To Dorian, the concept of 'true love' is simply a fairy tale, something believed in by the unwashed masses, grasping for some sort of meaning to their life besides being crushed in the cogs of Tevinter life. Love is something to avoid, a hindrance, something to be used against you by someone trying to bring you down. Usually used by the person who holds your affection.

Thus, something to avoid at all costs.

Sex is different. It's carnal, primal; a physical need met with the help of another consenting party. No feelings, no strings. Involving feelings-especially considering his particularly masculine interests-only led to pain and so he quickly and firmly shut the door to that path, never once looking back, knowing that so long as he lived in Tevinter, there was no point in even trying.

Attachment to people is weakness, he tells himself as he watches from bed as his latest partner pull on his trousers and boots, draping his top in the crook of his arm and leaving without a backward glance.

The words spoken in lust are lies, he repeats in his head as his lover lavishes him with kisses and whispered praise, worshiping every inch of his skin, tracing the contours of his body with his tongue and fingers. You're beautiful, he says, You're perfection. You've all I've ever wanted.

This is the way life must be, he whispers into the dark room, skin still slick with sweat. His entire room smells like sex, the distinct scent of semen. The bed is still warm from another body, already gone, already forgotten.

Hope is pointless, a voice whispers in the back of his mind as the door to Alexius's study closes behind him for the last time.

Dorian hums to himself as he lounges in his seat, legs crossed, the copy of A Theory on Elemental Symbiosis that he had borrowed from Trevelyan (without her knowledge) held in one hand, the other toying idly with his mustache. The evening sun illuminates his alcove in the library, bathing everything in a rich orange. There's a chill in the air but it's nothing a warming spell can't cure.

He's completely at ease.

Well, a false pretense of ease, but that's entirely besides the point. It's important to keep up appearances of nonchalance despite the fact that it's been quite possibly the second most stressful and life-threatening two weeks of his life. Time magic, cultists, Alexius, closing the breach, a living breathing magister of old turned darkspawn, a fucking dragon, 10 days traveling through the snow and mountains and cold.

There's something that the Andrastians in the south said… Maker's breath? Yes, that's it, though it doesn't seem be enough. Perhaps 'Maker's sagging and withered tit'. Ah, yes, that's better. The train of thought is enough to make Dorian smile, shifting his book to catch more of the slowly waning sunlight.

Dorian catches a flash of dark red and black in his peripheral and looks up.

The commander stands at the entrance to his little hideaway, hands resting on the pommel of his blade. His feet betray his calm demeanour as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then back again. He's nervous about something.

Dorian sits up in his seat and marks his book before setting it on top of a stack of encyclopedias he's been using as a side table. "Commander," he greets with a nod.

"Lord Pavus," Cullen responds.

"Oh, I am no lord," Dorian says with a small chuckle, "that title belongs to my father. I am nothing but an indecently handsome Vint pariah. Dorian will suffice." A smirk curls the corners of his lips and he lets his eyes trail down Cullen's form for just a moment before meeting his eyes. It's second nature, being effortlessly flirty, and the blush that rises to the commander's cheeks is absolutely delightful.

Cullen rubs at the back of his neck and glances away. "Ah… Dorian, then." He clears his throat then pauses, looking lost for words for a moment. The silence stretches until Dorian can take it no more.

"Is there something you needed, or did you come simply to gaze upon my visage?" His tone is playful, but really, he would like to return to his book while there's still sunlight before he's forced to read by candle. He hates reading by candle.

"Ah, y-yes." The prompt seems to clear Cullen's mental fog and he looks grateful for the help, cheeks reddening again though Dorian thinks its more from embarrassment. "I wanted to personally thank you for everything you've done. With the mages at Redcliffe, the time magic…" He trails off and rolls his shoulders, face twisting uncomfortably. "The way I spoke to you in Haven at the war table was unacceptable and I-"

Dorian waves his hand with a sardonic smile. "No worries. I've been treated far worse and you did little more than mildly annoy me. It's fine."

"Are you-"

"Yes, Commander, I'm quite positive. Now," Dorian takes up his book again in one hand, making a shooing motion with the other as he returns to his position before the interruption. "If that was all you needed, I'm sure you have soldiers to yell at and reports to scribble on. Don't waste any more of your precious time on me." And then he buries his face into his book, bringing an end to the conversation.

It's unseasonably warm in the mountains today and Dorian takes full advantage. He puts the often unoccupied chess area in the garden to good use, sprawling in one of the seats. An empty wine glass dangles from his fingers, the bottle half full on the chessboard beside his propped feet. He's been lounging like that for the better part of the afternoon, soaking in the warmth of the sun like a house cat. Well, it's not really warm, but in comparison to frigid winds and snow it's practically summer.

A shadow falls over Dorian's face, blocking the sun. "Excuse me, I'm trying to absorb that sunlight you're blocking," he drawls without bothering to open his eyes, waving his wine glass in the general direction of where he thinks the person may be standing. Possibly.

"I apologize," replies a familiar voice and Dorian cracks open an eye to find Cullen between him and delicious warmth. He's lost the cloak and most of his armor, clad only in his usual breeches, shirt, and boots. His skin glistens with a sheen of sweat. Fresh from the training yard, then. The disheveled and unkempt look is a good one for Cullen, and Dorian takes a moment to appreciate it.

"You're still blocking my light," Dorian grouses with a pout, letting out a content sigh as Cullen laughs under his breath and moves out of the way, taking the empty seat across from him. "Do you need something, Commander?"

"Cullen."

"Cullen, then." Dorian sits up and reaches for the wine bottle, pouring himself a generous glass. He tilts the bottle towards Cullen in offering but he waves it away, so Dorian shrugs and puts it on the ground beside his chair, lowering his feet to the ground. Saying his name is… nice. The way it pushes the tip of his tongue against the roof of his mouth, the back of his teeth. How it curls. Hm, he must be drunker than he thought he was, for his thoughts to be derailed so easily. Dorian lifts his glass to his lips and takes a drink, watching Cullen over the rim of the glass.

Cullen seems pleased by Dorian calling him by name. Dorian makes a mental note to do so sparingly, like using sweets as a reward for good behavior.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" Dorian asks again, setting his glass down on the chessboard.

"I had hoped to find someone to play a game of chess with before I returned to my duties, and I saw you here, aalprecatinmost nd, well…" Cullen's smile is self-deprecating, like he's already assumed Dorian would turn down the offer and is fully prepared. But Dorian has nothing better to do, and it's been ages since he's played against anyone with any intelligence. Why not pass the time with a board game?

"I hope you're not expecting an easy win simply because of my current inebriation," Dorian quips, moving his glass off the board to the ground next to the wine bottle. "Alcohol does little more than enhance my mental prowess." He most certainly does not sway as he sits back up no matter what anyone says, and Cullen's smile morphs into one of amusement for some other reason than Dorian's blatant drunkenness.

"Of course it does, Dorian," Cullen says as he digs the chess pieces out of the small box attached to the bottom of the table.

Dorian has made a nest of books in Cullen's office back behind his desk, hoping that Trevelyan will leave for the Fallow Mire without him when she's unable to locate him in his usual haunts. He doesn't want to go there, not even in the slightest. And while he does think that finding the captured soldiers is a great cause, he would rather not be there in person. It's a mire. Wet, soggy, filled with skeletons and the plague, if the reports are correct.

He'll stay right here in Skyhold with his books, thank you very much.

Dorian's plan works spectacularly, a full three hours so far without being found and forced onto a horse.

Well, spectacularly until Cullen comes back to his office.

The main door swings open, doorway filled with Cullen's broad shoulders and tall frame, a stack of papers in hand. Grey eyes meet brown, both wide with surprise. Well, Dorian's are surely surprised, though he really has no reason to be-it is Cullen's office, of course he'd come in here. But Cullen, he seems… pleased to see him there, a tidbit that Dorian tucks away into the back of his mind for later examination.

"What a lovely surprise," Dorian says, hiding his shock and slight annoyance at being found out behind a bit of levity.

"Are you... hiding behind my desk?" Cullen asks, voice barely masking his amusement at seeing Dorian huddled next to a pile of books on his floor. Truth be told, Dorian can see how it would look funny. The infamous Tevinter mage skulking behind the desk of the commander of the Inquisition, holding a book to his chest like a shield, what a scandal!

"Correction: I am hiding from our dearest Lady Inquisitor, and just so happen to be doing so behind your desk." Cullen accepts this without question, though doesn't bother to hide his low laugh as he closes the door behind him and sets the papers on his desk. Dorian shifts on the floor, crossing his legs, and waits to see if Cullen's going to kick him out. It's likely, considering Dorian set this all up without his permission. He only hopes Trevelyan has already left for the Mire.

Cullen sits at his desk, shouldering off his fur cloak to lay over the back of his chair. He pulls the stack of what must be reports closer and picks up the first page, not saying a word in protest to Dorian's presence.

"I heard your meeting in Redcliffe didn't go as planned," Cullen says, watching Dorian out of the corner of his eye as they walk the battlements. Dorian and the Inquisitor had arrived back at Skyhold two days ago, and while she promised not to tell anyone anything they didn't need to know, that still meant telling people more than he'd care for.

"That's quite an understatement." Dorian shrugs, using nonchalance to hide just how brittle and sore he is after the meeting with his father. Since returning, he's holed himself up in his bedchamber with every bottle of wine he could sneak off with undetected, drinking away the pain of a wound reopened. The giant fur mantle on his shoulders shifts with his shrug, ticking the back of his neck. All he'd done was complain about how damnably cold it is in the south, and Cullen had thrown his big fuzzy cloak over his shoulders with a 'Think nothing of it' that was horribly chivalrous and had made Dorian's stomach twist. His skin tingles where the cloak brushed against it; he breathes in the distinct scent of slightly damp fur, metal polish, and something earthy that seems decidedly Cullen. The smell calms him a little, like a balm on a fresh burn, as does Cullen's presence itself. He tugs the fur closer to his chin, shivering at the realization.

"If you would like someone to talk to about it…"

"Perhaps I will take you up on that offer, but not today." Dorian knows the smile he offers is abysmal at best and lets it disappear as quickly as it appears.

Dorian stops and walks to the edge of the battlement, staring out into the snowcapped mountains. The wind is bitter and sharp, but refreshing, drying tears that he didn't realize were collecting at the corners of his eyes. Cullen comes to stand next to him, their shoulders touching. A sense of security, strength. It's enough to sooth the roiling emotions in his heart, a moment of respite from the pain, a breath of fresh clean air after breathing nothing but poison for days.

Dorian knows where this is going. He's not blind to the fact that Cullen visits him almost once a day, and that he stopped making transparent excuses for his visits weeks ago. He sees the way the commander looks at him, the fond smiles.

He knows, but he isn't sure how to react.

Were Dorian back home, they would fuck a few times to get whatever it is building between them out of their systems then go back to their regularly scheduled lives. They would most likely never speak again unless required to by a formal setting, and both parties would be expected to keep their deviant activities a secret.

But they aren't in Tevinter, and what's building between them isn't sexual desire, not really.

It's softer than that, more vulnerable. It's early morning breakfast together in Cullen's office because Dorian knows if he doesn't bring him food he won't eat at all. It's afternoons sitting together in the library, Dorian reading while Cullen writes to his sister, the silence between them warm and comfortable. It's late nights searching each other out when they can't sleep, talking about everything and nothing into the early morning until sleep finally takes them. It's Dorian holding Cullen's head in his lap, rubbing circles into his temples to try to help with his withdrawal headaches. It's Cullen wiping away Dorian's tears when he finally talks about his family, pressing their foreheads together and adamantly whispering praise and encouragement, You're so strong, so brave. I'm lucky to know someone as wonderful as you.

This is something he's never experienced, a level of intimacy so outside his realm of expertise that instead of taking the lead, he lets Cullen set the pace, waits to see exactly what the other man will do and how far he's willing to take this.