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Even though his desk is a delightful mess of paperwork and magical study, when Rook barges into his office with a bottle of the worst wine imaginable, the man manages to sit himself quite comfortably on its edge. No noise, no paper being thrown to the side.
It should be impossible, or maybe just difficult - Maker knows Rook doesn’t grasp the concept of impossibility. He may be a thin elf, but Rook is still a grown man and Dorian has mountains of work he’s still cutting through.
Mmm. Rogues. Sera could have - would have - done the same. Cole too.
Dorian doesn’t deign to look him in the eyes. Not yet. He’ll claim he was too busy reading the newest plan Mae and Ashur have if Rook asks. “Good evening, Emyr.”
Rook takes on a cheery tone. ”Magister Pavus. A pleasure.”
“Hmm. Flattery?”
“Neve said it’ll get me almost anywhere.”
No slur in his tone, nothing indicating he was anything other than sober. A bit disappointing. Tarquin said even a tipsy Rook was hilariously adventurous, and tumbling into a most likely bloody adventure was more of a necessity right now.
It’s one of the many things he misses in the Inquisition: the adventure. Couldn’t go a day without Adaar or the Bull dragging him somewhere.
His heart sinks. It takes everything in his power not to clutch the sending crystals around his neck, the dragon tooth underneath.
Some days, it’s his act of rebellion. A sign of what he fights for under the Magisterium’s nose. Others, hiding it like yet another dirty secret. Hope and hopelessness.
The Lucerni days against the Shadow Dragon ones, the Bull said while trying desperately to ease Dorian’s utter nihility.
“Am I bothering you?” Rook’s voice cuts through the wistfulness. “Mae and Ashur said you were free enough, but you got a real furrowed brow.”
His pen stops, right over a complaint from Magister Nanterius. Funnily enough, it was most likely about the man sitting on the desk right now. Something about a trio with a griffon and abomination killing the mercenaries she hired near Dock Town.
Dorian laughs, a sharp bark of laughter. “There are worse instances to find me in, I assure you.”
A pause. “I guess.”
“So what exactly are you doing in Asariel?” Dorian asks. “Disturbing me is one thing-”
“Disturbing people is one of my favorite things to do. In the top ten actually.”
“-but I assumed most of your… Affairs kept you to Dock Town. Killing Venatori and solving mysteries.”
Now some of the papers shift and the desk creaks under Rook’s weight. Like he debated leaning back, only to think better. “Harding and Neve are with the possible future Archon, but I heard Papa’s in Asariel on business. Figured we’d split and I’d visit him before the whole eclipse thing.”
A kindness really, a marvel too.
There’s the sloppy sound of drinking. “Not to mention I have a question to ask you.”
“Again,” Dorian comments, unsurprised. Not unusual, given what his fellow Shadow Dragon is choosing to fight. And stab, most likely - Rook has the daggers for it.
He looks up to Rook, who gestures between the two of them. “Nothing Solas related. Kinda personal, actually…”
Dorian’s eyes flicker across the room. “Rather vague.”
“But I can ask, right?”
Flatly. “Depends. How personal?”
Another shrug mixed with insistence. “Inquisition.”
“Then I suppose-”
“Good. When did you know he was amatus?”
It gives Dorian pause. Right for the heart.
Rook likes stabbing. The ease of it, the careful precision of it all. He’s heard Legatus Charon mention his son’s love of going for the weak point while his older siblings weave spells and wards.
Rook has a curious look in his eyes. Almost serious, nothing malicious. But eyes like that tend to conceal the most.
“Well, isn't that a strong lead?” A mere feint.
“You said I could ask. And you didn’t even answer. Amatus,” Rook repeats, narrowing his eyes. As if Dorian was the one acting strange, barging and demanding. “When or how did you know the Bull was Amatus?”
Dorian stiffens. Fully rises to face Rook. Not unlike how he challenged his father and mother over a decade ago.
The rogue looks almost serene. Secure, but impatient. Choking the bottle of liquor by the stem.
Maybe if it were Adaar asking, or even Sera or Cole, or Mae most definitely, even Ashur… But Rook? Rook? A man who hasn’t been to the south or knows the Bull? “How did you-”
“Varric told me.” Rook rolls his eyes. A lame balm, but Dorian loses some of the tenseness.
“Because of course he did,” he cuts off any attempt the younger Tevinter has to push. Now any sort of nervousness can come across as annoyance. Then mourning. Oh Varric…
Rook gives off a sort of half-pout. “He thought you were awfully romantic.”
…with only love to keep them together.
“He thought a lot of things were romantic. Did he ever tell you the story of the Magister that Hawke helped slay for his love?”
“Magister Danarius. Stop dodging.”
Dorian rises. “In a minute. This,” and he presses his palms onto the desk, “is a conversation that requires wine.”
Even as Dorian turns and makes his way to his own cache, Rook does the honorable, selfish thing and raises his bottle.
“The good wine..”
“Mmm. I'm fine then. Papa says to never waste liquor.”
“Smart man.” When he leaves, it’s impossible for him to tell if there’s a spring in his step or a drag in his feet, what with his head spinning and heart pounding so loudly.
By the time Dorian comes back with his own alcohol - a simple Minrathous White - Rook’s already drunk half of his own bottle. Still refuses to get off his desk too.
Naturely, Dorian returns to his own chair. Takes a more leisurely seat, however. Nearly curled in its plush warmth and pours himself a glass..
He sets aside the bottle and raises his glass. Rook raises his bottle back. “Much better. Now. Why are you asking this anyway?”
The rogue shrugs and has no hesitation in gorging himself on drinks. It was a familiar sight to Dorian, hoping to find the answers at the bottom of a bottle. If only every answer could be found there, saving Tevinter would be so much easier.
Still. “I’m not going to answer until you do.”
A huff. “Stubborn.”
“Rook.”
“I dug a hole and now I must lie in it.” The rogue squirms a bit before dramatically throwing his arm over his eyes. “You know Davrin, right?”
Ah, yes. The Grey Warden with the griffon, the one Rook loves to drag around every which way. He's sure if Ashur hadn't had the man aid in drawing the last of the blight from Dock Town's catacombs, one of Rainier's letters would've mentioned him.
Not everyday that the Wardens get a second wind. That's every decade or so.
“Yes, yes. Your Grey Warden knight.”
“Ashur calls him that too. My Grey Warden. Your Grey Warden, Mercar, can we borrow him? The catacombs.” Rook removes his arm, if only to stare rather dramatically out one of the few windows. Time to put up or shut up then. “I might have…” It breaks off into mumbles.
“You…?” Dorian prompts.
“I called him…” Again. Mumbles.
The subtly does him no favors. Dorian’s eyes widened in realization. “Rook-”
“Vishante kaffas, I called him amatus!”
It was predictable, but the brutal honesty of it is startling. Amatus. Beloved. Powerful, even in a simple whisper, a yell.
Dorian leans forwards. “Is that it?”
“It comes with,” Rook winces, "issues."
“Complications.” Blight, justice, hope, the call for something bigger-
“Problems.” Long distance, assassinations, loneliness, the bigger dream-
“And that’s why you wanted to talk,” Dorian says in dawning realization. Giving Rook his undivided attention. “Because-”
“You’d understand.” Rook replies, hesitant. “About big commitments for a guy I might not even be able to plan a future with.”
Now isn’t that something? How familiar those words are…
Dorian raises a brow, and the embarrassment on Rook’s face turns into a hot ire.
“Don’t get me wrong!” He shouts and holds his hands up defensively. “Davrin’s amazing! It’s not as if I’m going against him. He’s a good person who I love. Perfect, responsible and has a strong sense of justice. Papa, Tanya, and Viktor keep harassing me to introduce him…”
Dorian takes a sip from his glass. When Rook settles again, he teases, “This catch of his must be catastrophic."
“But,” a loud sigh, “he's too… Fucking good.”
He gives Rook the benefit of a pause. Enough time for Dorian to bite his lip and let the utter exhaustion of it all roll over him.
Rook takes it in stride, leaning back more and staring for the dramatics. Another sip of liquor.
“You would think that wouldn’t be a problem.”
“Yeah, but I think you’re too fucking good too.”
He sputters. “Rather uncalled for.”
Rook takes another swig from the bottle and his face morphs into a whole cringe. Doesn't stop him from taking another sip, this time with a traitorous gaze. “It’s like… Davrin thinks that if he’s going to die, it’s going to be stopping the Blight. If he dies, he'll die helping people. And it’s heroic, and stupid, and suicidal, and I just want to bundle him up in blankets with Assan and make sure no ogre can even think about him.”
Good. Not too good for me. No, Davrin is a good person.
“He’d die like that,” Rook sighs. Finding his reflection in the bottle much more interesting than Dorian. “‘Cause helping's his second nature.”
Now there’s a disturbance in his voice. A little warp there with a heartbroken hitch. Not even tipsy, yet feeling like drowning.
Dorian takes another gulp of his drink. The burn nowhere near as bad as he needed. Maybe maraas-lok…
“I wanna- Want to promise him my life,” he murmurs. “When the gods are dead and take the Blights with them, we’ll have decades and decades ahead. Together.”
It could be optimism, could be blind naivety. Talking about gods and Blights almost as casually as he does about supremacist cults and a certain traitorous somniari. Holding onto the good, knowing it cannot last, at least in the form you cradle so close to your heart.
You take what you can. Meetings on the Antivan border, sending crystals, secrets and letters and the ever tiny moments…
“Yet everyday, you know what you desire and what tempts you aren’t promised tomorrow.”
Rook sighs, though there’s also an exhausted laugh. “You do understand.”
Dorian, sobbing. Please, tell me to come home, amatus.
And the Bull, knowing. Stay, kadan.
He knows his smile is as bitter as it is sweet. He attempts to admit it through a disgusted groan, “Maker, help me, I do.”
The rogue smiles, understanding and weak. Flooded in all sorts of emotions when it reaches his eyes.
When his glass runs empty, Dorian takes another cup gingerly. Watches Rook through his lashes as he takes his time. Rocking back and forth.
Amatus, and all the feelings that are entangled.
“You said you thought I am a good person as well.”
“I think I said you were too fucking good.”
“Right. Like I said."
"Sure."
"Like Davrin.”
“Yes,” Rook leans forward. “Like Davrin.”
“Am I to believe that was a compliment, or a problem you have with me?” Dorian goades with a raised chin.
Rook looks up towards the ceiling this time, avoidant. Dorian should know, there’s nothing up there. “Either-or. I mean, decades you know? And you’d give it up for Tevinter.”
“And you wouldn’t?”
“I mean I would,” Rook countered and rolled his eyes. Then his face softened. “But I don’t have to choose.”
“Oh.” And Dorian deflates. Maybe it's the exhaustion... “My turn, then?”
The man on his desk hums. “‘Course.”
“I first called him amatus after Corypheus's very timely defeat.”
Rook pauses. Attempt to hitch his legs up, and it's probably only by Dorian's glare does his shoes stay off the desk. A child listening to a story.
Even in annoyance, he continues, “I was planning on making a sort of dramatic return to Tevinter, but chose to stay with the Inquisition.”
“Because of him?”
Dorian’s smile is near nefarious. Isn’t that what Rook called him? Nefarious? “Well, yes. But besides, what would Adaar do with me gone?”
The rogue concedes with a hum.
“Adaar took us dragon hunting, where she managed to obtain the dragon’s teeth. The Bull took one, you see, and split it in half to create two necklaces. One for each of us.” He pulls the leather cord from around his neck, reveling in revealing the tooth with the proper flourish. Where everything else was worn, to Dorian the tooth looked not a day older then when the Bull gave it to him.
The rogue’s eyes go wide, staring with a keen interest. He gives a playful wink and smug smile. “Making Davrin and me look absolutely neutral about each other.”
“When he gave it to me, it was the first time I called him it.” Dorian cradles the tooth closer to his chest. The Bull is his heart as he is the Bull’s. “The first time I knew I meant it too.”
Rook’s golden eyes go wide, and his feet kick back and forth. Nearly hitting the side of the desk as he does so. “Did you mean to say it?”
“No, of course not. Romantic sob, I would’ve been.”
“Must’ve made it harder then.” Incredibly rude as it is, Rook downs the rest of the bottle and places it back onto the desk, catching it as it nearly teeters off. “To leave, I mean. Knowing you accidentally got what you wanted.”
“I suppose,” he throws about a faux apathy. In truth, perhaps Rook may have another knife. Man has a habit of going for the heart these days.
Promises, promises. First he said that about sex, haughty and confident. Later, walking away and attempting to keep his head held high.
Someone sniffles.
“But tomorrow comes?”
Even if Dorian won’t return tomorrow. They all know it, won’t say it.
That at least brings a smile to both their faces.
It wouldn’t be until over a month later when everything feels like it’s over does Dorian even remember the conversation.
Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain are dead, Rook stabbed - Sliced! I tricked and sliced him, Dorian! - Solas and sent him into the Fade, Mae is going to be Archon, and finally he can breathe. Adaar and him even had a lovely conversation about anxieties recently.
Until during the celebrations, when Rook storms over. A pinched brow and a tug on his sleeve, completely ignoring Dorian was holding his drink in a very spillable cup.
“Rook-” he greets, smiling.
Rook doesn’t appear to lighten. In fact, his face is one he’s seen far too many times: plotting. “Your amatus stole my amatus, and I want him back.”
“What-”
“Kaffas! Just… C’mon!” And suddenly Rook is dragging Dorian away from his nice little corner, away from the party into some desolate corner of the Shadow Dragon’s hideout. “The Blights are over, most likely the Callings and Wardens, and I am not having your man put mine into his mercenary group now that we finally have our lives together.”
Rook said he didn’t have to choose. Did he… No, why would he?
A hopeful little fantasy. Having the Bull here, a chance to finally and permanently heal Tevinter? Surely everything since Solas’s ritual was a dream.
But there - in a room only accompanied by books, wards, and abandoned furniture, was his amatus. Making cheery conversation with Davrin, sometimes with Davrin’s griffon chirping in response and the Bull taking that as his answer.
He looks older, but it’s still Bull. After months, years.
Together.
Dorian gasps, and the Bull turns just as Davrin mentioned a dragon or two.
The Bull brightens, as if seeing Dorian was the best thing to happen to him. A full grin. “Hey, Kadan!”
Tomorrow comes, and when Dorian finally embraces his amatus, he promises that they have the rest of their lives left.