Chapter Text
Dorian liked to drink. Mahanon knew that well. It was no secret, everyone knew it. The man talked about it enough that no one paid any mind to find him a little on the tipsy side late at night in the tavern. Mahanon had smelled it on his breath enough at night when the Tevinter was feeling a little more handsy and playful than usual – which was saying something. But the Inquisitor had never thought it was a problem. There was never a moment when they were on an expedition that Dorian had more than a couple mouthfuls; it never got in the way of the work they had.
It was a slow day, filled with diplomatic relations and high tension in the war room. Mahanon rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the tension in the muscles. A slow and excruciating day. Which, of course, meant that it was an uneventful day for most of his other friends that weren’t involved in the negotiations. Josie and Cullen were at each other’s throats, as per usual, and Leliana wasn’t helping very much on that front. The only relief Mahanon had was that he wouldn’t have to face it again until the morning. Josie had taken pity on the exhausted Inquisitor and suggested they retire for the night. To say they turned in early could suggest it would still be daylight, but it was well into the night when they broke apart.
Mahanon knew where he would find Dorian on a day like today.
The mood was jovial and loud in the tavern, just as it always was. The bard was singing the same small collection of songs he always played, the lanterns and candles providing just enough light to see each other’s faces, and perhaps lend to setting the mood. He could see Bull in his usual spot, playing some sort of dice game with one of the soldiers. Dorian was at the far end of the bar, nursing the last dregs of a drink. Already Mahanon’s mood was lifting, along with the weight on his shoulders. He made his way past the tables and people, giving brief greetings as he went, but not stopping on his way to Dorian. He moved in close to the Tevinter, sliding his arm around his lover’s waist.
“If you stare at that glass any harder, I’m frightened it might burst into flame.” He murmured teasingly in Dorian’s ear.
The touch and voice startled Dorian, but Mahanon could see the reaction tightly restrained, muscles straining not to give away anything. Dorian looked up, and only just then did Mahanon notice how hard of an expression he wore and how tightly strung his muscles were. If he didn’t know better, he’d have said Dorian was the one in heated negotiations and arguments since dawn.
The expression on Dorian’s face didn’t melt away or ease into the cocky smile that Mahanon knew so well – if anything, it twisted unpleasantly.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Mahanon asked before Dorian had a chance to speak.
Dorian picked up the glass and downed the last of it before setting it down, hard and loud, on the counter. “Nothing.” He all but spat out, shifting to try and move out of Mahanon’s touch.
Carefully, Mahanon moved back. He slid onto the stool next to Dorian, worry creasing his face. “It doesn’t look like nothing to me, Dorian.” He said gently, leaning towards Dorian, but careful not to touch him.
“Don’t you have something important to do, Inquisitor?” Dorian sneered impatiently, with a nasty look. It startled Mahanon into silence. He had never seen that look on Dorian before – not towards him, at least. Maybe towards his father, but never him.
Mahanon gently reached to touch Dorian’s arm, “Dorian-“ but he didn’t get any further before the Tevinter jerked his arm back.
“Don’t you fucking touch me!”
Mahanon drew his hand back as though it had been burnt, completely bewildered. The look on his face must have brought some small sense to Dorian, because he hesitated, looking a little startled at himself. He eased slightly, though it was clearly forced. The unpleasant look on his face eased in intensity, but never completely left it.
“I seem to have left my manners elsewhere. Excuse me while I go retrieve them, Inquisitor.” Dorian muttered, still sounding harsh and bitter, if a little quieter. He gave a small push to the empty glass, away from him, before moving in swaying, unsteady movements off his stool and out of the tavern. Everything about his demeanor forbade Mahanon from following him, as much as he wanted to run after him and demand, beg, plead him to tell him what was the matter.
Instead he sat there, bewildered and looking like a lost idiot at the bar. Slowly he became aware of his surroundings again, eyes carefully avoiding him. Part of the tavern had settled into an uncomfortable silence. Mahanon’s skin felt like it was on fire, his every nerve raw. He could feel the tips of his ears burning red.
Slowly, with wooden movements, Mahanon turned towards the barkeep. “Cabot. Did something happen?”
Cabot busied himself with cleaning an already spotless glass, not looking at the Inquisitor. “You’ll have to be askin’ him about that, now won’t you? I listen to problems same as any other man behind a bar, but gettin’ in the middle is where I don’t go. Lover’s quarrel is a lover’s quarrel, no place for us outsiders.”
Mahanon let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, disappointed when it came out as a huff. He looked down, blinking away the stinging in his eyes. Must be the smoke.
The noise level was rising again as people carried on with their conversations, the entertainment clearly over. Mahanon felt shell shocked. What in the Creator’s name was that? He wracked his brain, trying desperately to find what he had done wrong. Had he missed something? Forgotten something? Maybe there was something he said carelessly to hurt Dorian? Maybe there was some sort of misunderstanding. There were always rumors abound, could one have hit a little too closely for Dorian?
He’d have to talk to Dorian once he was sober. He may not have seen Dorian like this before, but Mahanon knew better than to try and reason with a man when he was drunk and angry.
Mouth dry, limbs feeling wooden, the Inquisitor left the tavern to its drink and gossip. No doubt some interesting rumors were to spring up after that display – but to hell with them. Mahanon couldn’t care less what they had to say about this. There was only one person who he cared about right now. Unfortunately, he would have to wait some time until he could resolve it. Tomorrow was another full day of negotiations and dignitaries, bickering among his council.
He went to bed, tighter than a bowstring and mind buzzing so intensely that he thought he would never fall asleep. At some point he must have, because it was sometime before dawn when he was awoken.
Nerves still raw and alive from the previous day and the encounter with Dorian at the tavern, he jerked violently awake when he felt the side of his bed dip. A sharp, deep intake of breath caught the familiar smell of spices, herbs, and scented shampoos that he knew so well. He let out the breath, and with it some of the tension. The waning moonlight showed the darkened skin, shine of hair, but hid Dorian’s face in shadows. Dorian moved without hesitation, pressing his face to the crook of Mahanon’s neck, hand sliding under covers and up Mahanon’s nightshirt. Dorian’s breath and mouth was hot on his throat, hand freezing on his skin – and the stink of drink now overwhelming all other familiar scents of his lover.
Groggy and confused, Mahanon tried to move to see Dorian, but Dorian only continued, kissing at the tender skin between neck and shoulder.
“Dorian – I – wait,“ Mahanon murmured, shifting again away from Dorian some. Dorian pulled the bedclothes back and started to pull at the hem of Mahanon’s shorts. “Dorian, I said wait! What are you doing?”
Drunk or not, Mahanon couldn’t make sense of Dorian’s actions. He was still hurt from how Dorian had reacted to him earlier, and as much as he wanted to throw it all out the window and let Dorian do as he pleased, there was something desperately wrong. There were no coy words, cheeky grins, no whispered words of adoration between them. Something was wrong.
Dorian stopped, hands still on the knotted drawstring of the shorts, his liquored breath hot and visible in the cold Skyhold night air.
“You had a long day and you’re tense. And you’ve another long and tense day tomorrow.” Dorian finally said, voice biting and barely a whisper in the quiet of the room. “So just shut up and let me do my job.”
The words struck Mahanon hard and deep, like a bolt of lightning or an arrow in the gut. “Do your job? Your job?” The words came out harsh, hurt, and louder than he meant. He pushed himself to sit up, forcing Dorian to sit back. Mahanon could see Dorian’s face now, the moonlight hitting it fully and showing the exact same, bitter look he’d worn in the tavern. “When have I ever – what the fuck are you talking about?”
“Yes, my job. No, you haven’t ever said it, or likely even thought it. No, because you’re different. You’re the Chosen One. Andraste’s holy warrior. Of course you would never. But let us not be children, Inquisitor, because that is exactly what this is. You can talk about after the war and everlasting love as much as your pure little heart desires, but let us not fool ourselves any longer. I told you before, I don’t care. I don’t care if you want to use me, I don’t care if I’m a port in a storm. Didn’t I? I did. I told you. So let me do what I do best, then I’ll let you go back to sleep.” Dorian didn’t wait before moving in again after his long speech.
“No!” Mahanon shrank back from Dorian’s touches, wounded and confused. “Dorian, we talked about this. You know how I feel about you. And I am far from being pure and innocent.”
Dorian chuckled, deep and unkind. “Oh yes, by now I’m certain I’ve made sure of that, haven’t I?”
“Dorian, what is this about? Where is all of this coming from? This isn’t just the drink talking, I know that much.” He drew in a breath, a thought coming to him. The anger of it hardened his voice, made his jaw clench. “Did someone say something to you?”
“It doesn’t matter what they said. It’s what this is.”
“What did they say? Who was it?”
Dorian moved back again, his movements almost disgusted. Everything about his gestures, posture, and demeanor was completely foreign to Mahanon right now. “Why? So you can go punish them for their impertinence? How dare they say anything to upset the Inquisitor’s pet whore!”
The word seemed to shock Dorian as much as it did Mahanon. Something like regret and shame crossed Dorian’s face, the first glimpse of something familiar. “I-“ Dorian began, turning away so that the moonlight no longer showed his face. “I’m sorry. I oughtn’t have said that. I’m drunk. Forget it, please.”
All the fight and anger had drained from Dorian, leaving something truly heartbreaking. And there was the truth of it. He could almost see the words that had been said to Dorian, the ones that had struck the man so hard. He knew Dorian had his insecurities, but he hadn’t thought gossip and careless comments could affect him so deeply.
Mahanon slid towards Dorian, reaching out to gently turn his face back towards him. “Emma lath, glandival ar.” [My love, believe me.] He murmured, leaning forward to press his forehead to Dorian’s. “I love you. So much it hurts to breathe when I think of it. More than anything I have loved anything in my life. I am not young, Dorian, and I am not a child. In heart or mind. I would give anything for your sake. I would do anything for your sake alone. So much that it frightens me.” Mahanon closed his eyes. He could feel Dorian’s shaking breath on his face. “I would never ask you to return these feelings. I would never… ask for more than you are willing to give, emma lath. But to hear what you think of yourself… Whether it’s just the drink speaking, or whether you truly think it, I won’t have it. I’d sooner end this completely than have you think that you were nothing more than a comfort at the end of a long day. That you meant little more than a warm bed and eased tensions to me.”
Mahanon realized numbly that Dorian was crying.
“Amatus…” Dorian breathed, breath hitching with a tightly repressed sob. But Mahanon could feel it through Dorian’s body. He pulled Dorian into a fierce embrace, allowing Dorian to bury his face in his shoulder. He raked a hand up the back of Dorian’s head, through his hair to cradle him closer. Silent sobs shook Dorian; the shoulder of Mahanon’s nightshirt was soon damp with tears.
“I’m sorry, Amatus.” Dorian whispered hoarsely into the shoulder, clutching desperately like a child at the Elf.
Slowly, carefully, Mahanon pulled Dorian to lay down, keeping him cradled close. He stroked Dorian’s hair gently, holding his own raging emotions tightly in check. He still couldn’t say exactly what was hurting Dorian right now, or what his lover was thinking – all that mattered was soothing him.
“Atisha, emma lath.” [Peace, my love.] Mahanon whispered into Dorian’s hair, “Sleep, Dorian. Sleep, and we will speak more in the morning.”
Dorian said nothing to agree or disagree. Mahanon didn’t even know if he heard, but he pressed a kiss to the Tevinter’s dark hair nonetheless, and was rewarded with Dorian easing his tension some. He wasn’t sure how he started, but Mahanon found himself humming softly to Dorian as he stroked his hair. It was a tune his mother had hum to him as a child, that her mother had hum to her, and her mother before her. All the mothers in his clan knew the tune, but the words had been long lost to time. Soon he could feel Dorian relax more as he drifted to sleep, exhausted and drunk from the night’s events. Mahanon stayed awake sometime longer, until the first hints of blue crept into the sky, suggesting dawn approaching. There was still so many questions he had, and he wasn’t sure how many answers he would get from Dorian. He feared Dorian would brush this aside, laugh and make a joke of his outburst. No, he did not fear it, he knew it. He knew Dorian too well, had seen how he dealt with things in the past. He still made light-hearted jokes and comments about his father and the treatment he suffered at that man’s hands.
Eventually Mahanon embraced sleep again, arms protectively wrapped around Dorian.