Archive of Our Own

Vivienne and Dorian are arguing over colours.

They have been doing so for the past twenty minutes.

Solas has gained that rather unfortunate piece of knowledge due to the fact he has been standing there listening to them the whole time. His own input rebuffed—quite snidely, in fact, but somehow with an underlying warmth he identifies as a baffling sort of fondness—any commentary discouraged as soon as he opens his mouth. Before even. The chance to observe has proven fruitless in offering insight, because Solas should be feeling insulted rather than vaguely exasperated. It makes logical sense for Dorian and Vivienne to serve as a prudent reminder of Fen'Harel's many, many dealings with the corrupt nobility of Arlathan.

It's what they should reflect.

These children of two empires that rose from Elvhen ashes; the scraps left by the Evanuris, the only elite Solas had ever known before he tore them down, trapped them, before he awoke centuries later in this strange, shattered world.

Yet drawing any true comparison between the two mages and the worst of Arlathan seems an undue insult somehow. False. A miscalculation.

Solas despises miscalculation.

Observing their squabbling has revealed no fix for this equation. Solas leaves the tangle alone, returns to the issue at hand, listens to them bicker and does not understand why such an inconsequential topic has inspired such a heated debate. He watches Dorian scoff for what must be the fifteenth time, sees him grimace while tossing an unidentified garment aside. Solas does not know where the clothes came from, only that they seem to have pooled resources for this endeavour. Skyhold hadn't even needed a room for fitting clothing before the preparations for the Winter Palace had begun, and until today Solas had honestly thought he'd never have need to enter it again.

“Do you even need me here for this?” Solas asks dryly.

“Yes,” they both say at once.

"Then might I at least—"

"No."

Solas is not surprised.

It was unlikely that his latest interjection would be better received than any of the others. At least he knows that they won’t purposefully dress him to make him look foolish. They both value their reputation too much for that, and it would be far more offensive to their own pride to do so.

Even to play a joke on him.

Because to be honest they’ve made it quite clear, on many, many occasions, that they think Solas dresses terribly enough already.

They are right of course, but he can't really tell them it's deliberate.

How exactly Solas lost the bet that led him here is an example of subterfuge surely worthy of its own legend or two. He's fairly sure it involved some rather sneaky teamwork; consisting of heretofore unexplored alliances amongst the Inquisitor's Inner Circle, drawn together by the singular goal of arranging his defeat. Solas really should have known the moment the bet was proposed that the odds had been fixed against him. It’s an unexpected, but not unwelcome, insight into how such people may yet come together to work against him in a context far more serious.

And given their success on what is very much a first try—a feat the Evanuris themselves can’t claim amongst their accomplishments—Solas is certainly going to put the warning to good use. 

It is of no help to him now though.

In short—Solas lost a game of Wicked Grace.

All he can do now is endure his forfeit with dignity, if not true complacency. Solas observes the increasingly heated debate and discovers decisions seem to have been made while he was lost in thought. A pile of clothing has somehow appeared to the right of him, folded neatly on a chair, and something blue is currently being held up against his torso as a tongue clicks thoughtfully.

“I think we've just about narrowed down one colour at least,” Dorian says, apparently entirely focused on how the chosen blue pairs with Solas's skin tone. "What do you think Madame de Fer?"

"Hm." Vivienne pauses, her sharp eyes narrowed as she evaluates, before she finally nods her approval. "We could stand to go a little darker, but blue is an apt choice."

Yes. It was teamwork that got him here.

And even the Dread Wolf himself isn’t immune from wondering if he’d have sacrificed the warning and preferred such a defeat to have come on the battlefield after all.

Though Solas will not give himself up for a passive canvas just yet. Perhaps something of this particular loss can still be salvaged. Solas appraises the folded pile critically, remains facing forward as he examines it out of the corner of his eye, idly considering what to use against today's all-to-eager combatants. Solas can't quite make out what they've selected, but he's certain there are both Orlesian and Tevinter styles in the as of yet mysterious pile.

Which influence proves strongest will just depend on who had won the fierce debate Solas hadn't been paying proper attention to.

Solas momentarily regrets his wandering thoughts. "If you are narrowing it down then perhaps—"

"No."

"May I at least choose the colours?" Solas says, not even having to fake his exasperation. "You only just decided on blue after arguing about it for more than twenty minutes."

"Absolutely not."

Well.

It might prove the misdirection of Solas's apostate disguise a success but the vehemence in that refusal is a bit uncalled for.

"And why not? I am more than capable of identifying which colours complement each other," Solas protests, somewhat sulkily; unable to help how indignant he sounds when he adds, "I paint."

"Yes and you do so beautifully," Dorian says, a soothing rebuttal for all he still shoots the protest down without so much as blinking. Or stopping to consider it. "But your forfeit was worded quite specifically, if you recall."

Yes.

Solas does.

He sets his mouth to a flat line, a habitual sign of disapproval, and delicately raises a brow. “You could at least make an effort to be considerate. You would dress me in the fashion favoured by those who stole from my people?”

He'll admit it's a little heavy handed.

But it's also a truth—one that may have worked on Cassandra, one that will at least leverage Dorian to guilt—but Vivienne is another matter entirely. She never lets sympathy cloud logic. In most circumstances Solas would admire that (at least privately). As it currently stands that otherwise admirable quirk means she sees right through his solemn manner and straight to his attempt to get out of this. Solas knows the instant he's caught, when, true to form, Vivienne laughs. “Clumsy dear, and somewhat overdramatic, discounting a style so wholeheartedly before you've even tried it. Besides, no definitive choices have been made, so you can’t say that you even know how we’re dressing you.”

Solas ignores what he can see of the clothing in the pile, instead quite pointedly looks them both up and down. “Is my estimate off track?”

He feels quite gratified by how Dorian’s resulting snigger is obviously accidental.

Alas, victory is a short but beautiful bloom. Because Vivienne doesn't even wait for Dorian's laughter to fade before she looks him dead in the eye and retaliates: "We could also dress you Dalish."

His eyes narrow. "You do not have any Dalish dress."

"No," Vivienne confirms delicately in a tone that says 'be grateful'. "We do not."

Solas knows well when to concede. He is satisfied by at least reminding them he can put up a fight, mollified by it, can settle to patience for now. Vivienne and Dorian are at least tactful enough not to mention his rather obvious surrender, though neither of them hide their smug smiles. Soon enough Solas is handed the chosen clothing, and then gestured towards the side room to change.

Solas finds himself chuckling.

He wonders what they'd say if they knew he'd once worn leg wraps worth more than Empress Celene's finest gown.

That in ancient Elvhenan the Dread Wolf had bound his hair back with threads of shimmering gold. Solas wonders if they'd ever believe just how fashionable a figure this poorly dressed apostate had once been.

Solas locks the door behind him, sets his necklace gently aside, and begins to change into the clothes.

He can admit it's quite the fine ensemble; dark breeches, a midnight blue outer coat, all tailored suspiciously close to a perfect fit—had they somehow used his measurements from the preparations for the winter palace?—a change from how his own clothes are deliberately not. There are stylised leaves embroidered across the high collar, an intricate pattern in silver thread, repeated in elegant circles around the cuffs of the sleeves. It's slightly longer than standard Orleisan wear, more Tevinter in style, held in place with a belt around the waist. There's a white shirt to go underneath, intended to sit slightly open at the throat (as per Dorian's strict instructions, shouted through the door).

Solas removes his leg wraps and is pleased they had not attempted to give him shoes.

Yes, he can admit that given who picked it this is very low key.

It's only when he turns to the mirror that Solas frowns. Because while he was right about the clothes not being ridiculously ostentatious, he was wrong about there being no need for concern. The clothes are comfortable, softer by far than anything he has worn in quite some time, but—

“Fenehdis.” He mutters under his breath.

“Are you ready yet darling?”

Solas's violet eyes frown back at him.

One would not think that unusual, given that it's never not been his eye colour, but it's certainly never been quite so obvious. What with how Solas usually dresses so as to do the opposite of highlighting them.

Solas is a painter, after all.

And there is a reason he avoids certain colours.

It's why he's spent months dressed in shades that conceal. It's why he avoids colours that might make his eyes look anything but a simple, forgettable grey. Blue in a certain light maybe.

But certainly not as violet as they really are.

Minor it may be but it makes him memorable. It is a puzzle piece. One he would really rather not dangle in front of Vivienne. But Solas knows there is nothing to be done but pretend to be unaware of the fact that no human, dwarf nor modern elf he's yet met has had violet eyes. Solas is not so green a liar as to act as if he's revealing something he never meant to. He must act as though they've found nothing worthy of suspicion.

Backed into a corner by colour theory, of all things.

Solas steps out—unable to help feeling quietly smug at the twin expressions of surprise—his own smirk bored, unimpressed. He's already been obscuring how his build is slightly different to most modern elves. He can hide still more; hide Fen'Harel's swaggering confidence in what the two mages will have learned is Solas's prickly, straight backed pride.

He waits a beat, breathes in the silence, and raises a brow, "Well?”

"Oh we are good," Dorian looks him up and down.

"Did you ever doubt it?" Vivienne retorts primly.

"I could never doubt our vision."

Solas doesn't roll his eyes. "Then are we done?"

“Not quite yet. Solas, darling, look towards me,” Even at her friendliest Vivienne orders more than asks, but Solas knows it's a flaw she was born with and so will make an effort to be gracious.

She directs him to stand in better light.

Solas does as he is bid and when he meets her eyes is not surprised that she's not looking at the fit of the clothes.

He knows exactly what has caught her attention, is proven right when she holds his gaze with purpose. “That’s it, hmm; well my dear, you do clean up quite well, I did not know your eyes were such a unique shade of violet. Oh we must make sure to find something that will bring them out even more. Perhaps a different blue, though some more silver would also do rather nicely…”

“Violet? Really?” Dorian is peering at him now, suddenly close enough for Solas to see the brushstrokes in his dark liner. Scepticism melts into fascination, curiosity shines quick and clever. “Well would you look at that. I’d never noticed. It’s a rare colour isn’t it? I’ve certainly never seen it before.”

Not true.

If Dorian wanted to be precise then he had seen it before, he just hadn't realised what he was looking at.

“Truly an riveting topic of discussion,” Solas snipes coolly. “It isn’t as though you’ve both had far more important things to concern yourself with than the colour of my eyes. Such as the torn Veil and the demons pouring out of it. Perhaps I might remind you.”

“Rather prickly isn’t he.” Dorian smirks. “And yet such lovely eyes.”

Solas has no excuse for his reaction.

Namely because he should have been prepared for a statement like that.

Maybe he was—Dorian flirts as he breathes, subconsciously and potentially as integral to continued homeostasis—but the tone itself has dipped far too close to truly appreciative. Honest flattery not empty charm. A rare jewel. In Arlathan he'd had all manner of flattery used to try and leverage him, but as it stands this simple statement catches Solas embarrassingly off guard.

He actually blushes.

The feeling of heat rising across his cheeks is unmistakable, worse still when Solas feels that same heat reddening the tips of his ears.

Solas wants to turn away before they notice.

But his face is still tipped into light for better viewing, he's sure his blush now catches the light just as his eyes do. It's far far too late to hide. Dorian is already grinning; obviously delighted, no hint of cruelty despite how he is clearly laughing at him. As with much of how he behaves it is so very odd. It seems contradictory in what is is so characteristic of this new age. Perhaps it is also telling of Solas that he is wholly unfamiliar with mockery that lacks the intent to be cruel.

How in this Veiled world all who Solas meets can be so many conflicting things and it not always be deceit.

"They are, you know," Dorian adds playfully. He dares reach up to grip Solas's chin gently, to tip it to his liking. "Very pretty."

"I—" Solas clears his throat.

"So rare to find you speechless.” Vivienne says then, gleeful, watching him shift his chin out of Dorian's grip, her eyes dancing with elegant mischief. How exactly she makes mischief elegant is a mystery Solas is content to leave unexplained. "Flustered are we?"

"Not at all," Solas sounds calm but it's nonetheless the most obvious lie he's told in centuries.

He's still blushing.

"Your cheeks have gone the most charming shade of red," Dorian observes, as if it was something Solas could have missed. "How endearing. I don't think I've ever seen you blush."

He sounds ridiculously proud of himself.

Who had been the last to make him blush so? Certainly it was not so easy to do in Arlathan, though not for lack of trying, the victory of making the Dread Wolf blush had made for priceless currency. Dorian knows not the victory he has won. If he did would his response still be this harmless teasing? The Evanuris would never have softened a weapon offered to them so easily, and those allied with Fen’Harel would never have dared try to poke fun at him. 

Like he was one of them.

Like he was a friend. 

“Another peril of life as a wandering apostate with a complexion too fair to hide how easily you fluster," Vivienne says, entirely ignoring how this is also the first time she has seen him blush. "unless demo- oh I’m sorry spirits pay you compliments.”

“You’d be surprised at that. Though I’m fairly sure no one else has called my eyes lovely before,” Solas says before he can stop himself.

“A shame,” Dorian says.

“Entirely.” Vivienne agrees.

Solas tries not to sigh.

He isn’t entirely successful, given the huff of air that escapes his pursed lips. Which certainly doesn't dissuade them from further amusement. In fact, they both give in to the urge to laugh; soft and light and disgustingly companionable. Once again Solas laments even ending up in such a position. Perhaps his continued victories playing the various array of bluffing games he’s been introduced to made him a bit too cocky, but to be bested so handily?

It still baffles.

A hand on his shoulder, settling lightly even as Solas barely holds back how he flinches, the blush thankfully reduced to no more than trace heat fading from his skin. He refuses to let it resurface. Dorian doesn't comment, doesn't let on if he'd felt Solas tense, instead humming in consideration as he looks him over.

He apparently wishes to assess the full ensemble, is clearly scrutinising how the clothing sits.

Only his eyes are soon flicking back up to Solas's face.

A moment of thoughtful silence and then, "A softer shade than black I think," Dorian murmurs.

Vivienne pauses, looks between them, considers, and when realisation hits her lips curve slowly into a smile. "Oh yes. Wonderful idea."

"I try," Dorian demurs with false modesty.

…What are they talking about now?

Solas refuses to ask. He frowns, eyes flicking to Vivienne, then back to Dorian, an odd reversal of the examination she had just given them both. Solas once again sees the sweep of black lining Dorian's dark eyes and—"Ah. No. That was not part of the bet."

Vivienne merely smiles even sharper, is far too good a player of the Game, leaves the actual coaxing to Dorian. Who promptly dons a charming smile and tries to look innocent. His tone gone all soft and coaxing and sly. "It did include accessories though. Does makeup not count as an accessory?"

"No."

"Not even a lit—"

"No."

"Hmm," Dorian huffs, but acquiesces; no danger, no sick feeling in Solas's gut, no threat to catch as poison in the undertone. It's trust isn't it? Solas trusts him. He's not quite sure what to make of that realisation, should feel horrified, because if he doesn't then it must mean Solas has gone insane. He contemplates the possibility as Dorian shrugs. "Fine. Your loss."

"I will endeavour to find some way to live past it." Solas drawls.

Unfortunately that means it's back to the utterly delightful task of standing there waiting while they pick out still more clothes.

A considering hum and Dorian has turned away, Vivienne smoothly gliding to join him, once again conferring while deliberately making sure he cannot see what they choose. It does go quicker this time, at least, though that seems to be because they have refined their goal. Solas knows he's inadvertently given them a very specific colour to match. Unsurprisingly it feels like only a minute has passed before a new set of clothing has been laid out for final approval.

"Excellent," Vivienne approves, her back still blocking Solas's view of exactly what she is talking about. "How about we add—"

This time Solas doesn't bother to suppress a sigh.

A few more minutes pass and then they are handing him the now approved outfit and gesturing expectantly for him to change.

Solas does so obediently.

And curses again.

The dark breeches are nearly the same as before, the colour paired with another outer coat, but this time the shade is so dark it's comparable to a sky at midnight. They've chosen it for the contrast, Solas knows, just as all else is a purposeful match for the exact shade of his eyes. How they'd had anything like it in their combined collection is a coincidence he'd consider providence if Solas believed in gods. The shirt and belt are a dark purple, and embroidery glitters against the outer coat; lavender leaves curling across his shoulders like constellations in a darkened sky, tiny gems a scattering of violet stars. The inside is lined with lavender silk, visible at the hem, visible at his neck, peaking over the high collar to ring his throat with amethyst.

One glance in the mirror all it takes.

Solas is sure his eyes have never looked more violet.

Which—given the amount of time he spent in courts where magic was frequently used to create otherwise impossible fabrics—is genuinely quite impressive. Solas won't be telling them that though. He'd rather like to pretend he hadn't had the thought himself, actually. When he emerges Dorian looks him up and down as he did before, but this time he catches Solas's eyes with a playful wink. Perhaps trying to see if he can make him blush again.

"Well?" Vivienne says before he has a chance to speak, his own phrasing turned to challenge.

"I prefer my own clothes," Solas says placidly.

"You'd be the only one," Dorian mutters under his breath. Then, louder, "It's not surprising I once compared you to a woodsman."

Solas very nearly says something incredibly rude in Elvhen before he restrains himself. "And here I thought you'd just left Tevinter when we met. Had you met many woodsman with which to make an accurate identification?"

Vivienne laughs. "I believe our dear apostate protests in defense of wounded pride. There is still time to admit you like them if you would only concede gracefully."

"Concession is not the singular path of elegance," Solas retorts without thinking. "I can rebel with grace."

"Indeed." Vivienne raises a brow.

Solas considers that his phrasing might have been too much the swaggering confidence of Fen'Harel.

Luckily Dorian breaks the silence before the mood can settle. "You should dress up more often. Perhaps even give Celene's court a shock at the Winter Palace," Dorian's smile as genuine as the compliment, but Solas knows well enough that this is getting dangerous. "You cut quite the striking figure.”

That is exactly what he’s been trying to avoid.

And before they start guessing why Solas will make his play.

“Perhaps I do not wish to be striking,” Solas says quietly, so very soft his words can’t possibly be a weapon. “Perhaps there are dangers when a lone, wandering apostate is recognised as anything but nondescript.”

Fen'Harel had once cultivated a reputation for outplaying his opponents using only a few clever words. The skill has never been a bluff.

The implication freezes the room.

Because Solas has never made it clear what it really means that he is an elvhen apostate, not only that but a Dreamer, one who lives alone and spends most of his time wandering remote, forgotten places. It's a point so well played that for a moment even Vivienne goes deadly still. Her back stiffens. Her eyes have narrowed, already having parsed the meaning within his words.

Perhaps wondering why Solas chose to draw attention to something as personal as this.

There is a moment where Solas meets Vivienne's eyes with something like truth in his own. He watches how his strategy ripples, listens for proof of what it alters, how when Vivienne speaks her tone is deliberately light. “Has anyone given you such trouble?”

Despite that being exactly what he'd implied Solas had not been sure if she'd ask outright.

He thinks of Arlathan.

There had been nothing nondescript about the Dread Wolf. Wherever he went Fen'Harel had drawn attention. Fen'Harel had been striking too. But Solas will always remember what protection his elegant, finely wrought armour had been—how useless a deterrent—when Andruil decided she wanted him, when she had tied him to that tree. How all it proved was that beauty could be a weakness as much as it could ever been a weapon. That is private, for all it's made it's way to myth it's private, somewhat giving the game away in terms of identity too.

But part of it is useful.

He can hint at the danger of his inability to remain so 'nondescript' if dressed as he is now. If he dressed more like himself.

Because after he awoke from uthenara Solas had realised the danger being an elf in this new age, how there was an added risk in his somewhat unique build. Solas had seen the Evanuris appraise enough slaves to know what it meant. It was no mystery what a lucrative opportunity he'd be for any Tevinter slave trader looking to set a higher price for his sale.

He can layer that truth underneath quiet, solemn Solas, reveal it to put flesh on the bones of this disguise.

“No," he says finally; soft, contemplative as if drifting near a memory. Perhaps he is. "But it pays to be cautious. Especially when one is born with features as…rare, as my own.”

The lie in his tone rings clear and damning and Solas knows Dorian and Vivienne hear it too.

He’s allowed himself a slip.

And Dorian blanches.

"Solas. Has someone—" a pause, a breath before Dorian restarts. "Has someone…given you more reason to be so cautious?"

The tone is delicate.

But Solas can read between the lines.

For a moment he frowns, catching an implication he'd not fully intended, but he had been thinking of Andruil. The belief that Solas has perhaps experienced unsavoury sexual interest in regards to his striking appearance may just prove to work in his favour.

And, after all, it is true.

Just not in the way Dorian thinks it is.

Solas shrugs. "I have many reasons to be cautious."

"Solas,” Dorian hesitates, apology a soft, honest thing. “what I said about your eyes. If I offended you—“

“You did not offend,” Solas interrupts gently, not so kind as to disabuse Dorian of the conclusion he has drawn but unable to meet such care with anything but comfort.

“Still—I am sorry.” Dorian says it as easily as if it costs him nothing, as if he is not a proud flamboyant creature in all else. Solas has spied it often, sees it now, this genuine sweetness in his heart. “If I brought up bad memories. That our teasing could—“

“Think no further on it.” Solas interrupts.

“Very well,” Dorian says. There is a long pause Solas doesn’t try to make less awkward. He feels Vivienne's eyes on them both and wonders what he'd see in her expression if he looked. She has been curiously silent, remains so even now. Dorian clears his throat, “Have you given much thought to what you’ll do when this is over, Solas?”

“Once we defeat Corypheus, you mean?” Dorian nods. “I suspect much the same as I did before.” Solas replies with a shrug.

“Disappearing into the wilds, then. By yourself.”

“If you say so.”

There is a frown settling across Dorian’s face that Solas isn’t entirely sure the meaning of. It feels uncomfortably like a missed step. For a moment he wonders if he’s said something to arouse the mages suspicions, wonders if there was some ripple his implications caused that is yet unseen. Solas is distracted from figuring it out when Vivienne rejoins the conversation, her crisp tone pointed as ever, though softer than expected.

“You should consider a stay in Orlais. It would do you good, dear, and I know your fondness for sweet pastries will not be so well served in the wilds as it is here at Skyhold.”

Solas raises a brow. “Seeking to lure me into entering a Circle with the promise of sweets? Oh Madame de Fer, either you overestimate the talents of your Circle’s baker, or you underestimate me.”

Her quirked smile doesn't so much as twitch. “I would not presume a play so transparent. Merely pointing out that there are luxuries one can’t find so readily in the wilds, namely, a pastry chef, and perhaps offering an additional suggestion regarding the benefits of Orleisan sun, even on skin so fair as your own.”

“Ah. You won’t be locking me up then.”

She tenses. Minutely. A rare sign he's scored a point. “You know we disagree on the function of a Circle, as well as many other things, and I suspect we always will, stubborn as you are to admit there are things you do not know. But any Circle that I lead will always be open to you.” There is something else in her eyes, in her tone, another meaning, a place not just open to him but—

Safe.

“How generous.”

“What sort of First Enchanter would I be if I didn’t offer hospitality to a wandering apostate in need?” Vivienne says; tone as aloof as ever, but beneath the tease is something scarcely as flippant as he expected, a steel he might have even called protective if it had been directed at someone other than himself. 

Though Solas won’t be calling what a Circle offers hospitality anytime soon.

He smiles. “And here I thought you did not like me, should I reassess the flavour of your regard?”

“Not at all,” Vivienne returns his smile, sharp and still wrought with that same strange steel. “I merely dread to think what havoc you’d cause without someone more…acquainted with your quirks to keep an eye on you.”

Translation: a different Circle would render you Tranquil the moment you opened your mouth.

Madame de Fer.

Solas could preen under such flattery.

It also creates a fair guise for her offer. One that perhaps lets them both keep their pride. Solas knows Vivienne has always distrusted him, always been suspicious. He finds himself touched by this, because clumsy as her protection is it is an example of something he can respect, something he rarely sees shine through the petty greed of ambition—how she does truly wish to use her power to protect. It has been a long time since anyone has shown anything approaching concern for his safety.

How curious that it seems to have been happening more often since he joined the Inquisition.

Solas decides not to let her know he can see through her. After such an attempt to allow him dignity he can allow her to keep hers. “Are you that, then—well acquainted with my quirks?”

“I’d never presume much more than a passing familiarity,” Vivienne demurs in steel backed pride. “There are so very many of them, after all.”

Dorian snickers.

Solas ignores him. “I suppose an open invitation to your Circle is more generous than any other I am likely to receive. Though whether they will be reinstated at all is a matter still up for debate. It likely will be left undecided for some time.” Solas muses flatly, then allows an incline of his head. “You have my thanks regardless, First Enchanter.”

“It is no trouble. There is another benefit of course,” Vivienne replies, stepping closer, her fingers gentle as they smooth along his collar. “With only Orleisen fashion available to you I can at least ensure what you wear isn’t offensive to my eyes.”

“Oh I’m sure I could find something.” Solas says.

“Undoubtedly.” Vivienne agrees primly. “Another reason to keep an eye on you.”

"Might we move this little standoff along? Preferably to its usual stalemate of a conclusion?" Dorian cuts in dryly, glancing between them with a warmth that belies his words. "I would like to bask in the outcome of both of our talents sometime today. And we've kept the others waiting long enough. They will want to see that our dear apostate has honoured his forfeit."

Solas raises a brow. "Such slights you pay me after so many compliments to my eyes. Is the credit all your own? I'm sure the one wearing the clothes has nothing to do with your success."

"The clothes looked good before you put them on. What you have so aptly demonstrated today is that natural beauty will only get you so far." Vivienne replies, and this time she is the one to look him up and down, her smug smile a match for Dorian's own not so subtle preen. "Now be a dear and turn."

Solas raises a brow, knows a fight is expected; acquiesces, turns smoothly on the spot. As slowly as was indicated by her languidly revolving finger.

"Well?" he says once done.

"Yes I think that is quite lovely."

Finally.

"Good," Solas very nearly tips his hand with a smirk, already half turning towards the side room where he left his clothes. "Then it seems my forfeit is at an end."

"Now now—"

Solas pounces. He turns back to cut Dorian off with a light, teasing question, far too silk soft for the point of it. "I seem to recall that the terms of the bet were that I let you and Madame de Fer choose my clothes. Unless I am mistaken I believe I've carried that out to the letter."

There had been nothing stipulating he actually had to wear what was picked once they'd approved it.

Dorian frowns for a moment before his clever mind catches up, brows raising in realisation, and then he begins to laugh. "Oh you sly bastard; well, I did think you were suffering far too complacently. I must warn you though, the others are going to be disappointed to have missed out, so I do hope you know what you're letting yourself in for. Next time we'll be far more cautious when we word our terms."

It would not do to rub his victory in.

Solas smiles placidly. "Just so."

There will not be a next time, of course, but he knows better than to say that.

It would only encourage them.