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Running fingertips across the spines of books, a wandering mind browsed through titles without truly reading them.
As complete as the Inquisition’s library could be, it had no knowledge to offer to Solas. At least, none worthy of his interest.
“Looking for something in particular?” a familiar voice rose behind him.
Dorian stepped in, wearing that disarming charm of his. Solas’s fingers stilled at the sound of his voice. His hand drew back with quiet care.
“I’ve just found what I was looking for,” he replied.
A chuckle.
Solas carried no books.
“I was beginning to think you had developed some peculiar allergy to this floor.”
“The floor itself never was the problem,” Solas replied.
Silently, they observed each other. Long enough.
“I must say I admire your sense of timing,” Dorian said.
Solas raised his eyebrows. Innocence. A mimic. A mask.
“How curious of you it is you finally reach out for him,” Dorian added.
“Isn’t it?”
Staring into each other’s eyes, both men desperately trying to lead the conversation. An instinctive need born of pride.
Their own game had just begun.
“You restrained yourself until you realized he could be loved elsewhere,” Dorian accused him.
“I merely reconsidered the outcomes.”
There was Solas: rarely lying, only reshaping truths until they sat comfortably in his hands.
“Or more likely… you panicked,” Dorian corrected him.
Solas' jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Hesitation. An uncommon expression for him. He who was never short of wit. He always had to find the right words, the right retort, the perfect diversion.
There were many angles to get under Dorian’s skin. Ego was the easiest one.
“What pride makes us do,” Solas replied with a quiet laugh.
Drawing a slow breath, Solas slightly tilted his head.
“You kissed,” he mentioned.
Dorian softly laughed. “We did. We dated even.”
“So I’ve heard…”
“Of course you heard, you were right below.”
Solas remained unresponsive to Dorian’s provocation. He was getting to his point.
“Who could have resisted such passion?”
Who? Certainly not them.
Men were but weak creatures—human and elven alike. How could they have resisted him? He, with that perfect face no scar had ever marred. He, and his tenderness, his compassion, his very own view of the world. A soul so pure, a spirit so frail.
As if any could have…
“You cared for him, undoubtably.”
No mockery. No sarcasm. Acknowledging.
“I did,” Dorian said.
Silence fell between them. Deflect. Now.
“Yet, where is your love now?” Solas asked.
With a smile tightened on its edge, Dorian could barely hide his irritation. He gave up on many things in the Imperium. One of them, he thought he had found again here, in the South. For a moment, Dorian truly believed him and Lavellan…
Oh… and Dorian was such a sore loser.
“Do you love him?” Dorian asked.
Silence. Solas stared into Dorian’s gaze. Would Dorian believe him if he said yes? Uncertain.
“Do you?” he asked back faintly.
Dorian smirked. That knowing, sarcastic smile of his. No word needed.
Weren’t they the same after all?
“Would you remain by his side?” Solas asked.
“I would remain where I am wanted,” Dorian replied.
How strange of a question it was. At least, in Dorian’s eyes.
Something was wrong. Something was not clicking. Unfortunately, Dorian could not put his finger on it.
That saddened gaze. Those lowered shoulders. It was not the look of a man at ease. Solas, you have, after all, won the heart of the much desired. Should you not rejoice?
“Would you?” Dorian asked back.
As Solas tried to answer, the sound of an opening door cut them off. Then, a familiar voice downstairs drew their attention. Both men looked down.
There he was, the heart of their strife, he for whom their passion burned.
Walking in, laughing, with a friend. She was mocking him and he could not care less. Lavellan dropped a few papers on the table, sighing.
“Tell me again why you’re doing this?” Sera asked, sitting on Solas’ chair.
“Why shouldn’t I?” Lavellan answered. “If I can do it by myself, I won’t bother a servant to do it for me.”
She crossed her feet on the table, balancing back on the chair.
“Good thing you’re not getting all big-headed and all, but… people notice things, right? The Inquisitor not being like these arsehole nobles… They might start questioning you. Not that I’m complaining, you know.”
Lavellan chuckled, nudging Sera’s feet off the table with the back of his hand.
“I am quite certain they already take great pleasure in dissecting everything about me that is not noble.”
He looked around briefly before looking up. When Lavellan noticed them he froze. It only lasted half a second. A spark of something unnamed. Then, he put on his bright smile.
“There you are, vhenan!” exclaimed Lavellan. “Come downstairs, we have much to discuss.”
Solas nodded with a faint smile. Lavellan’s attention turned back to his friend. So innocent. Was he? Or purposefully ignoring the quarrel upstairs?
“Some bonds are not meant to endure what comes after,” Solas whispered.
Dorian frowned. Which bonds? What was coming after? After what? Too many questions. So little answers.
“You sound oddly pessimistic,” he said. “More than usual at least.”
Solas bitterly chuckled, making his way downstairs; as he was about to leave, he mumbled: “You know… You occupy his thoughts more often than I thought.”
Dorian blinked. He knew Lavellan could not forget what they began; to think Solas noticed it…
Looking downstairs again, Dorian met Lavellan’s eyes. Of course, he blushed.
None could forget the shared kiss. None could abandon this burning feeling. And yet, none would act upon it.
Dorian offered a faint smile. Lavellan just stared at him, unreadable as ever.
What could he be thinking in that little head of his? If only Dorian could know, it could spare him the trouble of wondering.
Too quickly, Solas appeared downstairs, drawing Lavellan’s attention on him. His shoulders seemed to relax and his eyes softened.
Had Dorian’s presence truly made him that tense?
Solas grabbed his lover by the waist to kiss him.
Sera gagged dramatically.
Lavellan giggled carefreely.
“You sly bastard,” Dorian laughed to himself.
Dorian would not interfere.
His time would come eventually.
Wouldn’t it?