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“It was a pleasure to meet you, my lord,” Galathan says, his voice tight. He’s smiling pleasantly but there’s relief in the tense lines of his shoulders when the Orlesian noble and the heavily-decorated woman on his arm finally walk away.
Dorian watches him from across the room, sharp grey eyes tracking each stiff movement he makes with amusement. He smirks—Galathan looks truly stunning in his finery, but Dorian knows he hates it by the way he fidgets when Josephine isn’t looking.
The doors to the dining hall swing open, then, and the Empress’ attendants begin ushering guests inside. Dorian helps himself to the last of the wine in his glass before falling in step with Blackwall and Varric, who are trading stories about their favorite taverns.
“Still,” Varric is saying, “the Hanged Man will always be home. Besides, with all the weird shit that happens in Kirkwall, there’s hardly a dull moment.”
Blackwall laughs. “If the world doesn’t end tonight, you’ll need to buy me a drink at your Hanged Man.”
“My my, Blackwall,” Dorian tuts, “I never took you for a man of… dwarven taste.” Varric laughs when Blackwall turns red, shaking his head.
“Sod off, mage,” he says, gruff with embarrassment.
“My opinion of you is so much higher knowing Varric has caught your eye. Tell me, is it truly the chest hair that does it for you?” Dorian teases, and Varric chokes down a laugh.
“No one is immune to my charms, Warden,” he says consolingly, and Blackwall gives an exasperated chuckle.
“Maker take you both,” he says, shaking his head.
“Maybe he’ll take us to the Hanged Man,” Dorian says, winking at a flustered Blackwall before letting an elven servant lead him to his seat—he thanks her and an Orlesian noble scoffs at the kindness. He is surprised to find Galathan already sitting opposite him when he turns his attention to the table, and both their faces light up as they make eye contact.
“Ah, Lord Inquisitor,” Dorian says as he sits down, “how lovely to see you.”
“Master Pavus,” Galathan returns, his cheeks going pink as he fights the smile pulling at his lips.
Varric sits to the left of Galathan and Blackwall settles in on Dorian’s right, but Dorian loses track of the advisors and other companions in favor of admiring how the high collar of Galathan’s coat follows the slender frame of his neck.
The dinner bell sounds and servants flood the room, each carrying an offensive amount of food. Dorian catches Galathan murmuring ma serannas to each elf as they deliver fine dishes to the long banquet table, and the room soon echoes with forks on plates and the obnoxious, overwrought laughter of Orlais.
The dinner wears on at an agonizing pace. Dorian cares little for this part of the evening—he’d been much happier in the gardens, judging the outrageous gowns of each passing noble and listening as the council members gossiped loudly about Celene and Gaspard. The whole of it makes him rather homesick, however, and he’s glad for the quiet and altogether normal conversation between Varric and Galathan drawing him back to the table.
Now that he’s really watching, though, he realizes Varric is whispering something to Galathan, and whatever it is makes an indiscernible emotion pass over Galathan’s face.
“Champagne, my lord?” an elven servant asks, jarring Dorian’s gaze from where it had settled on Varric and Galathan.
“Ah—yes, please,” Dorian says. The elf places a tall, thin glass full of golden bubbles to the left of Dorian’s plate, and Dorian delights in how swirls endlessly at the top of its crystal stem. “Thank you,” he says, making eye contact with the servant as he does. They nod back, and Dorian considers it a small victory.
He is guiding the champagne flute to his lips again when he gets distracted by the subtle shift in Galathan’s beautiful features—he’s not fidgeting anymore, and there’s an odd confidence in his posture that makes Dorian feel warm. He’s about to open his mouth and say something unimportant to get Galathan’s attention, ask him if he’s all right without using those words specifically, when Galathan runs his bare foot up Dorian’s shin to the jut of his knee.
He coughs to cover up a gasp, and both Galathan and Varric look at him.
“You okay, Sparkler?” Varric asks, smirking a bit.
Dorian flashes a grin and says, “never better.” He’s quick to compose himself, knows exactly how to temper his features, curb his surprise. He’s thrilled by the shock of Galathan’s touch almost as much as the touch itself—he was so rarely caught off guard, after all, and he reveled in the novelty of it.
“Maybe you’re better off avoiding the spiced plums,” Blackwall says, and Dorian feigns offense.
“Worrying over me, are you, Blackwall? Careful, I think I’m swooning,” Dorian teases, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a cloth napkin. Blackwall grumbles at him and Dorian smirks. “Besides, O Silverite Wings of Valor,” he says over the Warden’s protests, “I’m from Tevinter! My homeland is practically built upon the finest food and drink in the known world. I’m no stranger to a well-seasoned meal.”
“You really can find a way to gloat about anything, can’t you?” Blackwall asks, a touch bitter.
“Lest we somehow forget I’m of the finest quality, too.”
“Anything worth putting in your mouth comes from Tevinter, then, eh?” Varric snorts, and Dorian grins at him wickedly.
“Of course,” he says, and winks in Galathan’s direction. The Inquisitor laughs, a flush blooming prettily on his cheeks, and responds by dragging his foot up Dorian’s shin, pressing further towards the inside of Dorian’s thigh and nudging his legs apart. Dorian lets out a shaky breath, still grinning as he tips the flute back and tastes the sharp-sweet glide of champagne against his tongue.
Galathan remains impressively neutral as he continues to fluster Dorian, foot wandering along the musculature of Dorian’s calf and thigh but going no further, to both his relief and disappointment. He may not be a stranger to little public trysts and stolen moments at parties, but he never expected to share one with Galathan, here—much less one initiated by the elf. It’s so unexpected, in fact, that Dorian can’t suppress the heat in his stomach, the subtle roll of his hips as Galathan presses closer, just shy of Dorian’s filling erection.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Varric asks again, still smirking, and it strikes Dorian then that he knows—the torturous little murmuring from before, Galathan’s barely-hidden expressions. All Varric’s fault, he’s suddenly sure of it. How could he have missed it? Too much wine and champagne, perhaps? “You’ve gone a bit red,” Varric is saying, and Galathan is biting at his lips to keep from smiling.
Dorian huffs a laugh and says, “thank you for your concern, Varric, but worry not—something’s just, er, come up.”
Varric barks out a laugh, and Josephine tuts at him from two seats over; Galathan, though, has gone completely pink in the face, and Dorian can take satisfaction in that, at least.
“Sounds rough, Sparkler,” Varric teases sympathetically, and then Galathan is pressing down, feather-light and barely-there, directly on his cock. Dorian gasps audibly.
“Yes, I—it’s very hard,” he says at last, when he trusts his voice not to break. Varric tips his head back with another burst of laughter, and Dorian grins widely. He must be very madly in love indeed to make such a terrible joke.
Josephine shushes them again, brow furrowed as she glares pointedly at Dorian. He half expects her to drag him out of the dining hall by his ear as his mother might have, were she here, scolding him and threatening to lock away all his books for a month should he misbehave again.
“Yeah, do try to—oh, I dunno—keep it down, will you Sparkler?” Varric says, and Galathan laughs as Dorian rolls his eyes.
“Clever,” Dorian says sarcastically.
“I think he’s trying his best, Varric,” Galathan teases. His foot retreats long enough for Dorian steady himself, the press of it trailing down Dorian’s shin slowly.
“You’re too kind, Inquisitor,” Dorian breathes out, finishing his champagne after. He must admit, he’s grateful for the boyish giggling and ineloquent banter, despite appearances—watching as the rigid line of Galathan’s shoulders eases is enough to sacrifice the distinguished façade he’d cultivated. He knows Galathan is still anxious from the way he keeps glancing at the head table where the empress is seated, but at least his jaw isn’t as tight and his eyes are a little less fraught.
When his advisors concluded that there would be no way to avoid attending the ball at the Winter Palace, Galathan had asked Dorian to teach him how to dance. Dorian had laughed, at the time, and only teased him once over his poor footwork and bruising grip on Dorian’s waist. The elf was a quick learner, though, and caught on easily enough—it was after, when they’d settled into a slow swaying beside the fire, one hand holding Galathan’s and the other at the small of his back, that Galathan had told him he was afraid.
“Afraid? Of what?” Dorian had asked, voice soft. Galathan hid his face in the juncture of Dorian’s neck and shoulder, breath warm and a little uneven against his skin. When he didn’t respond, Dorian hugged him tighter. “Amatus?”
“I don’t want to go to Halamshiral,” he mumbled, still tucked under Dorian’s chin.
“Ah. It will likely be a dreadful affair,” Dorian agreed. “Although,” he added lightly, “most Orlesian affairs are.”
Galathan didn’t reply. He pressed closer and Dorian settled his lips at his crown, kissing him softly there, over and over, hoping to coax his voice from him. When it didn’t, he’d leaned back a bit, trying to find where he’d lost him.
“Darling? Galathan, what is it?”
“There’s so much—” Galathan started, voice cracking. He cleared his throat as Dorian’s stomach knotted. “There’s so much that could go wrong, Dorian, and it’s… it’s all on me,” he said, eyebrows pinching together. “Me, a dirty Dalish elf from a forest no one cares to know the name of—I’m supposed to decide, what, the fate of a nation that calls me ‘knife ear’ and ‘rabbit’ before ‘Inquisitor’ ever comes to mind? The grand Empire of Orlais, which stole my homeland and murdered my people.”
Dorian had flinched, mouth forming a thin line as he tried to think of something adequate to say. “I’m… I’m sorry, amatus,” was all he could muster.
Galathan sighed, forcing a smile. “No, I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“Yes, you should,” Dorian said, frowning, “please. Don’t censor yourself for my sake.”
They stood in silence for a moment, save for Galathan’s fidgeting with one of the buckles at Dorian’s chest. Dorian kissed his forehead, then, and Galathan melted into the touch.
“I know I’m not… alone, in all this,” Galathan said quietly. “But… I’m scared that I’ll, I don’t know,” he paused and let out a breath. “I’m scared that I’ll lose.”
“Lose? To Corypheus?”
“Yes, there’s that, but it’s—it’s more than that, too,” Galathan had said, biting at his lips as he struggled for words. “It’s also—it’s also losing you.”
“Oh,” Dorian said dumbly, the twist in his stomach sharpening.
“And the others, as well, of course,” Galathan said, his voice going soft. “And also… myself.”
Dorian hugged him tightly and swallowed against the lump in his throat. “How would you lose yourself, amatus?”
He felt Galathan shrug weakly against him, burrowing further into him as Dorian rocked them gently where they stood. Galathan was silent for a time, and then, in nearly a whisper, “I—I’m not sure. I think that’s what frightens me most.”
It’s the Inquisitor’s foot wandering rather eagerly up his thigh that brings Dorian back to the table and his empty dessert plate. He meets Galathan’s gaze like a challenge, shifting his hips closer and smirking when the elf’s touch brushes against his balls. Galathan jerks in surprise, blush creeping up his neck and ears. Dorian winks at him as the Empress’ servants begin clearing the dining hall, and relishes in the pinkening tips of his ears. The Altus may not consider himself a hero by any means, but he feels it’s an important contribution to the efforts of the Inquisition to distract Galathan from his burdens every now and again, and he takes his duties very seriously.
Josephine approaches as the crowd in the dining hall begins to thin out in favor of the gardens and fumeur. “Your Worship,” she says, eyeing Dorian as he twists his mustache between his fingers, “there is a Nevarran diplomat and several Fereldan dignitaries who wish to speak with you. Grand Duchess Florianne has also requested a dance with you.”
“Oh,” Galathan says, and then the pressure at Dorian’s cock is gone and that diplomatic little smile is back on Galathan’s beautiful face. “Of course. Stay vigilant and let Cullen know if anything is out of place,” he says, glancing to Varric and Blackwall before his eyes flit to Dorian.
“You got it, boss,” Varric says, and Galathan follows Josephine from the hall. Dorian sighs, adjusts himself discreetly so his flagging erection is well-hidden beneath the hem of his coat, and rises to his feet.
“I dare say I’ve more horrible finery to critique. Care to join me, Varric? Blackwall?”
“I’d rather fuck a Darkspawn,” Blackwall grumbles back. Varric snorts and Dorian pretends to look aghast.
“Does Varric let you kiss him with that mouth?” Dorian says, and Blackwall glares at him as he turns red.
“Maker take you.” He huffs as he pushes back his chair and leaves without saying more.
Varric shakes his head, still chuckling. “You’re a real gem, Sparkler,” he says, “but I’ve got a few nosy aristocrats who want my signature. Who knew Hard in Hightown was so popular this side of the Waking Sea?”
“Must be all that wit and charm,” Dorian says, and follows Varric from the room as they snicker. He catches Galathan’s eye from across the way, and they both brighten for a moment until Galathan is drawn back to the nobleman who’s chittering at him. “If you don’t mind my asking,” Dorian says cheekily, “how much did you bet Galathan for earlier?”
“Oh, you mean when you were all hot and bothered over dinner? Is that what you meant?” Varric asks innocently. When Dorian breathes a laugh and nods, he sighs dramatically. “I owe the kid three silvers. I had no idea Andraste’s herald had it in him!”
“How scandalous of him—what would the Chantry think?”
“Terrible, horrible things, probably.”
“Things they’re already thinking, no doubt.”
“A little bitter, Pavus?”
“Hardly,” he scoffs, though his voice sounds sharp even to his own ears. “Well, perhaps a bit.”
Varric pats his arm consolingly. “My publisher will hang me if they find out I passed up an opportunity to pitch the next chapter of my novel, so I’ll leave you with this—if running around like an idiot with Hawke and the Inquisitor has taught me anything, it’s that the world could literally come to a fiery, molten end at any minute. I don’t want to say ‘life is short’ because only poor writers and sappy drunks say shit like that, but life is short, Sparkler, so don’t let some big-bad villain and his evil assassination plot get in the way of, you know. Him.” He jerks his head toward Galathan, and Dorian swallows thickly as he realizes he’s still staring at the elf.
“Ah. You’ve rooted me out, I take it.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I am a genius—but it doesn’t take one to see that you care about him.”
Dorian falls silent then, face heating up. He clears his throat twice before finally saying, “that was a lovely little speech, Varric.”
“What can I say,” he laughs, “I’m a master with words. Now, I’ve got some council members and a duke to entertain, so don’t get all mushy while I’m gone.” He grins at Dorian one last time before walking away. The Altus tracks him as far as the garden doors before he loses sight of him, and he heaves a sigh entirely unfit for a ball. He helps himself to another glass of champagne and it curbs whatever misery he was nearly willing to give in to. Eventually, he wanders into the gardens, too, but Varric is nowhere to be found when he does, so he settles near the fountain and contents himself with watching the nobles mill aimlessly about the breezeway, the champagne company enough as the evening drags on.
“So,” a familiar voice says, coming from behind him, “is this how the elite in Tevinter carry on? Brooding handsomely between the rose bushes?”
A grin pulls at Dorian’s lips so quickly he can do little to rein it in. “You could almost mistake this for a soirée in the Imperium,” he says, and then Galathan is standing so closely beside him that Dorian can smell the woodsy-sweet almond extract of his soap, and it’s for all the guests to see. “Inquisitor—”
“Tell me,” he says before Dorian can finish, “are you enjoying yourself? I would’ve expected you to be more… social,” he finishes after a beat, glancing at him with that warm look of concern that still manages to make Dorian squirm. He almost laughs at himself: Dorian Pavus, squirming! And in a social gathering, no less!
“Yes, well. I’m rather distracted.”
“Oh? What’s caught your attention?” Galathan asks innocently. Dorian rolls his eyes, but he can’t hide the delight on his face as Galathan presses a fraction closer, simply because he can.
“There’s a beautiful man running about the palace, but I can’t seem to steal a moment alone with him,” he says, voice pitched low. He smirks. “And he’s a terrible tease, really, so could he expect me to do anything other than sulk amongst the carefully manicured hedges?”
Galathan breathes a laugh, ducking his head to hide it. “He hardly seems worth the trouble, then.”
“Believe me, Inquisitor—he is,” Dorian says. He aches, then, because he wants to kiss him there in the middle of the garden, wants to hold him close, wants to dance with him in all their finery with his hands on Galathan’s waist, wants to retire with him to a wyvern-down bed and learn the taste of his skin over and over, wants to make him feel safe. Oh, how he wants.
Beside him, Galathan shifts his weight from one foot to the other as he scans the room. Dorian feels him stiffen when he catches the gaggle of council members watching them from the balcony, but Dorian is rather surprised there aren’t more people staring at them—the holy Herald of Andraste, standing so closely to the evil Tevinter mage that their shoulders touch? That alone would be enough to spark rumors, and many of them were already speculating that they were intimate—Dorian had overheard the frantic whisperings of several poorly-disguised conversations about his relationship with the Inquisitor since their arrival at the Winter Palace mere hours ago.
“My Lord,” Dorian says, leaning back a bit, “perhaps you should socialize elsewhere.”
“What? Why?” he asks, meeting Dorian’s silver gaze. His face falls after a moment. “Am I bothering you?”
“Maker, no, it’s not that!” Dorian says quickly, forgetting himself. “It’s just—you’ve a reputation to preserve. I wouldn’t want people thinking less of you simply because you were spotted with Magister Halward Pavus’ sexually deviant son.” He breathes a defeated little laugh and offers Galathan a practiced smile, but the Inquisitor is frowning, now, and Dorian feels like he’s been struck. “Galathan—”
“You don’t think I’d actually give a damn about that, do you?” he asks, voice small and hurt.
“I only meant—”
“I know,” Galathan says softly, cutting him off again. The tense line of his shoulders eases slightly, and he sighs. “I hate it here.”
“I know,” Dorian echoes, and brushes his knuckles against Galathan’s to comfort him. They stand quietly together for a few minutes, and Dorian itches to wrap his arms around him. The council members have turned their backs to them and Maryden is singing Rise from her place by the garden doors, and Galathan takes a deep breath.
“Thank you for being here, Dorian,” he says tenderly. Dorian’s face warms pleasantly as Galathan steps back to look at him. “I… I’m grateful that you agreed to come with me.”
Dorian stands up a little straighter and grins. “And miss exposing myself to all this exquisite finery and exotic wine otherwise? Perish the thought.” He’s relieved when Galathan giggles, and his grin broadens.
“Is that so? Perhaps I should be saying ‘you’re welcome,’ then,” Galathan teases.
“Most assuredly,” Dorian says with a wink. He lowers his voice, then, after a quick glance around. “And for the record, amatus, I do intend to steal a moment alone with you eventually.”
The elf blushes. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” he says, deft fingers pinching at Dorian’s ass playfully.
“My my, Inquisitor! So handsy this evening!”
“Can you blame me?”
“Not at all—I’m marvelously irresistible.”
Galathan giggles again. “You’re right about that. I’ll look forward to our scandalous little rendezvous, then.”
“And what is a charming man like me to do in the meantime?” Dorian teases, smirking.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something—just don’t wear yourself out mingling. I expect a dance before this is over,” Galathan says, eyes lighting up. Dorian raises his eyebrows in surprise and struggles to keep the elated air out of his voice.
“In full view of every noble in Orlais? How shocking!”
“They’ll live,” Galathan says, bitterness flitting across his expression. Dorian leans in, feeling bolder now and hoping to tease Galathan out of a foul mood.
“If you can find me ten silk scarves, I’ve got a dance that will really shock them,” he says, and the pink flush that blooms across Galathan’s cheeks makes him practically giddy.
“I—really?” he asks eagerly, and Dorian laughs. Before he can answer, though, he catches Cullen making his way toward them, Josephine at his heels.
“Ah. It looks like you’re needed elsewhere, Inquisitor. Such a pity,” he says, still grinning, and he tips his empty flute toward the advisors before turning to leave.
“Dorian, wait—you should hear this, too,” Cullen says, a little reluctantly.
“Oh? I am, as you say down south, ‘all ears,’ then.”
Josephine sighs. “Gentlemen, please—Inquisitor, Leliana thinks we may find evidence of this plot against Empress Celene in Duke Gaspard’s personal effects.”
“What would you like us to do? Strip him down in the ballroom?” Dorian asks, and Cullen glares at him.
“We’ve yet to prove Gaspard even knows about the plan to assassinate Celene, let alone if he’s part of it,” he grits out, “and until we’re certain, he’s still a Chevalier and one of the highest ranking nobles here, so show some respect.”
Dorian smirks. “If I didn’t know any better, Commander, I’d say you were in love,” he says, and Josephine bristles.
“Gentlemen,” she says, more severely this time. “Focus, please.”
“What would you like us to do, Josephine?” Galathan cuts in, glancing at Dorian. The heat in his chest subsides, and Cullen seems to deflate a little as well.
“It’s up to you, Your Worship,” Cullen says, sounding defeated. Josephine nods.
“It would be naive to think every guest here isn’t playing The Game to some degree, but if one of them—even Gaspard himself—is playing it for Corypheus, I believe it is worth investigating, My Lord,” she says. Galathan considers it for a moment, brow furrowing a bit like it does when he’s reading a particularly complicated text.
“Dorian and I will start with the servants’ quarters—a few elves warned me it was dangerous, maybe Gaspard is hiding something there. Cullen, find Blackwall and Varric and tell them to meet us. I have a feeling there are a lot of secrets being harbored behind closed doors.”
“You intend to explore the palace, then?”
Galathan nods. “I doubt they’d make half the place off-limits if there weren’t something going on. Can you and Leliana cover for me with the nobles, Josephine?”
“Of course, Your Worship,” Josephine says. “But try not to take too long—there are at least six of them who want you to dance with their daughters.”
“Oh. Right,” Galathan says, blushing politely through his embarrassment. “Let’s go, Dorian,” he adds quickly, and Dorian is happy to oblige.
Between the dead elven servants and the Venatori agents and the insufferable Orlesian nobility, though, Galathan is wound rather tightly by the time they confront Florianne with all that they’d discovered. Dorian can see it in the firm set of his jaw, the rigid lines of his calves, the white-knuckled grip he keeps trained on his staff, and it kills him that he can’t do anything to help.
Dorian barely has a chance to look at the Inquisitor, let alone find time to be one-on-one with his lover, in all the chaos that ensues. He’s nearly given up on the fantasy of pushing Galathan into some dark, hidden-away corner, letting his hands wander underneath all that finery and teasing the elf until Dorian’s name is the only word he remembers. And besides—he’s not so selfish a man as to consider his needs before Galathan’s.
When he sees Galathan slip out unnoticed onto the terrace once the dust has settled, his stomach does an odd little flip. Dorian wants nothing more than to be out there with him, wants to comfort him and let him yell or cry or simply feel, but what if Galathan would prefer to be by himself? It’s not as if Dorian can pretend to understand any of what Galathan must be feeling—not really.
He’s still vacillating between going to see Galathan and giving him his space when the Empress’ occult advisor walks past him, heading in Galathan’s direction.
“She’s bad news,” Varric says, startling him.
“Fasta vass, Varric,” Dorian mutters, sighing. “Why do you say that?”
“You’re kidding, right? You see a woman like that and don’t instantly think she’s up to something?”
“I think everyone here is ‘up to something,’ Varric.”
“Well, that’s certainly true. Never thought I’d miss the backwards bickering of Kirkwall’s elite, but I do now.”
Dorian crosses his arms and frowns while staring in Galathan’s general direction. It’s too dark outside now to make them out, and the nobles are celebrating whatever shaky peace they think has been established, which makes it hard to focus.
“Who is she, anyway?”
Varric shrugs. “Nightingale seems to know her from her time with the Hero of Ferelden—it doesn’t sound like they parted on the best terms, though.”
“And now?” he asks.
“You’ll have to ask the Inquisitor,” Varric says. He jerks his head towards the door, where the occult advisor is rejoining the party. “You should go to him. I’ll keep watch, just in case,” he teases, waggling his eyebrows at Dorian until they both laugh.
“Fine, fine—so long as you promise never to do... whatever that was near me again.”
Varric chuckles and ushers him toward the terrace with a distinct lack of promising not to make suggestive facial expressions at Dorian again. He takes a deep breath before stepping into the evening air, eyes adjusting to the pitch of the night until he can see where Galathan leans against the railing.
“Amatus? Are you all right?” he asks, and breathes a weak laugh. “A ridiculous question, really,” he says, and rests his elbows on the banister beside Galathan.
Galathan is quiet for a long time. He tilts closer to Dorian, though, his head settling against Dorian’s shoulder, and Dorian is content to kiss his forehead and support him through the silence.
“Something on your mind?” Dorian finally asks, voice quiet. Galathan sighs and presses his face toward Dorian’s neck.
“I’m just… it’s been a long night,” he replies, breath warm on Dorian’s skin. Dorian puts his lips to Galathan’s forehead again and hums.
“What you need is a distraction,” he murmurs, and Galathan looks up at him.
“Oh?”
“Yes, and I have just the thing—let’s dance.”
To Dorian’s relief, Galathan brightens. “I was hoping you’d ask,” he says, taking Dorian’s hand willingly when he extends it to him.
“Thank goodness one of us has a little initiative, then,” Dorian says, grinning. He pulls Galathan close to him, tucking his free arm around his waist as they turn together, and Galathan falls into step with him effortlessly.
With the nobles newly invigorated by Empress Celene and Ambassador Briala’s commitment to stabilizing Orlais, the noise from inside quickly drowns out whatever whispers of string music Dorian and Galathan could hear from the terrace. They lose track of the waltz in favor of swaying where they stand, just as they had in front of the fireplace all those weeks ago. Dorian kisses Galathan’s temple, and Galathan hums appreciatively.
“I love you, Galathan. I’m so proud of you,” Dorian says quietly. The elf shifts against him, first hugging closer and then drawing back to meet his gaze.
“Ar lath ma, vhenan,” he agrees, and rocks up on his toes to capture Dorian’s lips.
It’s a far more heated kiss than Dorian expects, and he makes a surprised and rather undignified noise into Galathan’s mouth. He can feel Galathan giggling at him, and he grins as his face grows warm, sliding his hands down to squeeze playfully at Galathan’s ass in response. He lets Galathan bite gently at his bottom lip, lets him slide his tongue into his mouth and bite him gently there, too, lets him wrap his arms around his neck to sneak that last bit closer. Dorian sighs, utterly content, and kisses him back slowly, hands steady now on Galathan’s hips.
“Dorian—” he starts, but Dorian kisses him hard, then, and Galathan melts into him. When he breaks away a long while later, Galathan’s face is pink and his lips are kiss-swollen and spit-slick. Dorian smirks, satisfied.
“You are glorious, amatus,” he says, kissing him again lightly. “Shall we head back? I’d gladly keep you here all night but I’m loath to give Ambassador Montilyet any more reason to think I’m tarnishing your virtue.”
“Not yet,” Galathan says, pretending to pout. He runs his fingers through Dorian’s hair and Dorian pulls his best affronted face, and then they both laugh.
“Did I mention that I think you’re glorious?” he asks, and leans back down to steal another kiss. Galathan hums and scratches gently at the shorn sides of Dorian’s head, encouraging him to push his tongue back into the soft, wet heat of Galathan’s mouth, and Dorian regrets that Galathan is still wearing his gloves. Dorian rubs his own gloved hands up and down Galathan’s back and sides until their bodies are pressed together again, all humid breath and greedy kisses.
Dorian only remembers the rooms full of people beyond the edge of the terrace when Galathan moans loudly into his mouth.
“Gal—”
“Do you still want that moment alone with me, vhenan?”
Dorian blinks for a moment before smirking, his hands shifting down to Galathan’s ass again. “That depends, darling,” he teases, apropos of nothing.
“Oh? On what, exactly?” Galathan teases back, a pretty blush rising high on his cheeks.
“Hm,” Dorian says, pretending to think, “where would we go? As delightful as it was to have your tongue in me while gazing out over the Frostbacks, I’m not keen on the idea of exposing myself outdoors again. Tell me, amatus—do balconies excite you?”
Galathan flushes bright red, opening and closing his mouth twice before he can make a sound. “That’s—I—” he huffs, embarrassed, and Dorian chuckles. “You can’t just say things like that!” he finishes.
“All right then,” Dorian teases, “let’s head back.” He takes a step toward the door and Galathan latches to his arm, laughing.
“Dorian, wait!”
“I’m sorry, can I help you, Your Holiness?”
“You’re a ridiculous, infuriating man, Dorian,” Galathan says, a bit exasperated but entirely loving, and Dorian feels warm with it. He leans in to taste the grin on Galathan’s lips, and the Inquisitor tilts up to meet him, hands running lightly down Dorian’s chest and stomach.
“Find anything you like?” Dorian murmurs against him, voice pitching low as Galathan cups his half-hard cock through his trousers.
“Mm, yes. Very much,” Galathan whispers, kissing his chin and jaw. Dorian hums, content, and rocks his hips into Galathan’s palm.
“How torturous of you, amatus. Am I to bare myself to the cold once more after all?”
Galathan breathes a laugh, decorating Dorian’s neck with feather-light kisses. “No, vhenan, I’ve teased you enough.” He pauses, and then, “do you remember that little room, off the Hall of Heroes?”
“Gaspard’s trophy room, you mean? Do you really intend to have me in front of a stuffed nug?”
“I suppose that wouldn’t exactly set the mood,” Galathan agrees, face pink. “Maybe a room in the Royal Wing?”
Dorian laughs. “While I’d enjoy trying a wyvern-down mattress, darling, I’m not so desperate as to willingly lie in a bed smelling of Florianne. Or Gaspard—or Celene, for that matter.”
“What do you propose we do, then?” Galathan asks, fingers closing around the thickening line of Dorian’s cock. He stifles a moan, hips twitching.
“Mm—I thought you were finished with all this dreadful teasing, amatus.”
“Perhaps I lied.”
Galathan giggles as Dorian shakes his head dramatically. “Well, if it’s all on me, I say we meet in that terribly unsullied library upstairs.”
“Oh?”
Dorian smirks. “You seem to like it when I push you up against the bookshelves in Skyhold, so could the ones here really be that different?”
“Dorian!” Galathan says, eyes widening.
“Yes?”
“Ridiculous and infuriating,” he mutters giddily, and arches up to bite at Dorian’s lips again until Dorian is gracious enough to dip his tongue into Galathan’s mouth.
“Shall I take that as a ‘yes,’ amatus?”
Galathan nods eagerly. “Yes, Dorian, please—meet me there?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Dorian says, kissing him one last time. He leaves before the Inquisitor does, slipping back into the crowded ballroom easily—though he is grateful that his jacket covers the front of his trousers and that the stiffness in his gait can be attributed to weaving through the sea of guests—and he makes sure he’s seen mingling by scores of nobles before venturing further into the palace, if only for a fleeting moment. He takes the stairs up to the library two at a time, perhaps more excited about an amorous trist than a man of his experience should be. But imagining Galathan’s lips fluttering against his neck is enough to make his cock throb, and he allows himself to delight privately in this—in loving Galathan and in being loved in return, something he’d learned not to hope for. He finds that he’s smiling widely, absurdly, alone in the library as he waits for the Inquisitor to arrive. Luckily, he isn’t far behind, as impatient as Dorian is to pick up where they left off.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Dorian says as Galathan walks over to him. He laughs and wraps his arms around Dorian’s shoulders, kissing his cheek and his nose before finding his mouth.
“A happy coincidence indeed,” Galathan says between kisses. Dorian hums, smoothing his hands down Galathan’s sides, and slowly pushes him towards an immaculately-arranged bookshelf. He gasps when his back hits the tall wooden furnishing, and Dorian wedges his own thigh between Galathan’s, shivering when the elf moans softly against his lips.
“I think I’ve had enough foreplay for one evening, amatus. Is that all right?” Dorian asks. Galathan whines quietly, nodding, and grinds his hips down against Dorian’s thigh.
“Yes, vhenan, please,” he breathes, and Dorian presses him further into the bookshelf, feels how hard he is against him, and suddenly has the desire to mark him—wants everyone downstairs to know the Inquisitor is his. He licks into Galathan’s mouth and moves his hands down to the front of his trousers, tracing the head of his cock through the fabric with a finger. “Oh—” Galathan says, tilting his head back against the wood frame as Dorian palms him firmly.
“Good?”
“Creators, better than,” he sighs, and nods when Dorian pauses at the lacings of his trousers. He undoes them quickly, then, only bothering to loosen the ties enough to get Galathan’s cock out. Galathan shudders appreciatively when Dorian discards his gloves and wraps his bare hand around the length of him, wasting little time before stroking him. He pushes the front of Galathan’s coat further up his stomach to see more of him, and Galathan’s hand meets him there, tangling their fingers together.
“So good, Galathan,” he murmurs, swiping his thumb along the crown, “you did so well today.”
“Ah, Dorian—”
“Watching you put all of those nobles in their place… it was incredible. You were incredible,” he says, mouthing at Galathan’s jaw as he works his cock. Galathan blushes, free hand gripping at Dorian’s upper arm.
“Hah—flatterer,” he deflects, keening as Dorian’s thumb circles him again. His eyes are shut, and Dorian sucks a constellation of delicate red patches into his neck as he praises him.
“Nonsense. It was marvelous to witness. You, in all your Dalish glory, standing before those selfish, pampered humans,” he says, “commanding them with more grace and authority than any of them could fathom... more beauty and charisma than all of them combined?” he punctuates the last with a gentle bite to Galathan’s earlobe. “Mesmerizing,” he whispers, breath hot.
“Dorian—” Galathan whines, cock leaking into Dorian’s hand. He’s digging his fingernails into Dorian’s arm now and trying to contain the moans rattling through his chest as Dorian pumps him faster, twisting his wrist skillfully around the head of him. The elf moans Dorian’s name again, and Dorian feels a rare blush creep across his cheeks.
“Oh, amatus. Let me take care of you,” he murmurs, and gets to his knees before Galathan can protest. He scrambles to steady himself as Dorian takes his cock into his mouth without any preamble, fingers weaving tightly through Dorian’s hair. Dorian hums approvingly and hollows his cheeks, bobbing his head expertly as his tongue works the underside of his length.
“V-vhenan, I—I’m not going to last,” Galathan chokes out after only a moment, tugging at Dorian’s hair. He hums again, glancing up at Galathan through his eyelashes in the way he knows will fluster him, and relaxes his throat until he’s swallowing around the entirety of him. Dorian loves everything about this—the rush of sweetness he finds when he inhales against Galathan’s skin; the familiar weight of Galathan’s cock against his tongue, the thickness of him when Dorian works him into his throat; the quiet bursts of Galathan’s lungs as he tries to catch his breath—but mostly, he loves Galathan, and he grows giddy with how privileged that makes him feel.
Galathan’s legs begin to shake, and Dorian squeezes at his hip to anchor him. He pulls off enough to suck hard at the head, tonguing Galathan’s slit until he tastes the sour honey of his precome. “Dorian, Dorian, fenedhis,” Galathan moans above him. Dorian takes him into his throat twice more before easing off, the heightening pitch of Galathan’s moans burning straight through to his own cock.
“Want to come for me, darling?” he asks softly, voice pleasantly rough as he kisses down Galathan’s shaft.
“No, n-not yet—” Galathan says, pulling harder at Dorian’s hair. It sends a delicious shock down Dorian’s spine, and he groans quietly.
“Oh? Is there something else you want?” he says, grinning as he obliges him and gets to his feet. Galathan caresses his face with shaky fingers and smoothes his mustache back into place.
“You,” he says simply, and Dorian feels impossibly light.
“Then you’ll have me,” Dorian says. He lifts Galathan up and settles him down on a desk nearby, fingers pressing bruises into Galathan’s thighs as he hooks his arms beneath Galathan’s knees. Galathan groans quietly, one hand at the nape of Dorian’s neck and the other rooted to the table behind him for support. His pupils blow wide as he watches Dorian withdraw a small vial of oil from his pocket and coat his fingers with it.
“Hurry, Dorian—” Galathan whimpers quietly, cutting himself off with a gasp as Dorian presses against his hole.
“Patience, darling, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, though his movements become a bit frantic with the near-painful pulse of his own cock. Galathan angles his hips forward to urge Dorian to drive into him deeper, though, and it isn’t long before Dorian is stretching him on three fingers. Dorian catches himself staring hungrily at the way Galathan’s hole clenches around him, drawing him in, and reaches between them hastily with his other hand. He presses the heel of his palm against the tent in his pants to stave off the sudden renewal of heat he feels pooling there.
“Please, please—Dorian, I-I’ll come if you keep doing that—” Galathan says, breathing hard and remaining oblivious to Dorian’s own predicament. He moans Dorian’s name again when his fingers brush tantalizingly close to that velvet nerve inside him, and he pulls Dorian forward until he can kiss him messily, all tongue and teeth.
“Fasta vass, yes, all right,” Dorian groans into his mouth, delirious with how badly he wants. He keeps his lips on Galathan’s as he eases his cock out and strokes a generous amount of oil over himself, sighing at the relief of even the slightest friction.
“Vhenan,” Galathan babbles sweetly, pulling at Dorian’s face again. Dorian laughs, leaning into the kiss Galathan is wordlessly asking for. He lets go of his cock in favor of removing Galathan’s glove, humming gratefully when he caresses the side of his head and neck with his bare, beautifully calloused hand.
“As much as I’d love to take my time with you, amatus,” he says, dragging Galathan off the desk, “I think we should get to the good bit before they send a search party, don’t you?”
Galathan laughs breathlessly and nods, letting Dorian crowd him against every available surface as they kiss. It’s impatient and graceless and candid, and Dorian would be embarrassed if Galathan weren’t so eagerly returning every frantic press of Dorian’s mouth.
“Dorian, please—”
“Can you turn around, amatus?”
“Yes,” Galathan moans, lingering for a moment before twisting to face the bookshelf Dorian has pinned him to. He puts his hands on the wooden frame and cants his hips outward, and Dorian groans quietly at the sight.
“Kaffas, Galathan—Maker’s breath,” he curses, sliding his hands reverently over Galathan’s bare skin. “You’re lovely, amatus,” he murmurs, letting his swollen cock rub between his cheeks and against the soft skin of his thighs.
“Please, Dorian, take me,” he moans, grinding impatiently against him. Dorian kneads his fingers into Galathan’s hips and gasps quietly when the head of his cock catches against Galathan’s rim, smearing precome there. Galathan whines quietly and adds, “y-you said no more foreplay, vhenan.”
“So I did,” Dorian agrees breathlessly. He kisses the point of Galathan’s ear before spreading him with his thumbs, mouth finding the nape of Galathan’s neck as he slowly pushes inside.
Dorian moans, resting his forehead against the back of Galathan’s shoulder when he bottoms out.
“Dorian,” Galathan keens.
“I just—I need a moment,” Dorian says, façade slipping. He tightens his hold on Galathan’s waist as the heat in his stomach threatens to spill, and mouths at the back of Galathan’s neck to distract himself. Galathan nods and hums his assent, arching a bit so Dorian can press flush against the line of his body.
“Mm, vhenan,” Galathan breathes, and guides one of Dorian’s hands to his cock with shaky fingers. He moans loudly when Dorian catches on and squeezes him there to keep him from coming, feeling the eager pulse of Galathan’s cock against his palm when he does. “N-not yet,” he wobbles out again, and Dorian huffs a laugh.
“Maker, Galathan, you feel so good,” he murmurs, glancing down to where they’re connected. “Kaffas,” he adds, staring intently at Galathan’s tight hole as he draws his cock out slowly, the slide like silk with all the oil he’s used, and pushes back in just as languidly, bronze skin erupting in gooseflesh at the sounds Galathan is making.
“Oh, oh, Dorian, yes,” he’s babbling, and descends into Elven as Dorian does it again—with the way Galathan is clenching down on him and pushing back to meet his thrusts, though, Dorian hasn’t enough mind left to tell if it’s prayer or curse.
“I’ve got you, darling,” Dorian says instead, and takes hold of Galathan’s hips with both hands before pulling him back onto his cock, hard.
“Oh!” Galathan gasps, rocking up on his toes each time Dorian thrusts back into him. They both groan at the rhythmic sound of their skin meeting, the heady thrill of being so familiar with one another, and Dorian smirks when Galathan whines, “h-harder, Dorian, like that, yes—”
Dorian sucks an angry red mark into the side of Galathan’s neck before leaning back, fingers working bruises into Galathan’s hips as he fucks him like he wants, hard and fast and rather relentless. Dorian usually prefers to take his time, let them both feel the drag of his cock inside the hot velvet of Galathan’s hole, tease him into multiple orgasms and trace every inch of his body with his mouth afterward—but this is nearly as good, with Galathan pushing himself desperately onto Dorian’s cock and gripping the bookshelf so hard his knuckles have gone white. Imagining how wrecked Galathan will look once they’ve finished is almost enough to make Dorian lose whatever composure he’s got left.
“You like this, amatus? Taking my cock—hah—where anyone could see?” Dorian teases, and Galathan moans loudly as he slams into him, over and over. Dorian knows he’s close, can feel it in the way Galathan’s muscles tighten around him, and he lets his hand wander back across Galathan’s stomach. “Do you want to come for me now, darling? Want me to—mm—fuck it out of you?” he murmurs, voice pitching low as he presses close again and fists Galathan’s weeping cock.
“Yes, y-yes, please, Dorian—” he says breathlessly. He nearly shouts when Dorian drives into that sweet bundle of nerves inside him, and Dorian kisses at his neck and jaw before gently covering Galathan’s mouth with his free hand.
“All right?” he asks softly, slowing his thrusts so Galathan can nod eagerly. He hums appreciatively against Dorian’s palm, breath hot, and Dorian grins. “I love you, amatus—come for me,” he says, and fucks into him at an unforgiving pace, muffling his own moans against Galathan’s shoulder.
Galathan comes a minute later, a high whine escaping him as his spend streaks across Dorian’s hand and the wooden frame in front of him. His whole body trembles with the effort of it, and Dorian only realizes he’s still coming when he tips over the edge himself, cock pulsing so hard and so deep inside Galathan that he grows dizzy with it. Dorian continues working Galathan’s throbbing cock even after the last of his spend leaves him and his hips stutter to a stop, and Galathan whimpers when he finally finishes, too, sated and sensitive.
Dorian lets his hand slip from Galathan’s mouth as they pant quietly together, Dorian hugged tightly to his back.
It’s a long time before Galathan’s legs stop wobbling from the intensity of his orgasm, but when they do, Dorian kisses the back of his head and withdraws, using the satin handkerchief from his coat pocket to wipe away the mess.
“D-Dorian, wait—” Galathan says shakily, and Dorian smirks.
“Thank you for your concern, darling, but it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make,” he says, and Galathan giggles breathlessly, still leaning against him. “I’m here,” Dorian adds softly, supporting Galathan’s weight as he helps him turn around.
“I don’t want to go back,” Galathan mumbles blearily, curling into Dorian’s chest as Dorian feigns a gasp.
“Are you saying you’d rather let me ravish you in the library than engage in meaningless chatter with flowery Orlesian nobles? How shocking!” he says, and Galathan laughs, kissing up the line of Dorian’s throat to his mouth. Dorian trails his hands down Galathan’s sides and rubs circles into his sore hips with his thumbs as Galathan kisses him, and they both sigh, content.
“Do you think we could, um… do it like… like that, again? Once we’re back at Skyhold, I mean,” Galathan asks bashfully, and Dorian grins.
“You did seem to enjoy yourself,” Dorian says gently, hands moving to rearrange their finery. “But yes, amatus, I’d be happy to assist.”
“I guess I do like libraries,” Galathan says after a beat, face pink. He giggles, then, and Dorian laughs.
“An understandable fetish when I’m involved, darling,” he teases consolingly, and presses his lips to Galathan’s softly. He lets Galathan curl into him again as they kiss, relishing in the warmth of him.
“Will you stay with me for the rest of the evening?”
Dorian leans back a bit to caress Galathan’s face. “Of course,” he says, “though I hardly think you’ll need me—I wasn’t lying earlier when I said you’d handled yourself beautifully.”
Galathan blushes, biting at his lip until Dorian kisses him again. He hums quietly, and when they part, Dorian can feel him take a deep breath—the same sort of breath he takes before battle. “Thank you, Dorian,” he says softly, toying with a gold button on Dorian’s coat to avoid meeting his gaze.
“Whatever for, amatus?” he asks, then starts to smirk. “For the incredible lovemaking, perhaps?”
Galathan laughs, rolling his eyes playfully. “Yes, well, there’s that, too,” he says, a light flush blooming on the highs of his cheeks. “But I actually just meant… for being here, with me.”
Dorian’s smile turns sincere. “Always, ” he says.
Dorian kisses him then, both of them grinning by the end of it, and he holds an arm out for Galathan to take when they part. “Shall we?”
Galathan inhales and nods, letting Dorian escort him from the library. They wind through the foyer to the empty vestibule, and pause just outside the ballroom, where the noise from beyond the door is seeping into the quiet hallway.
“Dorian?” Galathan asks, and Dorian turns to him.
“Yes, amatus?”
Galathan steals a glance around the chamber to ensure they’re alone before kissing Dorian’s cheek, and Dorian feels his face grow pleasantly warm at the chasteness of the gesture.
“Ar lath ma, vhenan,” Galathan whispers after, and together, they brave the rest of the evening.