bathing room adjacent to their bedroom, naked as the day he was born and running a towel through his hair with one hand and reading a letter from Cassandra detailing just how exactly she would like to run through the Grand Clerics with her sword.
“Hey, Doe!” Rhyleigh called out, hooting with laughter. “The clerics tried to make Cass wear a dress! Maker, they better sleep with one eye open.”
Chuckling, he set the letter down and frowned when he realised he had gotten no response from his finance. And doesn’t that just make you wanna squeal like a baby nug, Rhyles, Rhyleigh thought ruefully, aware of his pounding heart and sweaty palms.
“Doe? Where’d you get to?” Andraste’s tits, please tell you’re not still debating over two slightly different shades of dark blue.” He called out, and quickly yanked on a pair of breeches and a loose silk sleepshirt, forgoing shoes entirely, slipping the shirt over his head as he climbed down the stairs two at a time, calling Dorian’s name.
Wandering through the house, Rhyleigh made his way outside and found Dorian sitting with his legs crossed at his ankles, face tilted up towards the glittering night sky, upper body weight resting on his palms. A half-empty glass of wine sat beside him, the red colour of it deepened to a bloody hue in the moonlight.
“There,” Dorian murmured, gesturing with a hand.
Rhyleigh sat down moving the wine glass out of the way, and cocked his head to the side questioningly. “What do you mean?” He asked, tucking himself into Dorian’s side and feeling Dorian slip a hand to snake around his waist. “What am I looking at?”
“The sky,” Dorian replied patiently “that’s the colour I want for our wedding. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but all of our ‘firsts’ as you so quaintly call them, have happened under a night sky. Our first kiss in the Hissing Wastes, our first dance at Halamshiral, the first time we had sex together…” Dorian trailed off, bringing Rhyleigh closer unconsciously. Rhyleigh himself was quiet, gazing thoughtfully up at the sky. He waited for Dorian to continue speaking.
“I used to hate night-time.” Came the hushed confession. “Before I met you, night-time was the only time I felt I could really be myself. Sneaking into and out of men’s beds, all under the cover of night. Trysts in shadowy corners at elegant parties that spun well into early morning. I hated the night.” He surmised quietly.
“But,” he continued, staring deeply into Rhyleigh’s eyes “that changed when I met you. I thought that night-time could only ever be a time for secrecy and pretence. You changed that; with you, the night isn’t secret or full of things to be ashamed of; it’s private, and calm and full of things I love. That’s why I want this specific colour for our wedding. Because it’s ours, and it belongs to us.”
The whole time, Dorian spoke in a reverent hush, murmuring the words into Rhyleigh’s ear, as if he was speaking prayer. Rhyleigh’s throat was tight and he swallowed roughly, tangling their fingers together firmly on the cool stone bench. Stunned speechless, Rhyleigh pressed his head against Dorian’s shoulder, struggling for words.
He felt Dorian laugh softly. “Speechless, I see?” He murmured, repeating back Rhyleigh’s own words from two years ago.
Rhyleigh snapped his head up. “Dorian,” he started roughly. “I’m not that great with talking about feelings and shit-“ Dorian snorted and rolled his eyes “-but I wanna do this right. So. Here goes.”
Rhyleigh sucked in a breath, as if bracing himself for a hit before releasing in a long gust of air.
“You’re my soulmate. You’re the man I love and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. But, it’s, its’s more than that. I wasn’t that great a guy, before the Inquisition, I was rude and careless and I didn’t give a shit about anyone else. The Inquisition changed everything. You changed everything. I knew that who I was at that moment in time was not a man deserving of your love or the title of Inquisitor. So I made myself a better man. For, for the good of Thedas, yeah, but, Doe,” he paused, looked at Dorian beseechingly. “I wanted to be the kind of man that you deserved to be with. An’, an’ I guess what I’m saying is… that loving you made me a better man.”
Rhyleigh finished lamely, a ferocious blush rising high on his cheeks and very obviously uncomfortable at expressing this kind of depth of emotion. Dorian gently took his face into his hands, and kissed him, pouring everything he was into the kiss. They spent a few minutes simply kissing, slowly and sensually, breaking apart for air and then beginning again. Gasping, Dorian broke away.
“Amatus,” he whispered fiercely “we are both better men.”
Rhyleigh nodded frantically, straining to kiss him again. Dorian acquiesced and sucked on Rhyleigh’s tongue when it slipped into his mouth again, drinking in the desperate whimpers vibrating up his lover’s throat. Hands slipped under shirts and Rhyleigh was hefted on Dorian’s lap, and soon the pair were lost in each other, grinding slow and sweet, pleasure crackling between them and building slowly. With his hands tangled in Dorian’s hair, Rhyleigh tugged his head to side, giving him access to Dorian’s neck. Rhyleigh licked at his collarbone, sucking a deep, wet bruise onto the side of Dorian’s neck and wriggling happily at the equally deep and throaty groan he got in response. Rhyleigh smiled to himself, briefly. Right now, they had world and time enough.
In the sky, the stars glinted peacefully.