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There’d been a moment there, at the end, where Dorian had truly thought it might end differently.
But he’d been mistaken, of course.
The white-haired elf hadn’t hesitated for a second when he’d thrown him out of his room. Why would he have, after all?
He hadn’t let himself wallow, though. He’d gone straight downstairs again and ordered another drink, almost considering trying to find someone else.
But he was already sore, exhausted, and dirtied; and to his slight chagrin, his better judgement won out.
And so Dorian is now making his way slowly and stiffly to his room, trying to distract himself.
He rolls a word from earlier around in his mind, one that had steadfastly refused to be translated despite his best efforts. He'd compared it to every known verb in the glossary to no avail; he's beginning to suspect it to be an informal inflection, used in speech but rarely written down. Or perhaps, even more tantalisingly, it's from some old regional dialect, lost to time. He would swallow his pride and ask Solas about it tomorrow.
And look at these ghastly curtains. Honestly, if that was the first thing people saw when they entered the main hall of Skyhold, it was a credit to Josie's skill that they had any allies at all.
As he turns into the corridor on the left, there's an odd odour of some plant oil.
Linseed, perhaps. Or almond?
It reminded him of that fine boutique in Minrathous, with big hunks of artisanal soaps on display. Where you could indicate the amount you wanted to the exact duella, and the attendant would take a ridiculous-looking implement and deftly carve a piece of it off for you. And her smile would be sweet when you tell her it's a gift for your fiancée, your voice carrying nicely with the aroma of rosewater and cherry pits over to where your mother is browsing the bath oils; when really it's for him, and you clear your throat as you watch the attendant work, delicately folding the terracotta soap in pristine white paper, looking to her master for approval before adding a scattering of crushed almonds and rose petals, for love…
Maker’s breath, a hot bath with proper soap, wouldn't that be lovely?
To his dismay, the candles still haven't burned down when he pushes open the door to Solas’ rotunda, and he blearily shuts his eyes against the intrusion of light, groping his way to where he knows the stairs are.
The thing is, despite his attempts to think of anything else, he’s not nearly drunk enough to forget how he’d pathetically tried, at the end, to reach across to the body lying next to him, to see if the other man felt just as lonely as Dorian did beneath it all —
He lets out a muffled groan of humiliation as he remembers the reaction he’d gotten. He’d had to finish haphazardly dressing himself in the hallway.
Then he hears his name.
“Dorian?”
He wheezes, nearly toppling over in shock as his palm slips on the stone wall.
That blasted apostate. Of course he’d choose tonight to forgo gallivanting in the Fade and stay up working on — Dorian squints — his admittedly quite fetching murals.
“Oh, Solas,” he says, bringing his hand theatrically to his chest, as if he needed to play-act being shocked after his little display. “My apologies, I’m just passing by. Didn’t mean to bother you.”
Solas is looking at him with his brow slightly furrowed.
“Not at all,” he says, his tone mild. “May I ask, are you alright?”
Dorian hadn’t expected him to say that.
And when his eyes adjust to the light, there’s something about the way Solas is looking right at him for once; instead of gazing off into the distance as he is wont to do. Pondering the lost glory of Arlathan, Dorian assumes.
The attention makes him shiver.
He hides it with a swish of his skirt, straightening up as tall as he can and letting his lips turn up in a little smirk.
“Me? I’ve never been better,” he says. “I’m drunk on whiskey I didn’t pay for. I’m being treated like royalty here.”
It’s a harmless lie. And the white-haired elf had only bought him one drink really.
“Forgive my bluntness. But your gait suggests otherwise,” Solas says.
He may as well have just gone and punched Dorian in the stomach.
Fascinating though, isn’t it, a part of Dorian thinks distantly. The fact that Solas would recognise the significance of Dorian’s gait; why, it implied that the frumpy recluse in front of him had gotten up to more than Dorian would have given him credit for.
And yet, Solas still felt he had the right to judge him.
Or — and this was infinitely more likely, come to think of it — the little pervert had simply watched enough men fucking in the Fade to know.
Dorian’s a little impressed at his cheek, despite himself.
He collects himself before speaking, but allows the anger to tighten his words.
“Am I to understand you have a problem with how I choose to spend my evenings?”
“Oh, not at all,” Solas says, turning and swirling his brush around in a small pail of water. “You simply seemed to be in pain. I was concerned.”
He lifts up the brush and dabs it delicately on a piece of stained cloth, bowing his head towards Dorian slightly.
“That something had happened.”
Dorian waves a hand in the air, as if he can physically shoo away the implications of what Solas has said.
He should tell him to bugger right off. So to speak.
But this concern for his wellbeing, being displayed by Solas of all people, is hitherto unprecedented. And Dorian can’t help but feel like he owes at least some sort of explanation.
“Oh, you know. The throes of passion, and all that. Well, maybe you don’t know,” Dorian says, and he lets out a little laugh — fake, all fake.
“But I might remind you that there’s a massive tear in the sky that could swallow us all up at any moment — I for one prefer to skip straight to the good parts when I can,” he says.
Even the singular second of silence that follows his admission is unbearable. He can't help opening his mouth again.
“And it’s nothing a night’s sleep won’t fix, after all. Even if it’s on one of your horrid Fereldan straw mattresses.”
Another lie.
He will most certainly feel it in his body tomorrow; but he’ll sidle down to pick up an elfroot potion before breakfast, and make up a story about a pulled muscle. If it were anyone else, they’d get laughed out the door; there’s no sense in using valuable resources for something that can heal on its own in a few days. But Dorian is quite charming.
Solas just looks at him, not answering.
Dorian is suddenly certain, nostrils flaring, that he’s been a bit too forthcoming.
He's not sure which is worse, now that he's considering it. Solas thinking that Dorian is morosely traipsing back to his room after having suffered abuse at the hands of some drunken lout?
Or Solas knowing, as he does now by Dorian’s own testimony, that he’d suffered it very willingly.
“Perhaps you should try it yourself, Solas,” Dorian says, desperate to make him say something. ‘I’d wager it would do you some good.” Something — anything. “Loosen you up a little.”
But Solas still doesn’t reply.
Instead he wipes his hands on the cloth, before carefully opening the carved wooden box next to him. In it, Dorian sees a collection of well-used painting utensils, organised according to height and function.
Solas gently places the cleaned brush into its own little compartment, and it slides in neatly, making a dull sound as it hits the bottom.
Dorian’s own words ring back in his ears in the ensuing silence.
Then Solas pads gently across the floor to his desk, and Dorian watches in disbelief as he takes a steaming pot of tea, and pours some of it into an earthenware cup.
He snaps his mouth closed as Solas turns back to him, bringing the cup across the room and holding it out to him.
“Elfroot tea,” he says. “It is weak, but assuming your condition is nothing serious, as you say, it ought to have you waking up tomorrow morning fully recovered.”
Dorian can only blink at him.
Elfroot tea. Healing. Kindness, completely undeserved kindness. For him.
Even though he’d admitted to the truth. That he wasn’t in this state because he’d been hit fighting courageously in combat, or even unjustly suffered someone else’s cruelty; no, it was because he’d stupidly gone and chosen in full conscience to let himself get fucked practically dry by someone who probably wanted him dead.
He has no right to this.
“Solas,” he says uselessly, not knowing how to express any of that without making things a good deal more awkward.
“I’m sorry to say it’s quite astringent,” Solas says, his nose wrinkling just slightly at the odour emanating from the cup, as he puts it in Dorian’s hand.
The heat immediately seeps into Dorian’s skin. The texture of the cup is rough, the outside of the ceramic unglazed. Very rustic.
Solas wraps Dorian’s fingers around it.
It’s unbearably gentle. As if Dorian is in need of care; rather than simply experiencing the inevitable consequences of his own foolish decisions.
He tries to inject joviality into his voice.
“Come now Solas, I'm hardly in need of such —”
Solas’ eyes flick up to him.
“I insist. I would be relieved to know you are in good health.”
Solas’ tone brooks no argument.
Dorian’s mouth is dry.
“Please,” Solas says. “Indulge me.”
Dorian's emotions are still running high; from the whiskey, from standing alone in that blasted hallway, from Solas’ funny choice of words; and he allows it all to get the better of him.
He lets the cup land clumsily on the end table next to them, some of the hot tea spilling on his sleeve, and leans down to press his mouth against Solas’, against this perfectly odd and uncharming man.
He feels Solas twitch against him, but he doesn’t pull away immediately.
And Dorian feels his lips part slightly against his own, in a way that could perhaps be due to shock, or perhaps Solas kissing him back — and if it is the latter, then it is also Dorian’s first time being kissed this evening, despite having had his body be thoroughly used.
He lets out a pathetic moan against Solas’ mouth.
He feels Solas pull away immediately, his hand coming to rest on Dorian’s chest.
“Dorian,” he says, but he doesn’t sound horrified.
Dorian’s head spins.
“Solas, my dear,” he says, and his voice could be described as husky if you were feeling charitable, “is the Fade really that good? For such a stick-in-the-mud as yourself to be so utterly resistant to my charms?”
He’d kissed back, hadn’t he? For just a second?
Solas chuckles. “Oh, I wouldn’t say I’m utterly resistant.”
It reminds Dorian of stepping mindlessly out of the frigidarium, too early on a midsummer’s evening; the sudden wave of heat, hitting his skin all at once.
He is wanted. By Solas. Even if only a little bit.
“Oh, is that so?” he says after a few seconds, and he dares to bring a hand to Solas’ waist, the feel of a slender hip under the rough hemp sending another thrill up his spine.
“Perhaps,” Solas says, “but I hardly believe that’s relevant at the moment.”
It’s bizarre to think of Solas having a body, one that could conceivably writhe against his own; let alone suddenly feel the evidence of said body under his hand, on his lips — goodness, what would Solas look like naked?
Solas keeps his hand on Dorian’s chest to guard a handspan’s distance between them, surprisingly strong. But he doesn’t move away either.
“I don’t see what could possibly be more relevant —” and Dorian racks his brains, trying to recall the treatise on Elven lexical gaps that Solas had left for him on his desk that very morning, and yes, there it is — “hahren.”
The laugh bursts out of Solas suddenly, and Dorian is pleased, even though it wasn’t exactly the reaction he’d been hoping for.
“Oh, very good. You’ve been studying, haven’t you?”
The way he says it. The way he looks at him.
“Mm, I have,” Dorian says rather breathlessly, “but I’d wager you’ve even more interesting things to teach me.”
Solas shakes his head slightly.
There’s a beat of silence.
“Dorian,” Solas says, quieter. “You need to —”
“Solas,” Dorian interrupts, before the feeling slips through his fingers again. “Who gives a damn about what I need. I think what I want —” and he lets his gaze dip to Solas’ mouth for just a second — “is far more interesting.”
He’s sure he sees desire in Solas’ eyes, certain.
But Solas simply laughs again, except this time it’s humourless.
“Once tonight wasn’t enough for you, da’len?” he says softly.
The shame brings Dorian back to himself for a moment.
Solas knows. Solas knows exactly what he had done.
Da’len. Epicene noun. Singular form.
Child.
How perfectly humiliating.
“Ah — it seems it wasn’t,” he manages, before trying to school his expression into something more seductive. “But my mouth went completely untouched, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Solas shakes his head again, the smile dropping off his face, and he moves to push himself away from Dorian.
“No, please,” Dorian gasps, and the pathetic squeak to his voice would make him want to curl up and die if he wasn’t still a bit drunk, “I’m sorry. Please.”
Solas stops and looks at him again, his brow furrowed, in pity.
The look, the feeling, is so familiar that it makes Dorian feel like he truly is a child again.
“You must know that you are better than this,” Solas murmurs. “Allowing people to disrespect you, to hurt you in that way. You deserve better.”
Dorian’s chest aches. To hear someone say that to him, even if it’s not true.
Maker, he’s hard again.
“Maybe you could show me,” he says, pulling him gently against him so their thighs are touching, trying to be sultry but his voice is too shaky. “Teach me how I deserve to be treated, Solas.”
Solas’ fingers dig into his chest slightly.
“And I’ll apply myself to your lessons just as diligently, I swear to you,” Dorian says, letting his voice deepen.
Solas’ mouth tenses, the barest hint of a smirk, like he's trying to stop himself from smiling but not quite managing it.
It’s so intoxicating that Dorian can’t help but grind against his leg just the tiniest bit.
The trace of a smile fades from Solas’ face.
But he doesn’t pull away, still gazing at him, heavy-lidded.
So Dorian does it again, pushing himself against Solas’ thigh, not daring to try and slot their legs together.
“Dorian,” Solas says, and hearing his name said like that, disappointed but softly, so softly like he cared about him, makes Dorian let out a silly moan — that’s what he’d wanted, that’s perhaps all he ever wanted —
He grinds against him properly, letting his hips roll forward. And then Solas seems to push his thigh back against him slightly because there’s a touch more pressure, and his hand is pressing on his chest; and Dorian lets his head tip back against the wall as he whines at how good it feels; Solas seeming to desire him, thinking he is funny, thinking he is clever; Dorian is wanted, even by this strange little apostate who cares more for dreams than real people — he suddenly wants to drop to his knees and suck him off, make him feel so much pleasure that Solas groans and shivers and pets his hair and tells Dorian he’s the best he’s ever had —
“Solas,” he gasps, “wouldn’t you like to take my mouth?”
“No,” Solas murmurs, his other hand sliding up to Dorian’s throat —
Yes, let Solas choke him, use him, gag him, Dorian will take it all.
But Solas doesn’t do any of that.
Instead he moves his hand up until he’s cupping Dorian’s cheek, his hand cool on his flushed skin.
Dorian lets out a strangled groan, his hips jerking.
“Then,” he gasps, “then —”
Then he’ll turn around and let Solas fuck him from behind against the wall — no, no, he’s too short, damn it — it would have to be on the desk, Dorian pressing his face down, moaning into the stuffy Elven manuscripts as Solas spreads his legs and takes him, and it wouldn’t even be that painful, because he’s surely still slick from the seed of that blasted white-haired elf from the tavern, and he’d let Solas take out all his frustrations on him too, fuck him as hard as he could, the slaps of it echoing around the rotunda, until he emptied himself inside him again —
And then perhaps his father would finally drop dead where he stood, because now his only son had let two elves come in his arse in a single night; not just a runaway slave but a Fereldan hedge mage —
A strange gasp of laughter erupts from him, but he fights to finish his sentence.
“— will you — will you have me properly, on your desk then, I’m already —”
“No,” Solas says, his fingers tracing the stubble on Dorian’s cheek almost curiously.
And Dorian doesn’t understand why he’s letting him do this if he doesn’t want to fuck him.
“Please,” he tries again, desperate enough to try the only thing that’s seemed to work so far, “please, hahren.”
Solas’ breath hitches; from desire, or from shock that Dorian would dare commit such a cultural faux-pas, he can’t tell.
But Dorian’s so far gone that even that little breath, that miniscule evidence that he’s had an effect on Solas, the faintest suggestion that Solas likes what he’s doing, is enough.
Dorian comes with a groan, hips stuttering, as Solas silently holds him through it.
It’s over in seconds, the expanse of a thigh having barely provided enough stimulation to get him there in the first place. The shame and loathing hit him before he’s even stopped moving.
“Dorian,” Solas says, and Dorian shudders at the complete lack of disgust in his voice.
He strokes his face again, and Dorian keeps his eyes closed.
He gives himself permission to think of nothing else but how Solas’ fingers feel on him. For just a moment, he tells himself.
But it goes on for longer than he expected, the seconds stretching on, and he forces his eyes open to see Solas watching him.
His face is unreadable.
“I’m afraid I must insist,” Solas says, and then the hand on Dorian’s face is gone, as Solas takes the cooling tea from where Dorian has put it and pushes it back into his hands. “Drink.”
Dorian is too humiliated to form words.
He does as Solas commands him.
It’s quite awful; the bitterness is manageable, actually, but the way it seems to steal every drop of moisture from his mouth as he swallows it down is simply wretched.
But he drinks it all, Solas’ eyes on him the whole time.
“Very good, da’len,” Solas says when he brings the empty cup down, his eyes crinkling.
Dorian blushes.
Solas lets his other hand drop from Dorian’s chest, clearly intending to move away, and Dorian’s eyes flicker down - this is his last chance to angle his hips a bit to the right, so that he’d be able to feel between Solas’ legs and see if he was —
But Solas is gone before Dorian can follow through with it, moving away to set the cup back on his desk.
His steps are slow and unhurried, as he comes back over to where Dorian is still leaning, slumped against the wall.
“It will help you sleep as well,” Solas says. “I imagine a good night’s rest would do you some good.”
His voice is quiet and soft, like Dorian is a child who’s come to him with a nightmare.
Dorian can only nod, wordlessly.
“Will you be alright getting to your room?”
Say no, part of Dorian yells. Say no, and then when you get there, you can —
“Yes. I’ll be alright,” he says, his voice coming out in a croak.
He clears his throat.
His head is clearer than he’d like.
“Thank you,” he says anyway, because he is well-bred, after all.
“Of course,” Solas says easily, like he has Tevinter mages coming in and grinding on his thigh every other night.
“Take care of yourself, Dorian,” he says.
Dorian feels tears welling up.
He must leave at once.
“I’ll think about it, but you know I can’t resist a good time,” he makes himself say, turning to the stairs before Solas can see, and hoping that the raggedness in his voice sounds like fatigue.
“At any rate, I’m sure I’ll sleep soundly tonight, thanks to your dreadful tea.”
Solas snorts softly when Dorian emphasises the word dreadful, even though it wasn’t really that funny. Dorian relishes in the little spark of satisfaction nonetheless.
He starts to make his way daintily up the stairs, only bashing against the banister once or twice.
“I bid you goodnight,” he says, and then, because he wants Solas to think he's not embarrassed, wants to leave a lasting impression, even if he himself didn’t last longer than two minutes — “hahren.”
He hears Solas let out an incredulous hah behind him.
“Goodnight, da’len,” he hears him say, perhaps the hint of a smirk to his voice, and that's already more than Dorian deserves.