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The Bull is the most unlikely, but most… appreciated friend that Dorian has made here in the frigid South.
He won’t admit that he finds the Tal-Vashoth’s brand of humor somewhat entertaining, or that he enjoys the way they can snip and argue and yes even exchange somewhat flirty banter, while also retreating back to safer waters where he doesn’t have to consider the way the Bull’s shirts always seem too tight, or that he himself has grown into the habit of making punny rather than witty statements just to see the Bull snigger and—
Ahem.
In short, the Bull is a surprising, generous, and well-appreciated friend. One of a small, but growing collection of friends, plural, he’s made in Fereldan. They are the sort of friends that makes the cold passably bearable—not that he’ll tell any of them that. Especially the girls; they’d never let him live it down.
But the Bull stands head and shoulders (pun very much intended) above the rest in his sheer generosity and a heart that is far too big to be true, sometimes, but well, here they are. It’s easier to blame the Bull’s big heart for the start of the whole affair, rather than acknowledge the fact that they were spiraling towards the inevitable together.
It starts like this: Dorian’s lease is almost up, and though Lace has been a darling roommate, it seems that she and Krem are rather serious about taking Things a step forward and will risk co-habitation, so she’s going to be gone soon, as will her half of the rent.
He’s teased her well and truly, and earned enough kicks to his shins to make it maybe not his smartest idea, but so worth it. However, as they—Dorian, the Bull, Lace and Cremisius, that is—work on packing up her surprisingly few boxes, with the two of them working on sorting out Lace’s Tupperware from Dorian’s, he comes to the sudden, surprising conclusion that his lease will soon be up and he remarks, “Oh, I probably should look for a new roommate, or maybe, find somewhere else to stay.”
Lace glances over at him, incredulous.
“Dorian, I understand that perfectionists procrastinate but this is ridiculous.”
“Oh I’m sure I’ll think of something,” Dorian replies, trying to wave away her concern. “As my freshmen seminar urchins are fond of saying: one cannot expect to adult well all the time.”
That seems to be the Bull’s cue to stick his head and horns into the kitchen door with an unattractive waggle of his brows.
“What’s this about adultery I hear?”
Dorian and Lace throw him an unimpressed look; that was bad, even for his low standards, though the Bull smiles, obviously pleased with himself.
“If you must know, Lace has merely reminded me that I will be out of a beloved roommate, and possibly house and home, within next week.”
That terrible hang-dog grin of his—that is in no way charming but instead makes the Bull look loony—morphs into terrible concern.
“Dorian.”
“Oh don't you start, too—I’m sure I’ll think of something, or somewhere to stay.”
“You remember I’m losing a roommate too? Why don’t you stay with me until you sort something else out?” The Bull suggests instead, as if it's nothing to offer shelter and living space just like that.
In truth, there’s a million and one ways to respond to that offer. And if he had his wits about him and was not focusing on the Bull’s horrendous outfit for the day (sweatpants and a t-shirt with the mascot for the junior football league he coaches—an atrocious, hand-drawn and violently pink nuggalope autographed by his students) the whole thing would have probably been avoided. But that wouldn’t have been a happy ending for all involved, so Dorian simply says:
“Why not?”
His time in the South has softened him some, and his time with these friends of his has especially made it so much easier to accept several things: himself, generosity, the companionship of someone with a foul sense of humor but a wide heart… Why not room with the Bull—temporarily, mind—at least his place will be more than big enough for the both of them. And he’s close by to the University; in fact, he could walk to work while he’s there, and wouldn’t that be something?
It seems like a very good idea as each second passes and the two of them hem and haw out the details. But of course, they’re so preoccupied that they miss the way that Lace goes absolutely still, eyes wide as saucers and Tupperware all but forgotten.
Instead, she merely beams back at him, pointedly glancing between the Bull and Dorian with a far too interested look.
*~*~*
So in the end, it’s not just Lace packing up the pieces in their little apartment, but Dorian as well.
Which is fine, in its own way; the Bull and Krem have made themselves at home when it comes to helping them pack up and move on, only happy to challenge one another to see who can lift the most boxes without needing a break. But with Dorian’s stuff added to the mix of things that need to be hauled out of their tiny apartment—including his impressive amount of books, and the bookshelves themselves needed to be dismantled—he decides it’s time to call in the cavalry.
Namely, he calls for the help of one Naule Lavellan-Ranier, who swans in on his only day off with a power-tool set and infectious cheer. It’s only the two of them, which he appreciates far more than he lets on. After all, he hasn’t spent a lot of one-on-one time with his very first Southern friend ever since she and her bear of a husband tied the knot—so they catch up with mutual complaints about their students in relative peace.
But of course, since this is Dorian’s life, nothing is ever so straightforward.
As they work on dismantling the bookshelves haphazardly bought from the cheap supposedly easy-to-assemble furniture store with the Avaar-folklore inspired names, Naule raises a rather interesting, and highly unusual question:
“So did you and Bull decide where to put up the bookshelves at his place?”
Dorian pauses in his work of uselessly digging around with a screwdriver, and shakes his head.
“Now, I was spoilt and raised amongst vipers but I know how to not be an inconsiderate guest—the shelves will be in storage until I find somewhere more suitable.”
Naule pauses in turn, and whirls about to face him.
“Wait—you’re only moving in temporarily?”
“Yes?”
She flushes, from her cheeks to the very tips of her ears and hums, considering. But she’s never been a good liar, and there’s something about her expression that suggests that she’s hiding something or other—something that he needs to tease out.
“Naule, my darling, and dearest friend of mine…”
“Oh, I know that tone.” She sighs, giving in. “Alright, I’ll bite, but promise you won’t get mad?”
“It depends: what would I have cause to ‘get mad’ about?”
“It’s just we—as in, all of us—thought that you two were dating.”
“Dating,” Dorian says, flatly. The word tastes odd in his mouth, especially when his brain supplies the images, of him and the Bull together as such.
“Dating this whole time, rather,” she admits with a small wince. “Remember during the wedding when you two stood side by side for the Electric Slide and half the Lavellan line-dances that no one else bothered to learn? The rumor started there, from Sera mostly, because line dancing can only lead to horizontal dancing, or so she claims. And so did a betting pool—bets on who would ask who first, how long you’d last, whether you’d be together by Satinalia and the like.”
“Dating this whole time.”
“So when Harding said you two were moving in together, right after the news broke out that she and Krem are moving in for real, then—“
“Wait, wait a moment, let’s go back to the fact that you all think that we’re dating.”
“Well—you two are awfully sweet on one another, prickly but sweet,” She concedes. The fact that Dorian is merely staring back at her with that same look of a halla caught in the headlights tells her that perhaps, the news hasn’t been received well.
But Dorian manages to compose himself, heaving nothing more than a long and loud sigh, “So, before anything else, I need to set it straight that the Bull and I are not dating. Is that clear?”
“As crystal, lethallan.”
*~*~*
And that should be the end of that, but Dorian cannot help but mull over this bit of news for quite some time. It hounds him at odd moments—the strange thought that he is sweet on the Bull. Or vice versa. It’s not as if they’re doing anything particularly suspect, but apparently there’s something there for the others to see.
After a week in of living with one another, everything seems to have fallen into place. Life moves on, he adapts to his new routine, his new roommate and the world continues to spin. But there’s also that traitorous part of him—the part of Dorian that should know better—that cannot keep it to himself any longer, Naule’s words echoing in his head.
So he glances up from his laptop one night and blurts out to the Bull without much preamble:
“Did you know, it seems that some of our friends are under the impression that, because we have moved in together, you and I are involved.”
Bull laughs—a little hysterically from his spot sprawled out on the floor, tinkering with something or other—which gets Dorian’s dander up. He puffs up and crosses his arms over his chest with a scowl.
“It’s not that that funny! I, at least, am a catch!”
“Oh but it is. I wonder where they get that idea?” Bull asks, wiping a tear from his single eye. On the tip of his tongue the Bull wanted to ask instead, “Would it really be that bad?” but he respects Dorian’s sensitivity on the issues around things like dating and relationships, so instead, he makes a small, considering noise.
“Though there’s a lot that we can do with this, too…”
“Oh?” Dorian looks vaguely interested. Huh. So perhaps it hasn’t bothered Dorian as much as the Bull would have thought?
“Well,” he begins, drawing out the vowels in a way that’s contemplative, but mostly because it makes Dorian fidget. Always impatient and demanding, that one; not that he’d change that about the mage, it makes him fun. “It’s been awhile since we got back at Sera for pranking us—and it seems that we’re overdue for getting our other friends back—so…”
Some heat colors Dorian’s face, and he flushes a pretty shade of pink.
“You’re not—you’re not seriously proposing—“
“Slow down, Big Guy, you haven’t even bought me a hot dinner yet!” The Bull cries playfully.
“—That we pretend that we’re together just to have a lark at our friends?”
The Bull considers his response. Truthfully, he decides on his next course of action by carefully reading Dorian’s expression. He’s flushed, but he’s not dismissing the idea persay—there’s something still a little soft there in those grey eyes, something receptive and not ready to shut down so he pushes his luck a bit; the idea’s a shot in the dark, but it sure as hell sounds fun to mess with the others, even if only for a little while.
“You know, my kids would say ‘YOLO’, but yeah, why not? It’d keep them on their toes!” He argues. “Plus we need to disrupt that betting pool somehow…”
Dorian, for his part, needs to think on it. A relationship—even a fake one—isn’t something that he is particularly amenable to right now, much less a fake relationship with the Bull. So, he tells him to shelve it, and well, that should be the end of that—no harm, no foul.
But then Sera does something or other that involves a lamppost and an inventive use of a whoopee cushion for Dorian’s 8 am recitation.
And it must leave enough of an impression, because that day, Dorian comes home in a huff, and flings himself upon his couch with such a fierce, determined look in his eye that the Bull cannot help but appreciate because damn.
“Bull, you remember that day we considered pretending to be in a relationship to mess with our friends for our own amusement and to make them feel foolish in the end?”
“Uh, I remember the mess with them part, but I didn’t realize there was a clause about making them feel foolish?
“Foolish. Silly. Duped. What was that show; Punk’d?”
“Sooo, I take it you’re up for this?”
“Absolutely.”
*~*~*
It’s surprisingly easier than expected to pretend to be in a relationship, all things considered. It’s not as if Dorian or Bull are particularly adept in that area, for various and sundry reasons—but they manage to fall into little domestic habits in a way that at least seems natural, but isn’t too far from their usual habits.
Dorian’s prickly at first glance, but he’s had nigh on a year to grow used to having friends to trust at his back, and more specifically being able to trust the loyalty of the Bull at his side. Affection is shared through word and deed moreso than physical touch, but the Bull makes up for that deficit through his tactile personality and warmth found in throwing an arm over someone’s chair or a hand placed on a shoulder.
Of course, they set their own boundaries and borders, and the Iron Bull gives them both an out with a watchword, whenever either of them wants to stop this Thing of theirs. “It’s simple—you say ‘Katoh’, or I say ‘Katoh’ and that’s it, we’re done,” Bull reassures Dorian, simple as that.
Dorian doesn’t think that he’ll need to use it, he suspects that the game will end sooner rather than later; one cannot find joy in duping their friends for far too long. Then, after they consent to the plan, Bull joke’s that they need to come up with a real strategy to cement Operation: It’s a Trap.
“Must it be named after a pop-culture reference?” Dorian asks from his perch at the kitchen table, thaumaturgy and folklore books spread around him. Bull waddles over with a cup of cocoa that he places at Dorian’s elbow, crowding into his space with a put upon sigh; they’ve been arguing about the name for some time now.
“But it’s a trap.”
“Fine!” Dorian returns. If anything, they have bickering like an old couple down pat, so there’s one way that they can blend in as a “legit” thing. “Then we toss the lot of them a red herring—“
“Wait, was that a reference to the General?”
Dorian tosses his hands up in the air. “Of course it’s a reference to the General! Now back to the matter at hand: we’ll toss them a red herring, just to feel the waters—oh stop sniggering—and well. We’ll work from there.”
It’s then oh-so carefully planned that Cassandra will be the first of their guinea pigs to visit. They’re not sure if Naule had spread the news that they weren’t dating, but Bull argues that it’s a risk they need to take.
“So there’s the Lavellan Factor, but we can account for that by getting to Cassandra first. It’s all to keep them guessing, Dorian,” He assures the mage after he texts Cassandra to come over for a film and some take-out.
“But will subtlety work with Cassandra?”
“Yep. Just act natural and let me do most of the talking. Cass will eat this shit up and because it’s Cass, no one is going to doubt her. Trust me on this.”
So that's how they end up with the three of them crowding into Bull’s living room with boxes of take-out set between them.
As is the norm, the Bull sits himself into the suspiciously Vashoth-shaped indent on the left side of the couch—the couch groans underneath his weight but steadily, stubbornly holds up. The middle is not necessarily Cassandra’s favored spot, because whoever gets that dubious position inevitably leans in slightly towards the Bull, so she pointedly wedges herself to the far right. Which leaves Dorian to squeeze himself between them, already leaning in towards the Bull’s bulk—and really there’s nothing out of the ordinary about this—he’d do the same for Sera, because she rather likes her space too—but he cannot ignore the way that Cassandra is looking at them from the corner of her eye.
Huh.
“Something amiss, Cassandra?”
“Something? Oh. No. Everything is fine it’s just…” She coughs lightly, then turns to glance over at the both of them with one of her small, hard-won little smiles. “I’m just happy for you two. I was told otherwise but it seems that there’s much good news to be had all around after all.”
“Oh? For what exactly, Cass?” The Bull asks, his arm doing its usual habit of sneaking around the couch, around Dorian.
“Oh. You know—you both look happier for this move, and it is always pleasing to have friends who are good together,” She huffs, then turns away to grab the remote, obviously intent on starting the movie without remarking any longer on their would-be relationship. They take a moment to exchange a glance.
“Good together?” Dorian mouths with a raised brow. The Bull simply shrugs. So alright, it’s perhaps not as funny as Dorian and the Bull had hoped—it is a rare Cassandra-moment for her to be so soft and they don’t quite want to ruin it. So instead, they begin a rousing game of “Annoy Cassandra”, and start up their usual banter during the film, making puns and adding their own riffs to exceedingly terrible lines or plot points.
Every disgusted noise and scowl she sends their way is so worth it, when Dorian leans in closer into the Bull’s space, pressed to the steady warmth of his side and asks her, oh-so innocently:
“But didn’t you just say we were good now that we’re together?”
“Ugh. ”
*~*~*
The small things add up to make significant strides in their forged relationship.
For instance: another dinner with Krem and Lace in attendance. Lace is set to work setting the table, Krem to peel potatoes, and the Bull to watching the pot with its heady mixture of spices and sizzling onions. Dorian meanwhile is kept well away from it all, lest they have another palak paneer incident, and Dorian attempting to save it by magically heating the pot.
“Pizza is only a phone call away,” Dorian sing-songs from the living room, fussing about with his laptop and student essays he’s running through a plagiarism tracker. (He’s only caught one so far, but he has his suspicions about that boy who sleeps through his 3 pm recitation)
“Forget pizza, you asked for ‘Vint curry so we’re getting curry!” Bull yells right back.
“Less gabbing and more stirring, my dear!”
My dear? Dorian’s laying it on thick today. But it gets the desired reaction: Krem misses his mark with the potatoes and ends up cutting at the board, followed by Lace fumbling with a spoon.
“Oh I’ll give you something to gab about,” Bull mutters, fondly, underneath his breath but turns his focus back on the pot. It’s gotten surprisingly quiet in the kitchen, and he sighs, heaving his shoulders. “Alright, what’s so funny?”
A glance at Krem, and he looks… well, speechless—and it’s not like Bull’s gotten him this good in a long time. Lace, though, is less subtle, grinning broadly from ear to ear.
“You two are adorable,” she coos, beaming over brightly towards Krem. Bull has his suspicions about Lace’s participation in the betting pool, and the pout that his former roommate sends her way surely confirms his suspicions that she’s scored some type of win. They better ask them what exactly they all bet on, when this is all over, in a little while.
“Disgustingly, uncharacteristically domestic is more like it,” Krem grunts in reply.
“Now, now,” Bull soothes, and because they’ve given him the opening, he’s going to take it. “I actually agree, with you, Kreme Puff, we’re not adorable.”
“You’re agreeing with me? That’s new for you, Chief—“
“But the proper term to address the two of us together, as a unit, as a combined relation type-Thing is thus: We’re Adoribull.”
No one groans louder than Dorian from the living room, much to the Bull’s silent glee.
- - -
“So: The Iron Bull and Dorian Pavus, huh?” Varric asks Cassandra brightly. Cass doesn’t deign to respond to him, tapping away at her phone instead. Sera, though, sticks out her tongue and turns to Varric with a scowl.
“Don’t remind me. Lost a twenty to Cole for it. To Cole.”
“Eh, you win some, you lose some; Bull definitely sealed the deal after their dance session at her Worship’s shindig dontcha think? I mean—… Cass? What’s wrong?”
Seated across from him, Cassandra seems to be warring between utter delight and her usual repulsion at their antics. Of course, it’s not because of anything Varric’s done as of recently, within the last ten seconds—she’s focused upon her phone, fingers hovering over something or other, and he’s immediately dying to know what it is.
“Cass?”
“Yeah, wot’s it—your face is gonna get stuck funny if you keep looking like that…” Sera begins, only to trail off when she glances down. Whatever she’s seeing on the screen has even Sera wide-eyed, which has got Varric’s curiosity racketing up a notch.
“Okay, the elf’s speechless—this has to be good, and you both need to show me. Now.”
“We’ll show you, but you won’t believe it. Posh tit would never be caught dead wearing that. Maker’s hairy ballsack, he’s in it.”
Wordlessly Cassandra hands over her phone, to reveal that she’s been scrolling through the ‘Gram instead of paying attention to their conversation. Though this is far better than any moaning over losing in the betting pool: lit up on the screen with over forty Likes is an unfiltered photograph of Bull and his footie team.
It’s always weirdly endearing to see The Iron Bull with his kids—and as always there’s a lot going on in so small a snapshot. It seems they won their most recent football match, so they’re taking their victory shot, as per usual. What’s not so usual is the Vint smack dab in the middle of the shot, stuffed into a bright pink “I’M THE PROUD PARENT OF A STAMPEDING NUGGALOPE” tee shirt that is a few sizes too big, with muddy, grubby children clutching to him, and the Bull at his side with a massive arm thrown over his shoulders and a thumbs-up aimed at the camera.
Now Dorian doesn’t look to be in any sort of pain: no grimace, no tightness around his eyes that Varric’s grown more used to over the time they’ve gotten to know each other—in fact, he seems to be caught in the moment, still deciding whether or not to smile, his face turned ever so slightly up to look at the Bull instead of straight on at the shot.
Which isn’t a bad thing, in Dorian speak.
Hell it could even be considered affectionate; that man has got the polite smile down pat and he loves to preen in front of a camera, so there’s no mistaking this vulnerable, natural warmth. Actually, it’s the fact that he missed his cue to pose at the right angle that’s the most damning.
So all Varric can think of is: Well shit.
“Oh yeah,” He agrees—calculating a way to sneak in this hell of a love story into his next story. “He’s in it.”
- - -
“And what is that, my dear?” Vivienne asks over her third cup of coffee that day.
“It’s my lunch,” Dorian answers dumbly, and just stares at it all. It’s not anything special, exactly, just an egg omelet made with leftover salmon, some rice and vegetables on the side, all lovingly plated up in one of his ratty Tupperware containers. But it’s the note that cinches it all, a hand-written letter of thanks for showing up at the football game, a few words of encouragement and a wish for Dorian to have a nice day. Complete with a saccharine sweet little doodle of the Bull winking, and far too many hearts, and little x’s and little o’s.
But in spite of it all—there’s that traitorous part of Dorian that warms at the sight. It’s something far beyond his usual routine of peanut butter on wheat, but the Bull surely had to have planned this, to wake up early enough to have time to make this, and get himself out the door for his earlier office hour.
He’s touched, simply touched by it all. Maybe it’s just payback for the other weekend, and the weekend before that when he continued to show up to the football games—wearing that disgusting shirt and sitting with the other parents, as well.
Nonetheless it’s incredibly thoughtful of him and, well—
“Well, it’s lovely to look at, but I’m sure it tastes much better,” Naule hums, sending him a playful little smile from her corner of the breakroom table. It’s enough to break him out of his reverie, least his colleagues and friends see him fuss over a damned packed lunch of leftovers and a dumb little note, but he tucks in with great gusto all the same.
- - -
At this point, the charade has gone on for far too long, but every day, one or the other thinks, well, why not a little while longer. The Bull is firm in mentioning aloud that they are more than welcome to keep this fake relationship as a front for their friends, only.
“You need not bottle it up, Big Guy,” He says, cryptically, watching Dorian from across the dinner table with his carefully neutral expression. Of course the Bull would notice that Dorian hasn’t been frequenting his usual bar haunts or flipping through his thedr app.
But Dorian waves him off; he’s working on that paper of his, as well as doing more admin work for the department, and between his role as a TA and making a point to show up to the Bull’s football games before the season is over… Well.
“I’ve been busy, but please—don’t hold back either, on my account.” He replies, though that traitorous little part of him rears up at the idea of the Bull with other people—ridiculous, really.
“Heh, thanks Dorian,” he says—and he means it of course. But, it’s been a bit busy for him, too, and though he’s grabbed a couple of drinks and had a lovely session with that buxom red-head over at the Herald’s a couple weeks back, he also doesn’t mind spending his evenings here, at home, tinkering away at his own hobbies or writing in his journal, with the steady thrum of Dorian tapping away at his laptop beside him.
- - -
Thus, they’re still ‘together’ when the cold sets in along with the holiday rush. Today they’re stuffed in an overcrowded shopping mall with Sera and half the Chargers in tow, grabbing presents for the Nuggalopes and for the pediatric patients under Stitch’s care. They split off for the moment, with Rocky loudly chiding the “lovebirds” to behave themselves as the Chargers veer off down one aisle of toys.
Dorian rolls his eyes, but follows after the Bull and Sera, pushing their cart along so that the pair can toss in only the “coolest” looking toys as they pass by. The aisle spills out into another section that is festooned with the usual trappings of Satinalia: electric lights and tinsel, nutcrackers decked out in pseudo-accurate-Dragon age military regalia, and—wonders of wonders—a whole row full of mistletoe.
Sera seems to zero in on the display, and she sticks out her tongue.
“Blech, can’t keep it under lock and key can they, there’s kids about.”
“Can’t keep what under lock and key?”
“All that mistletoe, mage bits.”
The Bull simply chuckles, focused on grabbing discount toys, and not rising to the opportunity to crack some sort of joke. Dorian, on the other hand, has grown to appreciate how timing is absolutely key—especially when it comes to the perfect timing for this fake relationship thing. So it’s easy enough to roll the cart off to the side, then step over to pluck up a mistletoe, holding it high above his head, and wait.
Sera and the Bull have moved on a bit, so it’s satisfying when the Bull makes a move to toss a toy absently into the cart that should be following behind him, only for it to fall to the linoleum floor with a loud clatter. Bull has to turn around, then, and they meet like this across the aisle: the Bull staring at Dorian who’s holding a sprig of plastic mistletoe over his head.
“Well come now,” Dorian laughs, because if he says anything else, he might mess it up and blow their cover when they’ve been working at this for so long—though whether it’s for the payload of being able to turn the tables on their friends, or for the Bull to actually touch him, it’s about an even split (for now).
Still. Bull carefully schools his expression and makes his way over—their height difference means that someone has to bend down, or someone has to lean up. But Dorian is probably expecting like, a kiss on the cheek or something, right? So he leans down—just as Dorian is about to lean up—and they end up knocking into each other.
From her end of the aisle, Sera is howling like a hyena as she laughs and laughs. Dorian, meanwhile, rubs at his forehead ruefully where he collided with Bull’s chin; he can only offer a sheepish little smile back—and wonder of wonders, Dorian answers him with his own, shy little grin.
*~*~*
Another cold day leading up to Satinalia comes with the dawning realization that this Thing of theirs has been going on for far too long and that, just recently, have they attempted to kiss. Surely, everyone must have noticed that, fact, right? Perhaps the jig is up and they’ve all been playing along—so who has been playing whom, and has their petty want for a joke reaped any worthwhile fruit?
It’s enough to make his head spin, and something inside chide him about the fact that he’s gone on long enough without any physical comfort beyond his own toys and idle fantasies that most certainly are not Bull-centric. (Which is a lie, they are all very Bull-centric fantasies that leave him unhappily frustrated in the morning)
Right. So it’s been far too long—and they’ve slipped into something that is comfortably affectionate but then, he’s never dealt well with temptation, has he? It’s so easy to want, to look at Bull and consider, that they could be something instead.
Or perhaps this is all just his own unproductive procrastination; there’s a pile of essays on the practical applications of Virgil Amell’s Theory on Pyromancy that he needs to sort through, after all, sitting around listlessly while he tangles himself up in knots about this Thing that’s grown so vast and large, that it’s now hard to separate between the front and the truth.
In addition, living and learning about the Bull in close proximity, has taught him a thing or too about timing—they’re long past an acceptable turn around to making all of this a joke, a long-planned “Gotcha” moment at their friend’s expense.
So where does that leave them, now?
Of course, after this moment of angst and anxiety and no-doubt some stress about finals and final grades, the Bull sweeps in and, more or less, is distracting enough to push those thoughts away.
“So, want to get dinner?” He asks from the front door, stomping off the snow on their soggy welcome mat.
Dorian takes one look at the Bull, and the mess of snow that dusts his horns and shoulders and shivers.
“I’ll pass. I’m not going out in that weather.”
“But Dorian, we can go and get curry. My treat.”
Spicy food on a cold winter’s day was sorely tempting indeed. (And he’s already established that he does not deal well with temptation)
“Ah—you’re treat you say, so is this a date?” He asks, playful, but at the same time, fluttering with a small hope of some sort. Of course, the Bull sometimes misses his mark with ill-timed and ill-planned words:
“A date? Uh, nah, it’s just going to be you and me and a big pot of curry, Dorian.”
“I see.”
And well, that’s that. He tried and it failed, so there’s nothing for him to tie himself in knots over.
(Though there’s the part of him that rails against that, that thinks fiercely otherwise)
“Still—I won’t say no to curry! Just a moment, Bull; let me get my coat.”
- - -
They eat their curry, and then they need to brave the elements and tackle the good old Southern storm that kicked up while they were busy. Dorian complains, as his wont, but he leans into the Bull’s side—as is becoming his new habit that they both are politely not acknowledging for now. Still, the thought comes again to the front of Bull’s mind, dancing on the tip of his tongue.
Kadan.
It’s there, deep in his bones whenever he looks at Dorian—from his most glorious to his most mundane moments. Dorian at his kitchen table, sleep mussed and clutching at a mug of coffee for dear life; Dorian in the stands roaring for the kids whenever they score a goal; Dorian and the way he has become so intrinsic to the nooks and crannies of his own life.
Kadan.
The shape of it feels right, but names have power, and he dare not name it aloud. He’s not sure if they would survive the blow if he were to shatter what strange peace they’ve come to find in one another.
*~*~*
Another night leading up to Satinalia, and their friends still haven’t figured it out. But the joke’s on Dorian, because even as their friends warmly greet them as a couple, and even announce that they’re easier to shop for now that they count as one unit rather than two separate entities, they’re not together. Nope. Absolutely not, he tells himself.
Of course, in retaliation, more and more each day when he looks at the Bull comes unbidden the simple thought: I want.
And for a time he leaves it at that, at I want, rather than take the risk of I will try.
But then there are evenings when they spend in each other’s company, apart but closer still than he’s let any man near to him before—so he says to himself, echoing his own decision from what seems like an eon ago: Well why not
He’s a brave man—sort of—had to be to leave his country behind for a new start, and he won’t suffer for pining. That’s more the providence of droopy-eyed men like Thom Rainier. And he eventually decides that it’s better to just get it over with; lay his heart bare; take it or leave it, accept it and move on.
(That roommate and new flat he’s been procrastinating on can most certainly be found as soon as the Bull rejects him, after all.)
*~*~*
So it ends like this: Satinalia is around the corner, and the Bull is busy getting their space ready for the holiday season. He had remarked upon the bare walls, that there was enough space for a bookshelf or two, but Dorian had convinced him to string up some tinsel instead to take up the space; that had taken him nearly all afternoon.
Dorian, meanwhile, had been busy with papers (true), and other important things (false), which included coming up with the right words to say to the Bull about what he wanted out of this—how he would like to make this Thing of theirs become something more.
He tells himself to think bandages, of ripping it off in one clean swoop rather than prolonging the inevitable so he forces himself to head over to the Bull’s side as soon as he screws up enough courage to go through with it.
“Bull, there’s something I need to say.”
“Yeah, Dorian? What’s up?” The Bull asks—he’s in the kitchen, now, obnoxiously hanging up some tinsel around the ceiling fan that only he can reach.
There’s a million and one ways he should probably begin this, and of course, he chooses the wrong word this time:
“Katoh.”
The Bull goes still for just a moment, but the smile on his face is as soft and welcoming as ever, on that scarred face of his.
“Oh. I understand. So do you want to be the one to tell them all, or should we do it together—“
“No!” Dorian cries out hastily, eyes wide and something in his chest tightening up. “I mean. Yes. I want to stop this—everything that’s fake about this, about us—but I don’t want to stop the idea, the very possibility that we could be something more.”
There’s a long pause soon after. It’s hard to surprise the Bull, but a small part of Dorian smugly appreciates that he’s rendered the Bull speechless.
“Oh.”
“Right. Well. Eloquent as ever, my dear.”
“So you want this fake relationship to be a not-fake relationship?” The Bull asks slowly, patiently.
“Oh come now, use your words—or no. That’s not it.” Dorian points a somewhat accusing finger at him, but the banter is helping him get it all out. “You want me to spell it out for you, clearly. So yes, plain and simple: I like you well enough and I want this to be real—that is, I want to try at it. About us becoming us. I can only promise you that much but I want to try.”
There’s something charged in the space between them, and much to Dorian’s relief, it only grows when the Bull smiles—that beloved hang-dog grin of his that makes him look loony but Dorian takes it for what it is, a good sign.
“… Just so you know, on the scale of romantic conversations, this is probably really low tier, you know. And we’ve watched so many rom-coms together as a not-couple, come on Dorian.”
“It’s a work in progress.”
“I believe it.”
“So it’s just… Simple as that?” Dorian asks, trying to be light about it, all the while that voice in his head that had screamed I want now urging him to move forward. Because there’s too much of a space between them, and perhaps instead of maintaining this distance they hold.
“Yeah, simple as that,” The Bull reassures, gently setting the tinsel he was fussing with down upon the table. He also has the decency to take the first step forward towards Dorian. “You want to try this—and I want to try this, too so, why not?”
“Yes. Why not.”
Suddenly that distance between them becomes no more, and the Bull stands before Dorian; not so unfamiliar territory, but all the same, they stare at each other anew. Thankfully, it’s Dorian who breaks the spell that has kept them quietly within arms reach but still apart:
“… So, I would rather like to kiss you now. A real kiss.”
“And here we’ve been doing so well implying that we’re snogging but okay, whatever you want, Big Guy—“
And with that, they try it again: Bull bends down, Dorian leans up ever so slightly—and truthfully, they miss, again. But that first kiss on the chin is a prelude to more kisses to come: The Bull learns that Dorian’s moustache leaves ticklish little trails; Dorian finds that Bull likes a little bit of bite to his kisses—and they both, of course, are rather determined to make up for lost time…
*~*~*
So, they decide that their joint Satinalia gift will be telling everyone the truth, and the Bull hints that there might be a camera around for all involved. He’s worked hard at figuring out the betting pool and what the stakes were; they’re looking forward to the chaos that will be sure to spill out over after word really gets out that their guesses were either all wrong or right.
But that’s for later: for now, it seems as if there’s only one member of their inner circle of friends who seems concerned with confirming her suspicions as soon as possible.
“So you and Dorian, hm?” Naule asks archly from her spot at the kitchen table, clutching a mug of tea and beaming over at Bull. He’s got some extra tinsel wound around his horns and he’s wearing a Satinalia sweater with pink Nuggalopes patched on. He’s asked her to come ‘round to help him with a surprise, and they’re both taking a well-deserved break for some tea and some gossip.
“Yep! I mean—we’ve been spending some time together, and man, that’s something, you know.”
“I can only imagine.”
“Yeah, well he’s a sweet guy, and he cares under all that bluster.”
“Especially without having to be completely fake about it, I assume?”
“Ah well, there’s that too. We have been spending some time together, after all.”
Naule simply smiles over at him and then glances over her shoulder and towards the living room—empty spaces now lined up with cheap, supposedly easy-to-assemble bookshelves that took the better part of the afternoon.
“And you know,” the Bull says softly, drawing her attention back to him, and that grin of his that seems only softer. “Honestly, though I’m hoping we’re good for each other.”
- - -
“So,” Naule begins, the elf making a point to nudge at Dorian’s shoulder until he designs to answer her.
“So?”
“Only temporarily, you said.”
“Don’t you start, my dearest and First friend,” Dorian replies primly, but he cannot wipe off that fond little grin off his face in a way that
“Bull’s really rubbing off on you with those lame puns.”
“In more ways than one, but yes. There’s something. Truthfully, there’s always been something. A whole lot of something.”
“Really? And it has nothing to do with us all just going blind and seeing things that we want to see and you staying at Bull’s for months, hmm?”
“Well,” He says, smiling softly to himself. “You know how these things are.”