Chapter Text
What is she doing here?
Kyra curls her arms around herself as she half-listens to the presentation, paying more attention to the way the speaker’s calm voice rises and falls than to his actual words. There is only so much she can bring herself to care about revisionist literature and respecting cultural traditions and she passed that point about fifteen minutes ago.
It is a valid enough question - this is not her department, not her subject. She does not belong here. He does. Or he did. For nearly a year she has avoided any reminders of him: she changed schools, changed cities, changed friends (well, she’s still working on that one). And yet here she is, attending a conference sponsored by the Literature department like nothing happened. More than once she has turned to the side intending to deliver a smart comment or critique of the current speaker, only to be blindsided by the sharp ache in her heart at the sight of an empty chair where she expects brown eyes and a wicked grin. She traces her thumb along a seam in the soft leather of the glove covering her left hand, lost in old memories. When she realizes what she is doing she yanks it away, swallowing against the sudden lump in her throat. She cannot dwell on it. Not here.
She sits trapped in her own thoughts, oblivious to the lecture’s end and the people who file past her. As the last conference attendee leaves the room a man drops into the empty seat to her left, a disposable coffee cup clutched in either hand. Kyra’s shoulders tense, her fingers clenching around the arm of her chair as he holds one of the cups out to her. A wisp of steam curls out of the hole in the lid and clouds the air between them. He is handsome, she acknowledges as her suspicious stare shifts from the cup to his face, with flawless dark skin, pale eyes, and a moustache straight off an 80’s TV villain that should look ridiculous yet somehow he manages to pull off. She has no idea who the fuck he is.
“Don’t worry, it won’t bite,” he assures her with a smirk. A vise wraps around Kyra’s chest at the realization that yes, he is talking to her and no, he does not seem to be leaving despite her silence. This is not a situation she has prepared for and she does not know how she is supposed to react. Her throat closes as she feels the walls close in on her; she can’t get enough air into her lungs. It takes every ounce of willpower she possesses to force down the urge to run. Run where, she doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. As long as it is away from here.
“You looked like you could use a pick me up,” he explains when she makes no move to accept the drink. “I could see you nodding off during the presentation. That’s quite rude, you know, even if I understand the urge. Solas has that effect on people.”
Though she searches for a way to explain that she was distracted, not falling asleep, in such a way so as to discourage any further conversation and chase him away as quickly as possible, she comes up empty handed and decides the distinction is not worth the effort.
“Look, I’m trying to be noble and thoughtful here and you are ruining it. Just take the coffee, would you?”
He holds the coffee cup in front of her nose and waggles it back and forth. Kyra relents, more to make him stop talking than out of any real desire for caffeine. Her hand shakes as she reaches for the cup and she has to take a deep breath in an attempt to calm herself lest she spill the drink all over the both of them. Though his eyes flick to the glove on her hand, at her glare he keeps any comments to himself. She would give him points for catching a hint but he would have started so far in the negatives just for trying to talk to her that there would be little fun in playing that game.
She wraps both hands around the cup, letting out a breath of a sigh as warmth seeps into the chilled fingers of her bare hand. “If this is your way of trying to get into my pants,” she says, voice thick as she attempts to speak around the golf ball sized lump of panic in her throat, “I’ll warn you right now that you’re wasting your time. You’re not my type.” She pairs this statement with another glare as she takes a sip of the coffee, hot and bitter on her tongue. This would not be the first time someone saw her as an easy mark, quiet and awkward and clearly uncomfortable. For some reason people seem to assume that all she requires are a few kind words and a sympathetic ear and she’ll fall into bed with them. She has never understood the belief that “socially awkward” and “desperate” are synonymous.
“Nonsense,” he declares, one long-fingered hand fluttering up to cover his heart, “I am everyone’s type. Unless it’s that I am too handsome and charming. I understand it can be intimidating, interacting with someone as attractive as I am.”
Kyra snorts into her coffee, his easy manner and casual arrogance chasing away some of the anxiety still curling in her gut. He has no idea how fortunate he is that she realizes he is joking. If she hadn’t, this conversation would have gotten ugly fast. Instead she shrugs and hides the beginnings of a smile behind the rim of her cup.
“You are very attractive,” she assures him and the amusement in her voice is not as easy to disguise. The way he preens so blatantly at the compliment ensures she takes extra pleasure in her next words. “You’re also very male.”
She watches as he processes her statement, waits for the inevitable disappointment or disgust. Instead there is shock, which she had expected, but also...is that delight? His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles at her - a genuine smile, not a smirk this time - and Kyra flounders, caught off-script. This is not how this conversation is supposed to go. He is supposed to get frustrated and stalk off in search of easier conquests. He is not supposed to be pleased. Fuck.
“Indeed.” His smile widens into a grin and he sketches out the closest thing to a bow he can manage from where he is crammed into the tiny auditorium seat, careful of the drink in his hand. “Dorian Pavus, at your service,” he announces, completing the gesture with an elegant little flourish that ends with his free hand extended for her to shake.
“I - Kyra. Kyra Lavellan,” she stutters out after a long pause. She reaches out to take his hand, flinching at the unexpected warmth of his palm against hers. How long has it been since she last touched someone? She can’t remember, which she supposes is answer enough.
Dorian settles back into his seat, all long limbs and an easy grace that Kyra cannot help but envy, just a little. She ignores it. Better to focus on the easing of the pressure in her chest, the way she can breathe without interference. She is oddly comfortable around this man.
“Thank you for the coffee, Dorian Pavus,” she says instead, mimicking the careful way he had enunciated his name, his sharp consonants and gentle vowels.
Dorian tips his head at her. “It was my pleasure, Kyra Lavellan.” Her name sounds strange on his tongue, his accent twisting it into something liquid and unfamiliar. “Oh!” He sits up once more, one hand reaching into the front pocket of his tailored trousers. “I nearly forgot. I brought sugar, in case you turned out to be the kind of heathen who desecrates their drinks with such things.” He holds out the small white packets with a flourish, a lord bestowing gifts upon a poor peasant. Kyra presses the tips of her fingers against her lips to muffle the giggle that threatens to escape and shakes her head.
“No. Not that particular kind of heathen, at least.”
Dorian’s eyes flick to her vallaslin but he does not otherwise react to her comment, just tucks the packets back into the pocket from whence they came. He regards her with a curious stare.
“Tell me something, Lavellan,” he says after a long moment of surprisingly companionable silence. “What exactly is the point of attending a conference if one is going to sleep through such scintillating lectures as Doctor Solas’s ‘The Downfall of Pre-Andrastian Literature: How Religious Censorship Ruined Traditional Epics’?” The sheer amount of disdain he fits into the statement is impressive. It is not difficult to tell to which side of that particular debate he belongs. Kyra cocks her head to one side and considers him for a moment before she allows herself to react.
Her instinct is to push him away, to stand up and walk out of the room, back to her apartment and her classes and her thesis. It is how she has responded to any attempts at socialization since - well, for the last ten months. She can’t deal with people anymore: they are chaotic, they are messy, and they hurt. Easier to isolate herself among her books and her equations, familiar and safe.
But… she cannot remember the last time she had a conversation that didn’t revolve around her studies. She cannot remember the last time she laughed (yes, she can: it was evening and he was making dinner and she - no . No, she cannot remember). And she likes this Dorian Pavus, though not in the way he had accused, likes his humor and his (feigned) arrogance and the way he brought a stranger coffee just because she looked like she needed it. And she feels less like fleeing than she has since the fire.
So instead of making her excuses and walking away, she tucks her legs underneath her, turns to face Dorian properly for the first time, and lets herself smile.
“He isn’t that bad,” she argues. It is far too ridiculous a sentence to have the effect it does on her, but as the words tumble from her nervous lips she feels lighter, less weighed down by weariness and grief.
Dorian gives her a skeptical look, one elegant eyebrow arched, and she flushes. “Okay, so the hate-boner he has” - here Dorian chokes on air and she has to pause while he recovers if she wants there to be any chance that he might hear her next words - “for Guala Bicchieri is a little strange, I’ll admit, but he does have a point. The fact that what we know about Old Ferelden literature is almost entirely dependent upon translations and recordings done by priests who we know altered aspects that went counter to their religious beliefs is a travesty. We’re missing so much cultural context that was removed because it clashed with the dominant religion hundreds of years later.”
Dorian cuts her off before she has a chance to expound on the concept any further. “And if the priests hadn’t written them down, we wouldn’t have them at all. Is it ideal? No. But that doesn’t mean that-”
“They didn’t have to mutilate the stories if they-”
“But if you actually look at-”
The conversation - she would call it an argument were it not for the oddly companionable nature of the entire discussion - continues long after the conference has ended and the custodial staff has evicted them from their appropriated lecture hall. By mutual agreement they head to the Herald’s Rest, the nearest bar that still serves food so late in the evening, and order appetizers and alcohol, the whole time bickering like an old married couple (or like siblings, but Kyra can’t think of it like that, won’t). They are on their second round, not enough for Kyra to be even tipsy but enough for a pleasant warmth to curl through her veins (and when did she last have a drink? she can’t remember that, either, the memory slipping like sand through her fingers) when Dorian grabs her phone from the table without so much as a by-your-leave and starts tapping away at it. Kyra narrows her eyes, a brief thread of concern knotting her stomach. She begins to regret her decision to leave her phone unlocked (why would she need to lock it? It is never out of her sight and no one has been around who might snatch it from her. Until now). There is the muted click of the camera app before Dorian hands the phone back, all smiles and smugness. She glares at him for a moment longer, just for effect, but when he ignores her she grumbles under her breath and checks to see what havoc he has wreaked on her poor, innocent phone.
Dorian’s face smirks up at her from the screen (and of course he is the kind of jackass who can pull off stunning selfies with no apparent effort; why would she ever have thought otherwise?) and she understands. He has added himself to her contacts. She ignores the little bubble of warmth in her chest at the realization - she hasn’t driven him away, he wants to stay in contact, he likes her, maybe they can be friends and isn’t that a strange thought? - in favor of glaring at him some more.
“You could have just asked,” she points out, but to her dismay the words come out more fond than irritated.
“True, but this way is much more fun. Did you know the corner of your mouth twitches when you’re annoyed? It’s hilarious.”
Any chance she might have had at convincing him that her anger is genuine vanishes as she taps out a single word text message and sends it to him, ensuring that he has her number as well. She then alters his contact information to read “pretentious dick,” purely out of spite.
Dorian’s pocket beeps as her message comes in. He pulls it from his pocket, a sleek little thing that Kyra doesn’t have a hope in hell of affording any time soon, and chuckles softly as he reads the text.
“Oh yes, very mature, Lavellan,” he mutters. Kyra sticks her tongue out at him. Because she can. She pulls her half-empty glass of… something fruity and bright with a terrible, cutesy name (it had been Dorian’s turn to order drinks and he had thrust the abomination in front of her with an angry mutter about the quality of the wine selection here) closer to her, sinking deeper into the booth’s plastic cushions.
“I have a question,” Dorian says into the silence that falls between them. He does not mention their antics of the last few minutes, letting their unspoken agreement to keep in contact remain just that - unspoken. Kyra is one hundred percent in support of this idea.
“Ask,” she offers without hesitation, “though I reserve the right to tell you to fuck off.” She doubts she will need to, however. He has been the epitome of respectful for their entire interaction: not once has he mentioned her hand or the way she flinches when someone’s voice gets too loud or how painfully obvious it is that she has not held a normal conversation in months. He has dropped entire trains of thought the moment he realizes they are upsetting her without question or condemnation. He has been… thoughtful.
“I would expect no less.” He takes a drink of his own horrifically pink concoction without the slightest hint of shame. “My question to you is this: today’s conference was limited to staff and students at Skyhold University, yet I have never seen you before tonight. And I know everyone in the department, so don’t try to tell me we just haven’t run into each other. So how did you sneak in?”
She gives a soft hum, considering the question. “I take it you’re a professor, then?” she asks in lieu of an answer. There is no way he is an undergraduate and more than once in their arguments she has noticed his voice slip into the familiar cadences of an instructor. A professor seems a safe assumption.
“Not exactly,” he says. “I am collaborating with one of the professors in the Classical Studies department on some post-doctoral work in the field.” He fixes her with a narrow stare as something crashes at the bar behind her. She cringes at the sound but he doesn’t mention it, just pauses for a moment to give her a chance to recover. “And that was neither an answer nor a ‘fuck off’.”
“No, I suppose it wasn’t, was it?” She shrugs, fingers drawing designs in the condensation on her glass. “I didn’t sneak in. I’m a doctoral student at the university, just not in the Literature department.” She leaves it at that and watches Dorian purse his lips in consternation when it becomes clear that she has no intention of elaborating. There is a niggling feeling in the back of her mind that she should not enjoy frustrating him as much as she does.
“Oh, very well, I’ll bite. What are you studying, then?”
She grins at him, a bright flash of teeth. “Guess.”
He grumbles but she sees the corner of his mouth quirk into a smile, ruining the sleek line of his moustache. “Really? We’re playing that game, are we?” His fingers tap out a patternless rhythm on the wooden tabletop as he considers.
A cheer erupts from the bar; Kyra squeezes her eyes shut and forces herself to ignore it.
“If not Literature then judging by our recent discussion I would assume history. However, if it were that obvious you would not bother to have me guess: there would be no fun in it. A classical studies degree would mean that I would have met you long before now. Philosophy, then?” He ends it as a question but there is a certainty to the words that tells her he believes he has guessed correctly. She snickers.
“The natural sort, perhaps.” At his obvious confusion, she clarifies. “Physics. The first physicists were called natural philosophers?”
“Physics,” he repeats, face scrunched up as though he tastes something foul. “What is a physicist doing arguing Old Ferelden literature? And arguing it intelligently?”
“I am a woman of many talents,” she informs him archly. He fixes her with a sharp stare that tells her in no uncertain terms that he is not fooled by her attempt at nonchalance, but he does not press the issue.
“What about you?” she asks, eager to shift the subject to something a little less liable to drive her into a state of complete emotional breakdown. “What are you and this professor of yours studying?”
“I’m working with Professor Alexius, if you’re curious. We’re attempting to properly translate-”
That’s it, she decides as the conversation shifts to his project and the (apparently) myriad problems with modern translations of Ancient Tevene texts and how (obviously) this is a travesty that must be rectified, I’m keeping him.