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What is the range of motion of a human neck? When does the angle of one's chin pointed heavenward begin bordering on absurd, no longer a highborn feature but a display of one’s eccentricity — or thinly veiled resentment? Why the fuck is the wine so painfully bitter?
The questions, like unnerving insects buzzing around his head, successfully steal all of Iago’s attention, forcing him to glance into his glass, lest his eyes wander in the half-twilight of the vestibule in a desperate attempt to find a familiar face — or, at the very least, a less hostile one. He wishes to drown in the pungent wine, no matter how miserable a death it would be.
He registers not a word of the Comte’s tirade, nodding and smiling when he deems appropriate, the timing of his reactions judged solely by the Comte’s tone he can hear only partially over the din of conversations and the clinking of glasses. The Comte’s never-ending torrent of words can only be broken by his elder son, the peculiar monolog performed by two men interspersed by evident, but largely unacknowledged sound of impatience produced by the Comtesse. Each time the noise leaves her throat — causing Iago to swallow at the uncomfortable scratching in his own throat his mind associates with the sound — Iago involuntarily turns to the woman, a question tingling on the very tip of his tongue. He can’t help but imagine her eyes bulging in both surprise and enragement if he asked her what sort of unfortunate condition causes her to strain her neck like this, her chin nearly pointing at the ceiling, away from the creature she deems unworthy of even one more glance.
Her initial interest was laughably short-lived. She appeared eager to chat Iago up when she assumed him a servant, perhaps a slave of a high-ranking member of the Inquisition who could mention her to the important persons, but she blanched when he informed her that he was the Inquisitor, and, choosing to add insult to injury, pushed his hair behind his ear as he spoke, revealing one distinctly pointed tip.
Her husband, however… If Iago were a tad more cruel, he’d force his heavy eyelids to open wider, fluttering his eyelashes at the Comte, he’d curl the corners of his mouth in a way that gives his lips a distinct shape of a heart, and he’d whisper a few phrases, speaking in the sweetest of tones, just to watch Comte de la Roche, a man of no petite physique, contort his body to wrap himself around Iago’s finger, all the while the Comtesse’s sallow complexion turned a shade as green as her heavy sapphire earrings. And, if Iago was thoroughly cruel, he’d allow the older of the de la Roche sons to take him by the hand — the very hand he pretends to accidentally touch when speaking, as opposed to his father, who openly reaches for Iago’s sun-kissed shoulder in a rather obvious manner — and be led by him to the dancefloor, before getting lost with him in the labyrinthine corridors of the manor, all under the watchful eye of the matron.
There are some matters on which Iago can sympathize with the Comtesse. He can imagine how agitated he himself would be if he were ignored so openly in favor of someone younger, more powerful, and — Iago isn’t modest enough to overlook it — prettier than him. Those in power started wars for far less. But, as the Comte’s fingers once more brush his bare shoulder, Iago can only feel a peculiar sense of satisfaction, dashed with a healthy amount of superiority, smothering any sort of kinship he could have with the spiteful bitch.
The Comte’s hand — unsettlingly soft for a man his age, confirming that he’s known no work in his life — cups Iago’s shoulder, and, if the the fingertips dancing over his skin as they would over the keys of a piano are any indication, the sensation not unlike spiders crawling under one’s clothes, the Comte doesn’t intend to withdraw his hand soon. Iago knows this touch too well, the recollection of it turning his stomach: within a moment, given a silent permission by a lack of clear denial, the hand will travel along his shoulder with no regard for the trembling that will surely begin soon, and disappear under the locks cascading down his back, only to emerge a few agonizingly long fractions of a second later, clasping the back of Iago’s neck. Many men have favored this touch over the years, reveling in the power it gave them, the ability to subdue and punish with such a simple, yet immensely effective hold.
Iago holds his breath, his own hand nearly crushing the thin stem of his glass, and he can only anticipate, the tension dizzying, waiting for the hand to claim him, but it never does. The floor returns to its regular level, its peculiar tilting ceasing immediately, as the hand is withdrawn when another person joins the circle.
“Ah, Inquisitor,” the Comte begins, opening his arms in a grand gesture toward the newcomer, “meet my younger son, Bastien.”
Bastien, showing no implication of being a son of nobility, looks Iago up and down the way one would when assessing an opponent before a duel, judging whether he’s worth getting one’s hands dirty. The smile appearing on his face immediately betrays which parents he’s gotten after. From the ever-present crease between his eyebrows, indicating a penchant for frequent frowning, to the sharp edge of his smile, Bastien is a spitting image of his mother.
“Inquisitor,” Bastien says. He doesn’t offer his hand the way the other two men of his family did, too preoccupied with a plate holding little flower-shaped treats sprinkled with glittering flakes of gold. “Is this it? Is there no striking nickname? The Hero of Ferelden has one. So does the Champion of Kirkwall. And you?” The angle of his raised eyebrow is severe. Challenging. “The Dagger of Andraste, perhaps?” He huffs, the sound utterly forced. “Oh, but that could be seen as such an unfortunate metaphor.”
Iago draws in a whistling breath, but he doesn’t let his nostrils flare, doesn’t permit himself to sneer, forcing his face to remain impassive.
“Bastien,” the Comte says, the warning evident in his tone.
“It was a joke, father,” Bastien replies in a way suggesting that he uses the excuse often. “I’m sure the Inquisitor doesn’t mind.”
Bastien’s gaze instantly seeks his mother’s, craving her approval in an almost pathetic way. She, having a tad more class than he does, nods almost imperceptibly, the corners of her mouth trembling in a held back smile.
“Inquisitor,” Renaud, the elder of the siblings, raises his voice to capture Iago’s attention. “I’m eager to hear how you found the Winter Palace.”
“The Winter Palace?” Iago speaks up, at last, finding his voice after what feels like eternity.
“Yes. The Inquisition was present during the Winter Ball, was it not?”
Before Iago can answer, Bastien cuts in, “All of the Inquisition?”
“What do you mean?” Iago asks, the thought of using any sort of honorifics not even crossing his mind.
“Well, from what I’ve heard, certain members of the Inquisition…”
To an oblivious gawker, uninvolved in the conversation, Bastien’s gesture would appear as no more than an elaborate turn of his wrist, meant to encompass his left ear and the meticulous wave of his hair swept back. But to Iago, to someone who’s learned — who had to learn — to recognize the least ambiguous of cues, it couldn’t be more overt than the gesture is supposed to convey the shape of a horn.
Iago’s insides turn in the most unpleasant of ways.
“Sir,” he begins, injecting as much venom into the single word as be can, “if you’re even attempting to suggest that the Qunari—”
The Comtesse gasps, interrupting Iago before a threat can be issued, the sound repeated by Bastien when her shoulder bumps into his, disturbing the balance of his plate and the arrangement of treats stacked on it. The Comtesse’s startled intake of breath, however, isn’t a reaction to Iago’s impertinence, to the fact that a creature like him dares to speak this way to her son, but by the man pushing his way between her and the Inquisitor.
“Excuse me,” the Comtesse squeals, forced away as the man straightens his shoulders, the Inquisition’s emblem gleaming on his chest.
“Inquisitor,” the agent says, as though he didn’t hear the woman, but the delicate curve of his lips suggests that he’s glad to have the position that allows him to ignore her so plainly. “A matter came up. Your presence is required.”
“My mother is speaking to you, conscript,” Bastien is the one to try his luck this time, his eyebrows furrowed in apparent anger.
The agent doesn’t quiver the way Bastien has clearly expected him to. Instead, he spares him a prolonged, all-encompassing glance, from the carefully styled hair to the polished tips of his shoes. “The matters of the Inquisition are far more important than the ramblings of some woman.”
Too stunned to move, Iago can only see it out of the corner of his eye: the Comtesse’s face slackening, her mouth opening and closing like that of a dying fish, crimson spiderwebs spreading across her cheeks under the cracking layer of powder.
The agent, entirely unaffected, turns his back on her and gestures away — toward where, Iago doesn’t care; what matters is that his hand is pointing far from the royal circle.
Bidding farewell only to the two men who showed him a mere ounce of good will, Iago walks away without looking back, leaving the de la Roche family behind, along with the glass holding the terrible wine which he sets upon at the first flat surface he passes.
“What happened?” he asks, the tension loosening from his shoulders leaving him restless, like a caged animal suddenly finding the door unlocked.
“It’ll all be explained in a moment, Inquisitor.”
The man keeps half a step of distance as he leads Iago through the small gatherings at the vestibule, his presence undoubtedly discouraging anyone else from approaching, his fingers drumming against the pommel of his sword as the lilting tones of a violin reach them from the ballroom Iago didn’t yet have a chance to make his way to.
“Should I be worried?” Iago tries once more.
“Not at all, Your Worship,” the agent replies in a tone that could be considered kind, yet the glare he directs at a woman whose face brightens with recognition at the sight of Iago causes her to scamper. “All is perfectly fine.”
“You do know I’m not armed,” Iago replies, the words meant for the agent’s ears alone.
The agent glances at him, gracing him with a quick smirk. “I know you are, Inquisitor.”
Iago permits himself a quiet chuckle.
A pleasant breeze slithers in through the open balcony door, creating a pocket of atmosphere infinitely less suffocating than the rest of the vestibule threatening to choke Iago with the oppressive mixture of perfumes and far too many bodies. Past the yawning exit, the sea glitters as though gemstones have been spilled over it, the stars reflecting on its surface winking invitingly. Iago would gladly join them at one of the ivory beaches, shedding layers of clothing and jewelry, discarding them in a careless heap, to walk into the sea, to feel the glinting waves lapping against his bare skin. For now, he can only be glad that the balcony is where they’re heading.
He steps out slowly, cherishing the sensation of the chilled air enveloping him, his eyes closed, but the pleasure is short-lived when he senses someone’s presence, the realization startling him.
“It’s me, Inquisitor” a familiar voice speaks to him from the shadows of the far corner.
Iago’s heart, having stumbled over its rhythm, reluctantly returns to its regular pace as Iago’s eyes gradually make out a face looking at him and the golden locks framing it.
“Commander,” he says, still breathless.
The shadows of his face briefly deepen when he smiles, only to disperse as he steps closer to Iago, joining him in a pool of orange light spilling out from the vestibule.
“That would be all, agent,” the commander says, nodding to his man. “Thank you for your assistance.”
The man salutes, his heels clicking as they meet, and departs without question.
With the agent — their only audience — gone, Iago breathes out, the exhale so deep it momentarily feels like his lungs won’t be able to fill again, and rests against the carved stone of the railing. The warmth of Cullen’s presence, not at all resembling the stifling heat of the people inside, joins him soon. A flute is offered to Iago, thin and elegant, nothing like the vulgar glass he’s been forced to hold, the stinging smell of the wine invading his nostrils over and over again with the slightest of moves.
He glances up at Cullen in lieu of a question.
“You didn’t seem to enjoy the wine,” Cullen says softly. “I thought that maybe champagne will be more to your liking.”
Pushing away from the cold railing, Iago turns to the side, his head tilted in curiosity, his hair cascading off his shoulder. “How grave is this matter that I have to be drunk before I can hear about it?”
“What matter?”
“The matter that requires my presence here.”
“Oh…” Cullen’s hand moves up to his neck, disappearing under the furred collar of his coat, to rub a spot that Iago suspects doesn’t need massaging at all. “There is no matter.” Matching Iago’s position, Cullen turns to him, one elbow resting over the railing. “I simply wanted to get you out of there.”
Iago sinks his teeth into the insides of his cheeks, preventing a smile from surfacing. He can do nothing, however, against the stirring in his insides, not unlike an unknowingly disturbed swarm of butterflies. “So it was a rescue. I didn’t know I needed it.”
He did need it, and he knows it perfectly well. What he doesn’t know is how Cullen arrived at this conclusion.
“I wasn’t rescuing you.”
Iago’s hand stills, poised in mid-air, a claw extending toward the fragile stem of the flute.
“I was rescuing the de la Roches.” When Iago makes no further move, Cullen gently thrusts the flute into his hand. He waits until Iago closes his fingers around it before continuing, “You were toying with your pearls as the Comtesse approached you.” Cullen’s eyes follow the flute all the way to Iago’s lips, observing the level of the champagne tilt as Iago takes a small sip. Only when Iago moves the flute away from his face and licks a sparkling drop from his lips, does Cullen look away, clearing his throat. “A-and later, your hand was restless next to your holster.”
“Is that so?” Iago asks, one eyebrow arching up. “You must’ve been watching me like a hawk to notice that.”
Iago doesn’t intend to be cruel, but he’s always found teasing Cullen so very entertaining, made all the better by the commander’s boyish bashfulness and a tendency to blush. Even now, with only half of his face illuminated by the lights of the manor, one could effortlessly discern the exact extent of the crimson spillage on Cullen’s cheeks, as well as see the tips of his ears turning a lovely shade of pink.
The teasing, of course, has another purpose beside torturing the poor commander, even if watching him squirm is rather enjoyable. His reactions — impossible to conceal and so very obvious — stoke the fire in Iago’s heart, one that started one chilly morning in Haven and warmed Iago from his core to his very fingertips in an instant. The commander didn’t notice him at first, sparing no attention to any of the onlookers, as his sword swung in a wide arc, stopped a hair’s breadth away from a recruit’s leg by the youth’s own blade. The steel, polished into a near-mirror shine, gleamed in the sharp rays of morning sun as it retracted, only to be thrust forward a fraction of a second later, not allowing the recruit to correct his stance. His sharp intake of breath could be heard by everyone gathered around the ring as the tip of Cullen’s sword touched his neck, and not a beat passed before the youth fell back, collapsing to the ground in shock.
A wispy cloud of steam surrounded Cullen’s naked upper body as he heaved like a beast of burden towering above the youth, and in that moment, as though the world around him didn’t exist at all, he was the most beautiful sight Iago has ever had a chance to lay his eyes on.
Iago takes another sip of the champagne, wanting to hide the smile brought to his face by the memory of sweat sheening over Cullen’s chest.
“Is it to your liking?”
Iago glances up from the pale golden drink swaying in his flute. “Hm?”
“The champagne?” There’s a soft, almost vulnerable quality to Cullen's question. “Is it better than the wine?”
“It’s wonderful.”
Cullen nods, the move hurried and rigid, but there’s a hint of a smile wanting out behind the tight press of his lips. He permits it partial release as he glances at the endless horizon, and what seems like the edge of the world undulating in the glow of the sun sinking in the gentle waves.
Savoring another sip of the champagne, the bubbles dancing on his tongue, Iago closes his eyes. Each breath, now deeper and no longer subdued by the invisible restraints that bound him inside the manor, reminds him of the tension that won’t leave his body soon. For that, he’ll need a night of uninterrupted sleep, followed by a hearty breakfast shared with friends who can tell jokes meant to amuse everyone equally.
The very recollection of Bastien’s attempt at vicious hilarity causes Iago’s jaw to clench. He’s been subjected to far worse abuse in his life, both verbal and physical, but insults slurred by a drunk tavern patron who was disappointed about having no breasts to fondle with his ale are nothing when compared to an offense spoken openly in what one would assume to be polite company, and by a man whose survival depends on Iago, no less. Were Iago willing to stain his hands tonight—
“If I may be so bold…”
Iago opens his eyes, blinking away the dark spots that mottle his view. His heartbeat, hastened by anger, stills for a moment as the commander cups his cheek.
“I think anyone who causes this much frowning should be prosecuted.”
Cullen’s hand, despite being rough and calloused, used to work and war, is gentle against Iago’s cheek. His thumb sweeps over a crease deepened by Iago’s pursed lips, slowly moving back and forth until it disappears under its ministrations.
“Can we?” Iago asks, not daring to look away from Cullen’s eyes, greedily holding his gaze.
“What?”
“Can we prosecute the Comtesse and her awful son?”
Cullen chuckles, the sound genuine and warm in timbre, making Iago want to put his head to Cullen’s chest to hear it rumble within him. Joy is a good look on Cullen. It makes him appear younger, almost carefree — a crack in the mask of the unbreakable leader, the stern man behind the Inquisition’s army people take him for. Iago has been permitted glimpses of what’s hiding beneath the mask, in both metaphorical and physical sense: he saw the web of furrows lining Cullen’s face as a scout listed those lost in Haven, but he also saw him startled by his own amusement, covering his mouth in embarrassment as Bull continued his rather salacious story; he saw the blued curves of his ribs as Cullen removed his armor, the pitiful line of his shoulders refusing to straighten, but he also saw his back, proud and strong, as he swept an elven orphan into his arms, pretending to be hurt as her wooden sword jabbed him in the chest.
Each occurrence, whether heart-wringing in its misery or ice-melting in its hopefulness, causes Iago’s fingers to tingle, his nails ready to find their way beneath the edge of the mask and pry it off, to see Cullen as he truly is with no impediments, forever.
“One good thing came out of this,” Iago says, his tone gentle, not wanting to disturb the delicate atmosphere of the moment.
“What is it?”
In a surge of bravery that differs from the one he feels on the battlefield — an unarmed, entirely vulnerable kind — Iago nuzzles against Cullen’s hand. He watches as Cullen’s eyes widen, as his nostrils flare with a sudden inhale, but the hand doesn’t leave his cheek.
“You spent an evening bothered by the nobility and here I am, touching you without permission,” Cullen’s answer is nearly inaudible, a mere whisper.
“I don’t mind it when it’s you,” Iago replies and puts his palm over Cullen’s hand, knowing that it’ll be withdrawn soon. He closes his eyes, savoring the moment. “I wish you’d do it more often.”
The hand on Iago’s cheek trembles.
“Touch me however you want,” Iago whispers.
“However I want?” There’s a tremble in Cullen’s voice, too.
“However you want. Please.”
There’s nothing but the exhale of the wind beneath the balcony, the susurrus of surf in the distance, and the droning chatter of the merry crowd. Iago can hear his own breath, the pounding of his heart hastening his blood. The commander, however, remains entirely silent.
Iago chooses to open his eyes.
Perhaps it’s the wavering light, the blunt line of the shadow halving Cullen’s face, or perhaps the commander truly is closer.
Iago’s heart is hammering against his sternum, wanting out, wanting to present itself to Cullen.
“However I want?” Cullen repeats, his voice a soft growl.
Iago finds himself breathless. His answer is no more than a sigh, “Yes.”
He withdraws his hand, granting Cullen his freedom — freedom to proceed however he wants, even if it means losing his touch forever — and instead rests it on the railing, grounding himself. And yet, the stone seems to disappear from beneath his fingers, as does the floor beneath his feet when his chin is tilted upward. Cullen leans closer, giving Iago all the time in the world to escape—
What does escape is a small whimper fleeing the captivity of Iago’s constricted throat as Cullen’s lips press to his. The kiss is pillow-soft, as gentle as Cullen’s hands encircling Iago’s waist. Iago can’t tell if he’s moving by himself or if he’s being pulled closer, but he doesn’t mind either way: what matters is being closer to Cullen, as close as he can, occupying the warm space in his arms, enclosed in his embrace.
He doesn’t know whether the flute finds a stable ground when he attempts to set it aside on the railing as he hears no subsequent crash of breaking glass, but he’s far too occupied with the urgent need to free his hands to care about causing any damage. When the glass is disposed of in whatever way the universe seems fit, he wraps his arms around Cullen’s neck, the fur tickling his bare skin, and gives in to the kiss.
Cullen must’ve had no prior practice, or if he did, it wasn’t much, for his technique is rather clumsy — or it would be, if even the tiniest fraction of Iago’s mind cared for it. He’s always meticulously picked apart the quality of kisses he was been offered, be it from inebriated clients who promptly fell asleep with their entire weight on top of him, or delicate sons of nobility, so enamored with him that they whispered promises of familial rebellion if only he agreed to elope with them, yet now, for reasons he’s not yet ready to name, he can’t think of a single inferior aspect of the kiss other than that it ended far too soon.
“Inquisitor…” Cullen’s whisper caresses his lips, and Iago can feel the word rather than hear it.
“Commander,” he replies, hoping to match the serenity of Cullen’s voice.
“I…” His thumb follows the arch of Iago’s upper lip, his eyes focused on the movement. “I hope it wasn’t too much.”
Iago lets out a huff of amusement before turning to Cullen’s thumb, now resting over the corner of his lips and pressing a quick kiss to it. “You could seat me over this railing and take me and it still wouldn’t be too much.”
“Inquisitor,” Cullen hisses, as though anyone could hear them, as though being heard makes a difference.
“I’m serious.” Iago can hardly stop himself from pressing forward, into Cullen’s very presence. Now that he’s gotten a taste of him, he’s all the more ravenous for everything the commander may offer him. “I’ve been waiting for this for so long.”
“So have I, Inquisitor.”
Cullen’s hand is cupping Iago’s cheek, the touch so tender it could make Iago cry. He nuzzles into it once more, knowing that it’s welcome, a sob rising in his throat as he grabs at the hand, clutching it, tangling their fingers together.
“Cullen…” he mutters, a creature in the throes of placid frenzy. “Cull—”
The name dies on his tongue, his desperate prayer interrupted as their lips meet again. This time, the kiss is less tentative, though nowhere near as daring as Iago would like it to be, yet it still causes the ground to shake beneath Iago’s feet, his world beginning a slow turn that soon becomes a spin bound to make him dizzy. Iago lets go of Cullen’s hand and instead grasps at his coat, desperate fingers clutching at the fabric, stretching it over Cullen’s back.
Iago has never felt this way, never been made to feel this way in his life, as though someone inadvertently stoked a fire in him — a fire with no way to control it. He feels like he may burn down if Cullen looks away from him.
The kiss breaks, but they don’t move away from each other. With their foreheads pressed together, they remain in the embrace, sharing their breaths, their hearts synchronizing.
“You’re shivering,” Cullens says.
If he is, Iago doesn’t notice. He’s unable to notice anything but the incandescent light behind Cullen’s eyes, framed by golden eyelashes, the slight curl of the tips of his lips. Nothing in the world exists anymore — nothing but Cullen.
Iago allowed himself to be aware of his feelings only partially. Like the never-ending paperwork that unavoidably came with the title of the Inquisitor, the realization has always been close, within arm’s reach and out of the corner of his eye, but never quite at the center of his attention. It was on purpose, the self-imposed distance, meant to keep distractions at bay, but there was no use denying that what he felt whenever he looked at Cullen — be it in the glow of a candle at the war table, worry lining his face with shadows, or in the courtyard ring, laughing as his boots slipped in the mud — was no simple admiration for his will, nor gratitude that he chose to join the cause. It was more. It has always been more.
Something flutters around him, startling him out of his ruminations, before he’s enveloped by warm softness. Cullen’s coat settles over his shoulders, falling over his body as though the fabric is exhaling, its color matching the shade of his dress perfectly. Iago can’t help burying in the fur, searching for Cullen’s scent among the wispy hairs.
“Can I keep it for tonight?” Iago asks. The coat feels like being embraced by Cullen himself.
“You can keep it forever, if you wish.”
Like an inexperienced adolescent, Iago feels himself blushing. The swarm of butterflies inside him seems to have doubled, if not tripled in size, filling him to the brim. He worries that they’ll escape if he opens his mouth, and simply nods in reply.
To wear the very coat half of Thedas must by now associate with the Inquisition’s commander, and to wear it in a den of snakes growing fat on gossip… It’s no small feat, no quiet declaration. But when Cullen presses his lips to Iago’s forehead, his hand seeking Iago’s hand in the folds of the coat to give it an encouraging squeeze, Iago knows that he is brave enough to face the challenge — this, and any other challenge the world may have planned for him and the man by his side.