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Three weeks. It's been three weeks since the Inquisitor left for an expedition to the Hissing Wastes and did not bring Solas with him.
It is… odd, Solas finds, to have so much time on his hands. He usually accompanies the Inquisitor on all of his trips, meaning his stays at Skyhold are often short-lived and he always strives to do the most with what short downtime they have at the fortress.
He is done with his reports and observations on their adventure in the Temple of Dirthamen within a few days, drafts a rather long analysis of the strange shards they had been encountering during their travels, along with the observations from several experiments he ran, by the end of the first week.
During the second one, he pours over a fascinating but dreadfully long thesis on time magic supplied by Dorian at his request, and does lose some time in heated -but ultimately quite thought-provoking- debates with the Tevinter mage.
He finds himself rather idle as the third week creeps in and occupies his time with small, menial tasks. Touching up on the fresco, putting some order in the papers and scrolls he had amassed, providing a helping hand in the infirmary, all that to busy himself and keep away from the nagging discomfort brought on by the Inquisitor’s prolonged absence.
Under the itch of boredom after the last intense few months, he finds that he simply… misses Kaelhen's presence. They have scarcely been apart for more than a few days since they met, and he has grown accustomed to the man always lingering somewhere within reach.
Even when they did not speak with each other, there would always be some reminder of Kaelhen around. He would cross the great hall and catch the scent of the Herald's hair oil lingering if he'd passed through recently, hear his laughter when he'd go visit Dorian just upstairs, catch a glimpse of him on the battlements on his way to meet with the commander.
He'd find a stray hair sticking to his clothes, a note on his desk or a new book. He'd hear the way the man always skipped the last few steps when he came down the stairs to meet him, the quiet hums from the couch in the corner of the rotunda where Kaelhen would settle to read and reply to missives when he couldn't bear to stay alone in his rooms. He'd feel the gentle pass of a hand on his shoulders, the soft brush of lips at the back of his neck when his friend passed through in a hurry, always taking the time for a small, warming gesture of affection no matter the urgency.
This won't do, Solas thinks as he finds that his feet have yet again carried him to the battlements overlooking the path out of the fortress, scanning the mountain pass like the act alone could make the Inquisitor appear. There has to be better use of his time than forlornly looking out to the horizon like a lovelorn fool.
For his sake, and Kaelhen’s, there had to be more productive things for him to do. He'd come to aid the Herald's mission, and it wouldn't do to let this pledge end simply because the man was out of his sight.
Determined, he marches back to the rotunda with the intent of remaining there and work until the Inquisitor came back
—
“I see you've taken my tea recommendations to heart.”
Solas nearly -and shamefully- jumps out of his skin at the voice. It's late enough that he wasn't expecting anyone to be by.
The dim light of his candle bathes the painted walls of the rotunda in a soft, orange glow. In that soft, intimate atmosphere, Kaelhen stands leaning against the stone of the doorway, still in his field gear, a weary but genuine grin illuminating his features.
Solas can't fight the smile that tugs at his lips as he puts down the heavy treaty he’d been pouring over all evening, trying -and failing- to quell the excited racing of his heart at the thought that the first thing Kaelhen had done upon returning was to come see him.
“Inquisitor,” he can’t keep fondness from colouring his tone, smoothing his hand down the cover of his book. “Welcome back.”
Kaelhen hums in acknowledgment before finally stepping closer. Solas watches him round the desk with trepidation, refraining himself from leaving his seat and crossing the last of the distance between them. Let him come to you.
Right before he reaches him, the man pauses, eyes catching on the mug on his desk, still full, left here long enough that the floral scent of it had permeated the air in the room. With a quiet snort, Kaelhen picks up the mug, looking down at it amusedly.
“How long have you let that infuse? The water’s almost black.” Bringing the cup to his lips, he takes a sip before making a face. “And cold too. I’m curious as to what your plans for this were, because there’s no way it’s drinkable now, even if you heat it up.”
“I wasn’t planning on drinking it.”
“Oh, so you’re just wasting my good tea for no reason?” Kaelhen asks lightheartedly. “I know you don’t like the stuff but there’s no need to take revenge on my already dwindling stocks.”
Solas thinks with a twinge of embarrassment about the daily cups he’d let grow cold on his desk during the last week. Perhaps he should have given it more thought and figured the Inquisitor was bound to ask questions about it upon his return.
But there’s not even a hint of annoyance in Kaelhen’s voice right now, only a playful glint in his eyes, an easy, teasing smile on his lips and Solas spills the truth before he can hold it back.
“You usually have a cup when you come sit with me. I have grown… accustomed to the smell, I suppose.”
He bites his tongue on the rest of his explanation, before he starts disclosing that he had been missing the man so very much that he had found himself in need of a reminder of him so he might focus on his daily tasks without letting his mind stray.
It doesn’t matter what he doesn’t say, before Kaelhen seems to reach that conclusion on his own, eyes widening before playfulness fades into something so unbearably affectionate that Solas has to look away, ears burning.
“You were missing me?” There’s no teasing in his friend’s low tone, only delighted surprise covering an edge of fragility. Something in Solas’ chest constricts painfully at the thought that the man might doubt the reciprocity of his affection to the point that he didn’t think that he could miss him when he was away. Another failure on his part on the rocky path of their relationship. Thankfully, he has the opportunity to correct it.
“Of course.” He sounds far more bashful than he intended, not quite meeting his friend’s eyes, but he forces the words out nonetheless. “We’ve hardly ever been apart since you’ve been thrust on this path. I didn’t quite realise just how used I was to your presence until I was deprived of it. It has been…”
Empty. Miserable. Lonely.
“Trying,” The word is painfully inadequate but Solas hopes the man reads its deeper meaning. “Without you here.” He finishes, throat tight around the words.
“Oh.” The sound leaves Kaelhen in a breath and when Solas looks back to him, he feels almost blinded by the bright, elated grin on his face. It brings a tentative smile to his lips, soured by the bite of shame in his chest that he could bring so much joy to the man with so little.
Solas doesn’t have time to dwell on it, because Kaelhen is stepping closer, and his breath catches on a sigh as the warmth of a hand much bigger than his own comes to cup his face, trailing from his cheek to the back of his neck, pulling him in.
It’s only been three weeks, but when Kaelhen’s lips meet his own, Solas’ hands dart to bury themselves in dark locks in a desperate tangle, pulling him closer. He feels unbalanced by the urgency in his chest, the need to bring Kaelhen closer until he is smothered under the weight of his body, but Solas is still sitting, and the man is standing, and his neck is straining -damn their difference in heights-. Still he can’t bear to tear himself away from the hot press of his mouth long enough to rectify their position.
Thankfully, either his friend shares his frustration, or he feels it in the restlessness of his grabbing hands because he leans forward -never breaking the kiss- until Solas is smothered against the backrest of his chair, and slips a muscled arm under the elf’s thighs, lifting him up in a display of strength that leaves him dizzy.
Solas laughs breathlessly between them as -finally- he is flush against the man’s chest, long legs wrapping around his waist tight enough for the dig of Kaelhen’s adorned belt through his thin pants to hurt perfectly. The man groans against his lips as slender fingers find their home in the hair at his nape and pull. He is all that Solas can feel in that moment. The damp press of his mouth, the warm span of his hands, the heady scent of leather, sweat, firewood and distant cloves, the heavy breaths and sighs are as glorious as they are overwhelming.
Solas lets out a soft rumble of protest when he feels one of the arms encircling him leave his waist until he hears the shuffling of papers and the loud thuds of several books hitting the floor and he has half a mind to protest the rough handling of such ancient, delicate tomes but his back is pushed against wood and all thoughts fly from his head.
He gasps at the welcome weight of the Inquisitor pinning him into the desk, his only semi-coherent thought to mourn the fact that the man is still in full armour.
That thought is wiped away by the wide hand that comes to grab at the back of his thigh, trailing down to his knee, pulling him closer and he arches in the touch, moulding his body against the curve of Kaelhen’s chest with a pleased sigh from parted lips as he licks into the man’s opened mouth.
It is reckless. It is downright foolish.
They’re in the middle of the rotunda, a very public space with doors leading to several well frequented areas of Skyhold. Anyone could walk in. One of Leliana’s scouts could peer down from the aviary, a soldier could come in from the battlements after ending his rounds, any nobles still awake could come in from the Great Hall, they could be seen and then what?
Kaelhen holds on so tight to his privacy, to what little he can keep to himself, Solas knows the man would be shattered to have them being intruded upon.
And yet, he was the one to kiss him first, to lay him upon his desk, not that Solas hadn’t met his urgency every step of the way.
His train of thoughts is interrupted by the press of fingers up his thigh, sneaking under his tunic to lay scalding caresses against what skin of his abdomen they can reach above his waistband. The touch is enough for him to throw all caution to the wind and tighten the grip of his thighs around Kaelhen’s waist, breathing him in around hitched little sighs.
So what if they allow themselves to be a little careless, just this once? The odds of someone being here were-
“Ahem-”
The sound of an exaggerated throat clearing overhead freezes them both. Above him, Solas feels Kaelhen hold his breath, rigid as a statue. He gives what he hopes is a reassuring little squeeze of his hand against the back of the man’s neck, but he doesn’t react.
“Might I suggest a change of location?” Dorian’s voice carries a sniggering edge of mockery behind the affected offence. “Some of us do come in here to engage in scholarly pursuits, and as painfully dull as it is, I would like to finish this tome in peace.”
“Sorry, Dorian.” Kaelhen grits out, and Solas can feel the heat radiating from the man’s face next to his.
“Ohoh, no worries my friend, it is good to know that our favourite haughty elf does have warm blood in his veins after all.” Solas can just hear the smug grin in the Tevinter mage’s voice. “Off you lovebirds go, now!”
With that, they hear the shuffle of feet away from the balcony, and at last Kaelhen pulls back regretfully, staring to the side, lips taunt, unable to meet Solas’s eyes. There's a moment of mortified silence between them, as the elf slowly unhooks his legs from the man’s waist, letting him straighten up and guide them back to their feet.
Finally they exchange a look, and despite the dousing call back to reality Solas finds with relief that neither of them can quite keep a smile off their faces.
“Well.” Kaelhen begins with a snort.
“Quite.” Solas deadpans.
There’s another beat of silence during which Kaelhen moves to wrap his hand around one of Solas’ own that was still resting on his chest. With a pleased glint in his green-speckled eyes, he presses a kiss to his knuckles.
“I missed you too.”