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His leg bounced. It was hurting, aching deep in the muscle; he’d been sitting in the same chair, his leg bouncing for the last few hours.
Solas was late again.
Normally, Felassan wouldn’t mind himself with the hours Solas kept. Normally, he wouldn’t sit up late until Solas returned to his rooms to divest himself of whatever robes he wore that day, to unwrap himself from the image of nobility and return himself to his preferred form.
This wasn’t a normal day.
He felt the wards shift first. Not fall, never fall; Solas would never allow himself the weakness of his wards totally removed from his rooms.
Solas wore shoes today, judging by the sound of his feet against the marble floor. The pattern of clack, clack, clack, gave insight to which he chose; Felassan knew the heeled boots, that wrapped up to Solas’ knee. He often wore those over the deep green leggings he liked, though Felassan doubted he wore those today. They were too casual for the event he’d attended.
No, Felassan assumed he would be wearing something else. He’d seen the shimmering translucent fabric of green and gold in Solas’ wardrobe before, robes he’d not seen the man wear yet.
Solas’ hair was longer than it had ever been too. The longest strands reached the small of his back; Felassan knew it was starting to frustrate him. Felassan had talked him out of cutting it countless times now, usually in the early morning light when they had worked for too long and then both collapsed onto the same bed to catch a few hours of sleep. Those early mornings were among his favourite, when Solas was still too sleepy to protest any sort of affection.
He wondered if Solas had sat while attendants had done his hair in small braids like Andruil or Mythal, or whether he had merely shown up with it barely styled, like Dirthamen. He wondered if Solas had lined his eyes with kohl, whether he had worn any jewellery to accentuate his features.
It was too dark in the room to get a good view of him at first. Felassan’s leg stopped bouncing. He waited with baited breath as Solas strode past him, hidden in the shadows, and went for the double doors to his balcony. There was the usual tension to his shoulders that spoke of his frustration at being ignored, heard but not listened to, but there was something else to it now. There was a weight to his shoulders, as though the mantle of the world had been placed on him alone once more.
The silly wolf, Felassan thought, thinking he had to do things alone. Felassan had stood by his side for thousands of years. He had no intention of ever leaving it.
He leaned against the railing by Solas’ side and waited. Slowly, Solas’ body shifted until his head rested against Felassan’s collarbone, his breathing deep and even. Tension eased from his shoulders.
Quietly, finally, Solas spoke. “I need the air.” Felassan had not intended to pull him inside, not yet, not when the magelights and stars played off of Solas’ face that softened him from a face carved of stone to something softer.
Instead, Felassan pulled back enough to tilt Solas’ chin up. Like tea leaves in a cup, like those who called themselves seers as though the future was inevitable, he tried to read the flecks of grey and gold in Solas’ violet eyes. Solas’ lips parted and closed repeatedly, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip as though he would speak before thinking twice of it and returning to the peaceful silence. As silent as the night could be; there was the faint humming of the magic that kept Arlathan in the air, the distant sounds of music and laughter from whichever noble house threw a party that week. There was scented smoke that floated away on the wind in shades of pink and orange and purple.
“What happened?” Felassan whispered the words between them like a breath they shared. He felt Solas’ exhale on his face, warm and tired. He smelled the alcohol, something light, something fruity. Solas shook his head, wordless, and sank into Felassan’s touch again, boneless and exhausted.
“Not now. Please.”
He acquiesced without another word, shifting instead to wrap his arm around Solas’ waist and hold him close. “Let me attend to you then,” Felassan murmured.
He unwrapped Solas little by little. The intricate belts at his waist, knots undone one by one until they fell to the floor in a small pile. Solas watched his fingers, a silent plea written on his face, a prayer. Felassan’s fingers traced the lapels as they parted and revealed the smattering of freckles on Solas’ chest.
Carefully he pulled the robe from Solas’ shoulders and laid it atop the railing. He had been correct in his assumption, Solas’ boots wrapped up and tied at his knee. He had also been correct in Solas’ choice in leggings, having instead chosen a dark brown colour. Felassan knelt down and untied the strings of the left boot. Solas lifted his heel and dropped to his bare foot when the boot was removed. Felassan tossed it aside; Solas’ eye twitched at the sound of it clattering to the ground just inside. He did the same with the right boot, throwing it back into the room with little pause.
Solas chuckled when Felassan’s fingers hooked in the hem of his leggings. “Are you going to leave me nude on the balcony?” he asked. His fingers carded through Felassan’s hair, freed from its usual braid, in a tender, familiar gesture.
“You’ve uncovered my dastardly plan,” Felassan deadpanned in reply. Solas laughed, the sound warm, at ease. Felassan ran his hands up and down Solas’ thighs and smiled when muscles relaxed under his hands. Solas sighed again, barely an exhale on the breeze, but Felassan heard it all the same. “Go inside then, if it is unsuitable for your undressing needs.”
Violet eyes twinkled, quiet mirth playing out behind the flecks, as Solas carded his fingers through Felassan’s hair one more time and pulled away. He turned and walked inside the rooms, his finger crooking in a come hither gesture behind him.
Felassan scrambled to his feet, grinning. He paused only to collect the robe and belts, and tossed those aside to a chair just inside the rooms. Laughter shook his whole body as Solas’ arm caught around his waist and pulled him in close. “You smell good,” Solas commented. He nosed at Felassan’s temple, at his neck. “A new scent?”
“Mmmm.” Solas’ hair tickled his cheek. “Halevune recommended it at the market.”
“Halevune has excellent taste.”
In the dim light of the room, Solas’ eyes, outlined in black, smudged from time and possibly his own hand, were all the more dramatic. Felassan admired the line of his jaw, the sharp of his cheekbones, the pout to his lips.
He admired the way Solas startled, eyes snapping back to Felassan as Felassan snapped. “Attending to you,” he said, as though he had forgotten. He hurried across the room and dipped a cloth into the basin of water, wringing it damp as he returned to Solas’ side. “Close your eyes.”
Solas’ breathing changed as Felassan carefully wiped his face clean of the makeup. It stuttered, hitched, it caught in his throat. Felassan tilted his head with his fingers and wiped a stray eyelash from his cheek. He could scarcely remember the last time he took a breath. Certainly not while they were stood there together, while he held the cloth in his hand, dirtied from the thing that had only served to make Solas pretty.
Prettier, Felassan amended, as Solas was pretty even without it. “Sit,” he instructed and placed his hand on Solas’ shoulder, until Solas sank down to sit on the edge of his bed. Felassan tossed the dirtied cloth next to the abandoned robes and climbed onto the bed. He crawled across and set himself up behind Solas.
Solas’ hair had not been fully braided, thankfully. It would not take all night to undo. Felassan reached out and removed the first pin, watching the first braided loop fall down his back. He removed another pin, and another, until a small pile of pins sat atop the bedding next to his knee. It was the baubles after that, the gold hair clips and green jewels adorning Solas’ hair.
He drew his fingers through the braids one by one, until all nineteen had been freed to fall in waves instead, disrupting the flow of his hair. Solas raised his hand and, with but a small burst of magic, summoned his comb to his hand. Without a word spoken, he passed it back to Felassan.
Felassan combed through his hair. He started at the ends, working his way up the long strands until the comb moved with ease through the auburn strands.
“Mythal called me beautiful tonight.”
Solas’ eyes were closed when Felassan peered at him as though seeing him for the first time that night. His lips were parted slightly.
“Did she?” He combed through the soft strands again. “Did the All-Mother have anything else to say?”
Solas chuckled. “She had plenty to say. She said very little of it.”
“As she is wont to do.” Felassan picked up the handful of pins and slipped from the bed. He deposited both the comb and pins atop the dark, carved wood of the vanity. He picked up Solas’ robes and returned to the bed, kneeling in front of him once more. “Leggings, Solas.”
Solas lifted his hips, allowing Felassan to pull the leggings down. Perhaps once his nudity might have meant something between them; Solas had always been so removed, closed off. It took Felassan three centuries of what Solas called harassment and Felassan called friendship before Solas relented and called him a friend, and it was another two centuries past that before Solas allowed Felassan to touch him. It was another century after that before Solas would allow Felassan to attend to him.
It was not for Solas’ aversion to touch. On the contrary, Felassan had learned Solas quite liked being touched. Solas enjoyed when Felassan touched him, when he tended to him as though it were his duty. When they shared a bed or slept close to one another, Felassan often woke to find Solas pressed close to him, an arm thrown over him or a leg hooked in his.
Felassan did not understand Solas’ fear of vulnerability. It was an unusual fear, Felassan thought, for Wisdom, who understood vulnerability deeply and knew its troubles intimately. It was not as though Solas did not wear vulnerability well; he was beautiful like this, flesh and blood and bone, freckles and raised lines of scars.
Felassan pressed a kiss to Solas’ bare knee before rising to his feet. The robe in hand, Felassan helped Solas into it and tied it loosely at his waist. “There is my friend,” Felassan murmured.
Solas’ eyes were on his lips. He knew this; he knew Solas knew that he knew. Were Solas to kiss him, it would not be the first time. Felassan doubted it would be the last. Kissing was a pleasant activity, one they both enjoyed, separately; there was no reason they could not share such an activity.
“Solas,” he said softly. Solas exhaled. “What happened?”
His eyes closed. Felassan mourned the flickering of the flecks in his eyes, of the depth that his eyes brought. “Solas,” he repeated, softer still. His hand cupped Solas’ cheek. His breath caught when Solas leaned into it. “You’re not usually so cuddly while awake, I’m worried.”
“You always worry.”
“Someone has to.”
Solas smiled, something tired and world-worn. He tipped forward, until Felassan had no choice but to catch him, until they were both on their knees on the floor, and Solas’ chest was expanding under Felassan’s hands as he breathed.
Even in their proximity, Felassan nearly didn’t hear what Solas said. “They have named me one of them.”
His heart froze. It beat too loudly. He could hear the blood in his ears. “What?”
When Solas looked at him next, Felassan saw it. The exhaustion in every line of his face, the threat of giving up in the slump of his shoulders. “Why?” Felassan pushed, incredulous. “They know you despise them.”
“Precisely. I am a threat. They intend to use such a title to control me.” Solas chuckled, dry, as though it hurt him. “It seems my warnings of their power have finally been heeded.”
He wanted to get up. To pace. To throw his hands in the air. To blow up the central temple. Solas leaned into him, heavier than before. To stop him, Felassan assumed. He was right to do so.
“Solas…”
“Don’t. Please.” His shoulders slumped again. Solas’ forehead came to rest on his shoulder, hands clutching Felassan’s own. “I do not wish to discuss this. Not tonight. For one more night, allow me to be free of these shackles they’ve placed upon my wrists.”
“Okay.” He wanted to cry for Solas. He wanted to slam open the doors to her rooms and demand Mythal rescind the title at once. If it meant seeing Solas free of these chains, Felassan would see himself hurt.
Solas tucked himself close to Felassan in the bed, until Felassan was inhaling his hair with every breath. Felassan’s heart raced; he knew Solas was listening to it. He tapped his fingers against Felassan’s ribs in tandem with his heartbeat. Felassan carded his fingers through Solas’ hair; his eyes were closed but he knew intimately how the ceiling above them looked. The paintings of the world as Solas remembered it before taking form, in swathes of vibrant colour.
“Sleep, Felassan,” Solas grumbled. “You are thinking loudly and it’s irritating.”
“Apologies, o’ great wolf. Whatever else shall I do for your great– ow!” Felassan shifted away from Solas’ fingers, where he had just shocked him.
“Just. Sleep. We will deal with the consequences of tonight, tomorrow.”
That, he supposed, he could agree with. As Solas settled against his chest, his breathing evening out, Felassan carded his fingers through his hair one last time and thought, I will follow him to the ends of the world, for as long as he will allow me to be here.