It feels good to be back at Skyhold. The first thing Bull does is take a long bath, indulging in a soak to warm up and clean off. He reads reports from Krem and from Ben-Hassrath agents, he sends off letters of his own.
Eventually his mind turns to Dorian. They parted ways upon entering the fortress but they would see each other again at the War Table before the end of the night: Cullen and Leliana like to be debriefed as soon as possible, and the Inquisitor has been away from some time. But that means they all need to show up, to give their own reports and voice whatever concerns they have.
He finds himself wondering if things will change now that they've returned. They've been existing in a comfortable but liminal space out on the road. By now rumors have likely made their way back to Skyhold via returning soldiers or scouts.
In fresh clothes and feeling more himself, Bull makes his way to the War Room meeting. The Inquisitor and Varric are already, talking to Cullen.
Dorian has been both anticipating and dreading a return to Skyhold. Anticipation is a given; sleeping in an ancient castle in the mountains is at least better than sleeping in a tent, it does have something resembling proper baths, and his nook in the library has no doubt been missing him. His apprehension revolves entirely around how things may go with the Bull. Will he want distance to return to his usual ways now that they've returned somewhere with more...options? Will they simply go back to being friends--perhaps with the occasional diversion or two--with little spoken of the nearly three months they'd spent together intimately?
They both have their own space here, after all, as well as their own duties. It would be ridiculous to continue spending so much time together, and it would imply more of an attachment than they actually have, surely. And if Dorian feels bitterly about this at all--it isn't really his place, is it, to have feelings like that? He has no claim on the Bull, who can do as he likes, especially in his own quarters. Far away from his.
Skyhold is both familiar and oddly foreign after so long away. Strange to think that the last night he'd spent here had been his first spent with the Bull. So much has changed for Dorian, even if it may not be evident.
What time remains before they convene in the War Room tonight is spent unpacking, bathing, and reacquainting himself with his materials in the library, making sure that nothing of note has been tampered with. When the appointed hour draws near, Dorian appears int he War Room looking and feeling refreshed, clean and freshly shaven and wearing a new set of robes, along with a scent he hasn't had with him on the road: a bright blend of lemon peel and iris blossom.
He is near the last to arrive. Josephine enters just after him, closing the great doors behind her. Dorian glances quickly around the room, finding all the usual suspects, but his gaze lingers on Bull, who has been on his mind all afternoon. He gives no indication of such now. His only acknowledgement is a professionally courteous nod before he takes a place near the huge, ornate table beside Lavellan. When the time comes he gives his own report, primarily about the movements and activity of the Venatori with whatever insight he can lend, but also about any magical anomalies they'd come across that may warrant further study. Not that Cullen, Leliana, or Josephine have much to say about that; Dorian will be sharing that information far more extensively with Solas, Vivienne, and Grand Enchanter Fiona's people.
As even the advisers recognize that the Inquisitor's party has had quite the journey and would likely appreciate some rest, the meeting does not last overly long, as some have in the past. Doing lingers a minute after it ends. He steels himself before he approaches the Bull; slow, casual steps around the table. He wonders how many in Skyhold have heard the rumors about the two of them already. Leliana certainly has, given the way her sharp gaze lights on them curiously for a moment before she turns to go, but that's to be expected. She would be a poor spymaster if she did not keep close tabs on the entanglements of the Inquisition's inner circle.
"You'll be heading to the Rest, I presume? To remind your company of what you look like before we're inevitably off again?" No indication of his feelings on the matter one way or the other.
During his part of the debriefing, Bull accurately maps out - from memory - troop movements through Orlais, as well as other clusters of interest. Bandits, renegade groups breaking out to take advantage of the civil war. He'd been observing through their entire journey: things that Lavellen wouldn't necessarily think to note of or remember to report. The Inquisitor has enough going on; this is part of why Bull is here. He adds a few more things to the map, and when Leliana asks where his information is from, Bull just gives her a look.
"The letters were already opened," he says dryly. "You know." Even if she couldn't translate them, she knew. Since he joined the Inquisition, he and Leliana have been circling each other like alley cats. Bull finds it invigorating; Leliana seems to find it frustrating. She's a good spy, but so is he. And he has a multilingual advantage that she and her agents just can't match.
Once the meeting closes, Bull lingers as the others filter out to find food, drink, rest, or more hot water. Soon enough, he and Dorian are the only ones left, with Dorian closing the distance between them. Lemon and iris. Something in Bull's expression softens as he watches the mage move.
"I thought about it," he admits, studying Dorian for his tells. Dorian has been protecting himself for a long time, but Bull has spent three months intimately getting to know him, and he'd spent months before that learning everything else. "Would you care to join me?"
It's a hand held out, a clear offer that Dorian can take or leave. It's not exactly uncommon for them all to drink together, it's a relatively safe invitation. Bull is already trying to think of ways to coax Dorian back to his room for the night. He's been spoiled having a companion in his bed so consistently, he isn't looking forward to losing that. He doesn't see why either of them has to give that comfort up.
It's a tempting offer, and it does mean something that Bull cares to make it. There usually is quite a gathering at the Rest on the night of the Inquisitor's return; Dorian is used to being there to drink away the aches of the road. But he thinks about the circumstances. Sitting with Bull and his boys can be strained at the best of times; he isn't exactly beloved by them, and if any of them have heard about his involvement with their leader, he'll no doubt be made the subject of their jokes all evening. He doesn't think he's prepared to subject himself to that.
"Not tonight," he declines reluctantly with a small, strained smile. "A glass of brandy, a book, and my own bed are calling too loudly to ignore."
A quiet evening in doesn't sound bad; he can build up the fire in his room's hearth, burrow beneath his blankets, nurse some better booze than what he'd find at the Rest and read. That he'll then have to fall asleep alone for the first time in several months is...well, he'll have to get used to it sometime. He's slept alone for over thirty years. A few months spent sharing a bedroll shouldn't make such a difference, surely?
"I'm sure you've been missed," he encourages. "I'll see you at breakfast, provided you aren't too indisposed in the morning."
Bull wants to ask if Dorian would like company. A quiet night sounds as appealing as a rowdy one, and it would mean spending time with Dorian. A glass of brandy, a bed, and maybe painting Dorian's toes...
He pushes the thought out of his head. Everything Dorian just described sounds like a solitary night, and Bull can't begrudge him the space. They've been sharing camps for three months, having a door between himself and the rest of the world probably sounds good right about now.
"You mean hung over?" he says dryly, a small smile appearing. "Krem and some of the boys are off on a mission for Cullen in the morning. I'll be up to see them off."
He's glad the Inquisition can make use of the Chargers and he's grateful for the steady pay his boys are getting now.
After just a breath of hesitation, Bull lifts a hand to brush the backs of his fingers along Dorian's cheek. "Sleep well, Dorian. You've certainly earned it."
Dorian spent the night in Bull's room less a handful of times before he abruptly stopped. Most of those times had involved passing out from exhaustion and waking up in mortification the next morning, no matter how relaxed Bull has been about the subject. He knows what reputation means to Dorian and he knows, more or less, what Dorian is trying to protect.
Wouldn't be seemly for people to think he was carrying on with the resident Qunari spy (though, to most of the Inquisition, Bull is just a Tal-Vashoth mercenary). More than that, Bull is certain that Dorian is trying to protect himself from other things. He can't blame the mage for that, either. Bull finds that he likes waking up with Dorian as much as the sex, and that feels dangerous.
Still, when Dorian starts slipping out after sex, before either of them have the chance to fall asleep, Bull feels--something. A loss, maybe. Or a confirmation: this is about sex, and that's all. They are friends outside of this room, but inside it's strictly business. That's fine. It makes sense to Bull, at least, even if he's not used to those roles overlapping.
At the moment, he's watching Dorian get dressed. It's a rare mid-afternoon romp, something that started with heavy glances across the library and ended with Dorian cursing him as they stumbled into the room. Bull finds himself wishing he had a reason to pull Dorian back into bed. Just for an hour or two.
"You could leave things here, you know," he offers absently. No one goes through his trunk, possibly because he has jars of vitaar on top of everything. A simple but effective visual booby trap. "If you're worried about people seeing you in the same clothes come morning.
It isn't that Dorian wants to hide it. No, and even if he did, it's far too late for that. Leaving Bull's room at night doesn't stop the gossip that's already spread, doesn't keep anyone from staring or whispering or making rude comments in his direction, and doesn't dismiss anyone's assumptions about him, or about them. The damage is done already. And he hadn't lied when he told Bull that he doesn't care if others know about them. They'd shared something truly special. He remembers those nights in the Exalted Plains that Bull allowed--needed, really--Dorian to take care of him. Something had changed between them that first night, and the ones following.
But he must take care of himself first.
There is some part of him that thinks he should simply take what he can get. A man who cares about him, who can share an intimate relationship with him and isn't ashamed of him is far more than he'd ever deemed realistic for himself, even if it isn't quite what he'd hoped. But of course, he knows himself. He knows that eventually even that won't be enough, and he'll start yearning for something that Bull cannot give him. Better, then, to not even pretend. It hurts now to leave Bull's room--his embrace--when he'd so enjoyed it in the months that they traveled together. But it will hurt more, he thinks, if he lets himself live a ruse until it crumbles around him.
It's clear that Bull, for all his perception and knowledge of the human mind, doesn't quite understand. If he did, he wouldn't try to convince Dorian to stay by making such offers. His body is pleasantly sore from sex, and Dorian would like nothing more, honestly, than to lay back down and pass the remainder of the afternoon in Bull's arms. To spend every night that way. But what he'd like and what he should do are quite different.
"I don't know how extensive you think my wardrobe is," he scoffs as he dresses, "but it's rather impractical for me to leave entire outfits elsewhere on the off chance I'll use them." He's being deliberately obtuse, but he doesn't want to address the real suggestion beneath Bull's prompting.
"Should tell the Inquisitor they aren't paying you enough," he quips. "Or Josephine. She seems like someone that would understand the need for a full wardrobe."
He's teasing, mostly, but Josephine keeps making a point about how the Inquisition looks is as important as to how it acts. Bull knows both are true, which is why he's always wondered why the army is usually the first force a new people meet. The Beresaad is a rough first impression and not exactly indicative of Qunari society.
Bull watches Dorian pull on one layer, then another, which requires more attention to buckles and belts and is still not quite the final layer. He does not offer to help; he doesn't want Dorian to leave.
"I'm being outfitted as the Inquisition can afford, apparently. Josephine is the last person I'll complain to," he says dismissively. What he doesn't say is that it's because Josephine had recently discovered his bad habit of pilfering bottles of wine from the cellars, so he's already walking on thin ice.
Dorian buckles himself into the layers of leather that make up the second part of his outfit, using it largely as an excuse not to look at Bull where he still lounges, warm and welcoming and invitingly bare. Every time he looks, he wants to return to him. It always happens this way. As he leans over to pick up his discarded robe, he meets Bull's eye. He bunches the fabric in his hand as he rises, and against his better judgement, goes to sit on the edge of the bed. He shouldn't linger, he knows; that only makes leaving more difficult. But the affection he has for Bull has not abated even slightly, and tends to surface most at highly inopportune moments.
Robe in hand, he leans in first to kiss Bull's stubbled cheek, then his scarred brow. He may have chosen not to sleep beside him anymore, but he doesn't want Bull to think that he no longer cares. They've been through far too much together for that to be the case.
"Do you have nothing else to do this afternoon?" He wonders, half teasing and half genuine inquiry.
Dorian is quite correct in his assumption that the rest of them would be told soon about the invitation; the Inquisitor and her entourage have officially been invited by the Empress herself to a ball Halamshiral to be held at the Winter Palace in less than three months' time. This is, of course, a narrow enough timeframe that everyone jumps immediately into preparations. A trip to Val Royeaux is soon scheduled, and several of the Inquisitor's inner circle accompany her, mostly aiming to do their own business and prepare themselves. Josephine arranges things for them, though Vivienne takes charge in making sure the Bull is dressed well, writing to her personal tailor with rough measurements, fabric ideas, and color choices, expecting to have something for him to try when they arrive in roughly over a week's time. The group winds up being Lavellan, Dorian, the Bull, Vivienne, Varric, and Cassandra, which at least makes for some lively conversation.
Sleeping beside Bull in a tent again feels familiar and oddly comforting. Unfortunately, the last few days of the journey are by boat. Dorian had vowed never to cross the Waking Sea again, but as that is the fastest and simplest route to the city from Jader on the coast, he is overruled. He mostly survives the trip by laying on his bedroll below deck with a cloth over his face and a bucket close at hand.
Thankfully, he feels much better after spending a few hours on land, the sun overhead and solid ground under his feet. They check into their rooms at an inn in the market district in the early evening, and Dorian can't help a little embarrassment when Lavellan informs him that she'd procured just one room for the Bull and himself, as she anticipated that they would share anyway. She's probably right, of course, but it catches Dorian off guard so much that he actually flushes.
Still, the room is luxurious enough--by his current standards, at least--that he's soon able to forget his mortification. The bed is more than large enough to fit them both, for once, and covered in beautiful embroidered linens, soft and lightly fragranced with lavender. There is a big copper tub and washbasin behind a decorated screen, a large hearth, and even a small balcony that overlooks the street several floors below, teeming with merchants with colorful stalls during the day.
Once Dorian has freshened up, he leans against the railing out there, splitting his attention between the people wrapping up business for the day and the sun sinking behind the buildings on the horizon. Val Royeaux hardly holds a candle to Minrathous, of course, but it's nice to be in a proper city again.
Traveling never bothers Bull, regardless of the method. But he has sympathy for those that suffer. Through the voyage, he brings Dorian crackers and fresh water with ginger in it, things to help settle his stomach and alleviate the nausea. But he also gives Dorian privacy for the sake of his dignity.
Once they're in Val Royeaux, Bull isn't surprised by the Inquisitor's assumption, but mildly concerned that Dorian will feel pinned by it. But Dorian doesn't insist on changing rooms, and Bull is pleased to see the bed looks big enough for both of them to be comfortable. He takes his time to inspect the room as Dorian freshens up, then takes his own time to do the same. When he feels more refreshed, Bull follow's Dorian's trail out to the balcony. He leans against the stone balustrade next to the mage, close enough that their arms touch.
"You're sure you don't mind sharing a room?" he asks quietly, gently. He knows how important appearances are to Dorian.
Almost unconsciously--but not quite--Dorian lets himself relax against the slight touch of Bull's arm, welcoming the contact without saying as much. He breathes in deeply of the city air, allowing the question the consideration it deserves. Sharing a room doesn't bother him, of course--not with all the time they spend together--but does the assumption?
"Everyone traveling with us is already well aware," he reasons aloud, though he still doesn't state exactly what they're meant to be aware of. "And Lavellan is quite right. We'd end up sharing anyway. This is more economical."
Let that be the verdict. He doesn't want to think on it any more. There will be teasing from their companions, of course, but no worse than what he's already heard, no doubt. After several months now, their status as bed partners is already becoming old news among their immediate friends. He's grateful for that much, even if it does mean realizing that a truly shocking amount of time has passed since that first night.
Rather than considering that further, he lets his full attention fall on Bull himself, and when he takes in the subtle changes that he's made to clean up, he practically beams.
"Look at this. You've made yourself halfway presentable." He reaches up to trace admiring fingers along the sharper lines of Bull's now neatly-trimmed beard. Hardly obvious to most, but very noticeable to Dorian. "Because Madame de Fer told you not to embarrass her in front of her tailor, no doubt. The appointment is tomorrow, yes?"
Bull likes feeling Dorian's weight lean into him; he stays exactly where he is, soaking in the quiet affection. He chuckles quietly when Dorian's fingers brush along his jaw.
"No," he says as he rolls his eye. Then, "Maybe."
Vivienne had been insistent about a few things and Bull finds it easier to go along with her demands than fight. None of them are particularly unreasonable, after all. Besides, Dorian apparently likes the results, and that makes it worth it.
"Yes. Are you coming along?"
He finds himself hoping that Dorian will be curious enough to join them. He's fond of Vivienne, but he finds himself turning toward Dorian. Bull can imagine himself looking and being disappointed not to see him.
Two or three weeks after the Inquisitor headed off to the Fallow Mire - with Dorian in tow - he submits to the flirtations of a new barmaid. The rumors make her bold and Bull allows himself weakness in this. It's just sex; what he has with Dorian is something else, entirely different and far, far more intimate.
Still, when it comes down to it, Bull finds himself... uninterested. He gives her what she wants - well, almost everything she wants - and sends her on her way. He doesn't seek fulfillment from her and he's sure that if she stays, the rumor mill will circulate that the Bull didn't - or couldn't - perform one night.
He doesn't really care. He's had so few repeat lovers that he is given to ignoring what one-night-stands might say about him. Most of his reviews are good, anyway.
A week or so after that, Bull gets word that the Inquisitor's party is through the pass. He hears the guards call their arrival as they cross the stone bridge into the keep. Bull doesn't run - he allows himself a shred of dignity - but the moment he sees Dorian, he sweeps the mage right off his feet and kisses him soundly.
Dorian has spent the better part of the last month either traveling--and sleeping in a tent next to Varric, who snores awfully--or in a bog fighting demons, reanimated corpses, and hostile Avvar. By comparison, the chill and bitingly fresh air of the Frostbacks is a significant step up.
It also means that they're drawing close to Skyhold. Dorian tries to pretend that the excitement he feels is due to the anticipation of a warm bath and time spent in the library after too long away. But truly, he can't fool even himself; he misses the Bull, so much that it aches. He hasn't spent so much time apart from him since they began their...tryst? It certainly isn't that, after this long. But what else to call it? If there is anything to name still, of course. He's assuming that Bull hasn't moved on in some fashion in his absence. While he knows in his heart that likely isn't true, he's anxious all the same. He's never had anything like this for so long. He simply can't imagine everything going right.
But that anxiety is dispelled nearly as soon as he passes through the main gates. The moment he dismounts, he's lifted clear off the ground by huge, strong arms and pressed to a familiar broad chest as he's kissed with sheer joy, here in front of the entire courtyard. What can he do but return the embrace and the kiss both? Relieved beyond words, his arms wrap tight around the Bull's neck.
Even when the kiss breaks and Dorian scolds, "Not even a 'hello,' you brute? Fasta vass, put me down!" he holds on. His heart is full, touched by how much he's clearly been missed, and by Bull's complete lack of hesitation, even with the crowd around them. He isn't nearly so offended as he pretends, of course. His eyes are warm when they meet Bull's, and it's impossible not to smile.
"This is hello," he rumbles as he cradles Dorian against his chest. Bull has absolutely no interest in putting him down again and he wonders how much he'll suffer if he just carries Dorian back to his room. He has no doubt the mage will be wanting a bath, a meal, and maybe a nap. He can have all of them: Bull just wants to be nearby.
He kisses Dorian again, sweeter this time, like he's trying to charm all his cursing away. Bull can hear someone whistling and he also hears it suddenly cut off: he suspects Cullen or even the Inquisitor intervened.
"If I put you down, it'll be into bed or into a tub." His voice is low now, just for Dorian. "Take your pick."
Well, there's little arguing with that. This may be the most spectacular greeting he's ever received. Despite being so clearly disobeyed, he cradles Bull's face in his hands when he's kissed again. And even when he shrinks a little at the sound of a whistle--clearly directed at them--he determinedly does not let go. It's still difficult for him to see the difference between friendly teasing and ridicule, but he's trying to learn. He hasn't had many opportunities before.
"Well, I don't think you want to fuck me fresh from the road," he says with amusement, just low enough to keep it between them. His thumb traces the line of Bull's cheekbone. Sweet Maker, he'd missed this face. "Or perhaps I shouldn't assume, given your tastes."
Bull's utter refusal to let go of him reignites feelings that Dorian has been attempting with great effort to smother over the last month. Apparently, they weren't buried very deep.
"I had intended to bathe," he continues, "and check on the library. Food, drink, and sleep would also be welcome, though apart from the bath, I'm not particularly attached to the order in which these things happen. So if you aren't going to allow me basic the basic dignity of letting me walk on my own, the least you can do is call for a tub and water."
Nearly two weeks have passed since the victorious return of the Inquisitor's party to Skyhold from the Winter Palace. Beyond the initial celebration, things have, for the most part, returned to normal. Dorian has buried himself in his research in the library again with great enthusiasm, though his bedroom has seen no use. He's spent every night so far with the Bull, returning to his own quarters only to fetch things to store in Bull's room. After what had passed between them at Halamshiral they had been nigh inseparable in the weeks since as they shared space on the return journey.
Upon return to the fortress Dorian hadn't asked, and neither had Bull explicitly invited; they simply fell into a rhythm, and part of that was sharing a room. It's been very pleasant--he might even go so far as to say blissful.
Dorian has also taken to joining the Chargers for practice drills when he can get away from his work, finding it as enjoyable to watch as to participate. Being both an outsider and the Bull's lover has its perks; he can step in and spar whenever he wishes without being subjected to any of the training regimens he finds distasteful. As he prefers not to run laps or do push ups, he's currently lounging against the fence around the training yard, staff in hand, having quite a good time observing and occasionally making commentary.
It's in the midst of this that a messenger approaches with something for Bull, sent direct from Leliana.
The routine he's fallen into with Dorian feels good. Bull has decided not to question it too much, to just let himself enjoy the fact that the mage comes to bed with him every night, that Dorian has started moving things into his room. Even the way Dorian invites himself to participate in sparring with the Chargers has been a point of pleasure for the Bull. He likes watching Dorian fight, and at least once he's cornered the mage after watching him spar to paw at him in a shaded alcove.
He's standing by while he watches some of his boys work, a faint smirk on his lips as he listens to Dorian's running commentary.
"Keep this up and your next dressing down is from the Vint," he warns Grim after Skinner lands a kick to his head.
Bull goes silent as one of Leliana's messengers appears and he accepts the letter the scout hands over. His expression becomes stony and he leaves abruptly, without a word to the Chargers or Dorian.
It's nearly two hours before the Bull appears again, looking no less grim than he had when he disappeared in the first place.
While Krem easily takes over proceedings after Bull's departure, Dorian quickly finds that he can't stay. He feels unsettled, replaying in his mind the sudden shift in Bull's expression. He'd been in high spirits, but that had changed all at once as he'd read the letter. That coupled with how unusual it is for Bull to leave without saying anything leads Dorian to presume that it must have been bad news of some sort.
He excuses himself soon enough, worry making him feel slightly nauseous. While it's nearly time for lunch--a meal he and Bull might have shared together in the great hall or the Rest--he can't even think of eating. He passes through the tavern on the way up to Bull's room, waves off a yell from Sera to come join her.
After leaning his staff in its not customary place beside the bed on the side that has become more or less his, Dorian spends the next couple hours attempting to read, though he winds up rereading the same sections several times, absorbing very little. He keeps thinking of the moment Bull's face fell, smoothing into an expression so utterly unreadable that it would have been less concerning if he'd actually looked upset. In the time they've known one another he's learned that there are precious few things that could necessitate Bull needing to pull that mask up. Whatever it is, it must be deeply serious.
Eventually Dorian gives up on the book entirely, setting it aside with a frustrated huff and standing up. When the door finally opens, he's been pacing in front of it for nearly twenty minutes.
"Ah! Here you are," he says lightly, though he can hear the nerves in his own voice. The look on Bull's face isn't heartening. Still, he perseveres. "I believe we've missed lunch, but I'm sure something could be sent up if I ask." He moves into Bull's personal space to put a hand on his arm, looking up at him with pinched brows and a mouth pursed with concern.
Bull can hear the nerves, too. His eyes are thunderhead grey and it takes him a moment to fully register what Dorian says. His hand slides along Dorian's jaw and cheek as the mage steps close, putting himself into Bull's space to good effect: it's enough to draw him out of his thoughts.
But it is not enough to put his mind at ease.
"If you haven't eaten, yes."
He is not particularly hungry, though he knows he should eat when it's offered. It's an old habit, old wisdom: never know when his next meal might be, especially in a place like Skyhold where interruptions abound. His thumb strokes across Dorian's cheek before Bull drops his hand and gently pulls away from Dorian's hand. He's been turning this moment over in his mind. There is no hiding that something happened out there in the training yard, but how much should he share, and with whom? The Inquisitor knows, of course, and in short order Leliana, Cassandra, and Cullen are all likely to be informed. Why shouldn't Dorian know?
Bull sits down on the edge of the big bed and stretches his leg out. The question Dorian isn't asking is palpable.
"It was a letter from the Ben-Hassrath."
That alone isn't news: Bull gets letters from Ben-Hassrath agents all the time. Though there's something in the way he says it this time: the Ben-Hassrath.
At first, just small things shift. Bull stops eating quiet meals tucked away with Dorian, instead keeping to his circle in the tavern. Dorian is never turned away, of course, but there are no invitations to disappear somewhere together. Bull's impromptu visits to the library whenever he goes up to see Leliana disappear eventually entirely.
In more subtle ways, Bull becomes less open. He no longer shares his concerns with Dorian anymore, does not read his letters in bed, does not offer his commentary on the goings-on within the Inquisition. He stops asking for the comfort Dorian so often gives him after long days and he does not accept it as readily as he had been. He is never rude or standoffish, but in many ways he is simply less there than he has been for so long.
It happens slowly over the course of weeks: Bull pulling away until one day Dorian reaches back for him and he simply isn't there. The Iron Bull disappears behind the veil of Hissrad as more correspondence comes in, as he spends more time planning with the Inquisitor, going over intelligence and coordinating exchanges.
Everywhere else, he is still the Bull. Still loud and rowdy in the tavern, still boisterous in the training yard, but outside of that, that man disappears entirely. Bull spends more time alone on the parapets, staring into the vastness of the Frostbacks.
He tries not to think about how much he misses Dorian. This is for the best. He should never have allowed himself to get so tangled up in the first place. A bit of fun is one thing, but the deep feeling he's developed for Dorian is dangerous. The Qun will be coming back into his life and he needs--
He needs to protect Dorian from that. From him.
Coming down from Leliana's tower one evening, he nearly runs into Dorian on the mage's way up.
It's been gradual, but Dorian is both observant and incredibly sensitive to these things. Still, he'd questioned himself at first, wondering if he wasn't simply imagining things. Bull spending less time with him, or talking with him less openly, or failing to ask him for the things that Dorian had become used to--or refusing even when Dorian would offer. But soon it becomes apparent, impossible to dismiss. For the first time in months Dorian returns to his own room to sleep on more nights than he spends in the Bull's room. After he detects this change, it feels strange to be around him. Like the honest intimacy they'd once shared is now being play-acted, like Bull is putting a silent barrier between them that is impossible to surmount.
It hurts. Of course it does. At first he makes excuses; Bull is dealing with a lot right now, with an alliance with the Qun seemingly moving forward, though that information--and Bull's involvement in the matter--is known only to a select few. But naturally, he begins to question and worry and wonder: has Bull finally realized how foolish their relationship is? Is he trying to let him down easy? That possibility is on his mind constantly. He hates the idea of things ending with Bull. The thought makes him sick, makes his chest ache, makes him not want to let anyone else in ever again. But he hates the idea of them continuing out of pity more. He'd known from the start that this was a possibility. He'd just managed to convince himself somewhere along the way, against his better judgement, that he could handle it. But handling it and handling it well are quite different. It isn't even an exaggeration to say that it feels like his heart is slowly breaking, a piece at a time, day by day, as the adoration and comfort and warmth and trust he'd treasured and come to rely on turns distant and lukewarm.
He seeks Bull out sometimes, still hoping, but in the end it only hurts more. This last week he's slept in his own room exclusively, spending time otherwise in the library rather than the tavern, the courtyard, or the training grounds. He's researching late again tonight, past the hour where most of the library regulars have gone to dinner. He's been writing a letter, which he stashes in his robes when his path up the stairs to the rookery is suddenly blocked by the familiar and broad form of the Iron Bull.
"Oh," he says, surprise quickly dropping to resignation. "Hello, you." Dorian lingers for an awkward moment, just looking up at Bull's face as something constricts in his chest. Only a month ago he'd have grinned, happy for the coincidence, and reached for him. But now he knows that even if he did reach, Bull wouldn't be there. Not in the way he used to be. He loves this man, trusted that his feelings were returned to some degree, and he'd really been foolish enough to think that it could last. Good to know that he really can't resist temptation when he's presented with it.
Nerves twist unpleasantly in his gut and he breathes deeply to steady himself before he says, "Do you have a moment? There is something I'd like to discuss."
Bull's first inclination is to avoid discussing anything. But he's already done enough to hurt Dorian, he doesn't need to add active cruelty on top of that.
There in the close quarters of the stairwell, Bull lets himself take in the mage's familiar features. His kohl is just slightly smudged beneath one eye and Bull can see the matching smudge on the side of an index finger. Dorian looks tired and Bull cannot help but wonder if that is to do with him or to do with whatever research Dorian has thrown himself into in the past few weeks. Maybe both. He wants to reach out and touch Dorian, wants to wipe away the smudge and kiss him. Bull does neither.
"I have a moment," he answers. "Where do you want to talk?"
His letter can wait until tomorrow, he decides quickly. "By my work table should do." The library has cleared out enough that his alcove will be private. A grim sense of finality weighs on him as he leads Bull there, coming to stand near the wall beside the window.
Even now as he looks up at Bull he wants nothing more than to sink into his arms and pretend that the last month has been just a symptom of him catastrophizing, or a fluke. That they can go back to how things were. But he needs to have this conversation for his own sake. He breathes in deeply and then speaks, as evenly and unemotionally as possible.
"I'll be plain. If your intention is to put an end to things between us, I'd prefer that you say as much outright." There it is. He feels vaguely ill, but manages to sound resolute. "I understand if you don't want to be harsh, but it is far worse for me to wonder."
There are other things he wonders, too. If this is his fault, if he'd caused this by expressing his feelings, when Bull had never felt the same way.
"If that is not your intention..." It's impossible not to falter a little here, as he admits to the weakness of hoping, somehow, that he's wrong. His chest aches, and he gives in to the urge to reach for the Bull's hand. Gingerly, Dorian brushes his fingers over scarred knuckles as he admits, "I miss you."
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Eventually his mind turns to Dorian. They parted ways upon entering the fortress but they would see each other again at the War Table before the end of the night: Cullen and Leliana like to be debriefed as soon as possible, and the Inquisitor has been away from some time. But that means they all need to show up, to give their own reports and voice whatever concerns they have.
He finds himself wondering if things will change now that they've returned. They've been existing in a comfortable but liminal space out on the road. By now rumors have likely made their way back to Skyhold via returning soldiers or scouts.
In fresh clothes and feeling more himself, Bull makes his way to the War Room meeting. The Inquisitor and Varric are already, talking to Cullen.
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They both have their own space here, after all, as well as their own duties. It would be ridiculous to continue spending so much time together, and it would imply more of an attachment than they actually have, surely. And if Dorian feels bitterly about this at all--it isn't really his place, is it, to have feelings like that? He has no claim on the Bull, who can do as he likes, especially in his own quarters. Far away from his.
Skyhold is both familiar and oddly foreign after so long away. Strange to think that the last night he'd spent here had been his first spent with the Bull. So much has changed for Dorian, even if it may not be evident.
What time remains before they convene in the War Room tonight is spent unpacking, bathing, and reacquainting himself with his materials in the library, making sure that nothing of note has been tampered with. When the appointed hour draws near, Dorian appears int he War Room looking and feeling refreshed, clean and freshly shaven and wearing a new set of robes, along with a scent he hasn't had with him on the road: a bright blend of lemon peel and iris blossom.
He is near the last to arrive. Josephine enters just after him, closing the great doors behind her. Dorian glances quickly around the room, finding all the usual suspects, but his gaze lingers on Bull, who has been on his mind all afternoon. He gives no indication of such now. His only acknowledgement is a professionally courteous nod before he takes a place near the huge, ornate table beside Lavellan. When the time comes he gives his own report, primarily about the movements and activity of the Venatori with whatever insight he can lend, but also about any magical anomalies they'd come across that may warrant further study. Not that Cullen, Leliana, or Josephine have much to say about that; Dorian will be sharing that information far more extensively with Solas, Vivienne, and Grand Enchanter Fiona's people.
As even the advisers recognize that the Inquisitor's party has had quite the journey and would likely appreciate some rest, the meeting does not last overly long, as some have in the past. Doing lingers a minute after it ends. He steels himself before he approaches the Bull; slow, casual steps around the table. He wonders how many in Skyhold have heard the rumors about the two of them already. Leliana certainly has, given the way her sharp gaze lights on them curiously for a moment before she turns to go, but that's to be expected. She would be a poor spymaster if she did not keep close tabs on the entanglements of the Inquisition's inner circle.
"You'll be heading to the Rest, I presume? To remind your company of what you look like before we're inevitably off again?" No indication of his feelings on the matter one way or the other.
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"The letters were already opened," he says dryly. "You know." Even if she couldn't translate them, she knew. Since he joined the Inquisition, he and Leliana have been circling each other like alley cats. Bull finds it invigorating; Leliana seems to find it frustrating. She's a good spy, but so is he. And he has a multilingual advantage that she and her agents just can't match.
Once the meeting closes, Bull lingers as the others filter out to find food, drink, rest, or more hot water. Soon enough, he and Dorian are the only ones left, with Dorian closing the distance between them. Lemon and iris. Something in Bull's expression softens as he watches the mage move.
"I thought about it," he admits, studying Dorian for his tells. Dorian has been protecting himself for a long time, but Bull has spent three months intimately getting to know him, and he'd spent months before that learning everything else. "Would you care to join me?"
It's a hand held out, a clear offer that Dorian can take or leave. It's not exactly uncommon for them all to drink together, it's a relatively safe invitation. Bull is already trying to think of ways to coax Dorian back to his room for the night. He's been spoiled having a companion in his bed so consistently, he isn't looking forward to losing that. He doesn't see why either of them has to give that comfort up.
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"Not tonight," he declines reluctantly with a small, strained smile. "A glass of brandy, a book, and my own bed are calling too loudly to ignore."
A quiet evening in doesn't sound bad; he can build up the fire in his room's hearth, burrow beneath his blankets, nurse some better booze than what he'd find at the Rest and read. That he'll then have to fall asleep alone for the first time in several months is...well, he'll have to get used to it sometime. He's slept alone for over thirty years. A few months spent sharing a bedroll shouldn't make such a difference, surely?
"I'm sure you've been missed," he encourages. "I'll see you at breakfast, provided you aren't too indisposed in the morning."
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He pushes the thought out of his head. Everything Dorian just described sounds like a solitary night, and Bull can't begrudge him the space. They've been sharing camps for three months, having a door between himself and the rest of the world probably sounds good right about now.
"You mean hung over?" he says dryly, a small smile appearing. "Krem and some of the boys are off on a mission for Cullen in the morning. I'll be up to see them off."
He's glad the Inquisition can make use of the Chargers and he's grateful for the steady pay his boys are getting now.
After just a breath of hesitation, Bull lifts a hand to brush the backs of his fingers along Dorian's cheek. "Sleep well, Dorian. You've certainly earned it."
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Wouldn't be seemly for people to think he was carrying on with the resident Qunari spy (though, to most of the Inquisition, Bull is just a Tal-Vashoth mercenary). More than that, Bull is certain that Dorian is trying to protect himself from other things. He can't blame the mage for that, either. Bull finds that he likes waking up with Dorian as much as the sex, and that feels dangerous.
Still, when Dorian starts slipping out after sex, before either of them have the chance to fall asleep, Bull feels--something. A loss, maybe. Or a confirmation: this is about sex, and that's all. They are friends outside of this room, but inside it's strictly business. That's fine. It makes sense to Bull, at least, even if he's not used to those roles overlapping.
At the moment, he's watching Dorian get dressed. It's a rare mid-afternoon romp, something that started with heavy glances across the library and ended with Dorian cursing him as they stumbled into the room. Bull finds himself wishing he had a reason to pull Dorian back into bed. Just for an hour or two.
"You could leave things here, you know," he offers absently. No one goes through his trunk, possibly because he has jars of vitaar on top of everything. A simple but effective visual booby trap. "If you're worried about people seeing you in the same clothes come morning.
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But he must take care of himself first.
There is some part of him that thinks he should simply take what he can get. A man who cares about him, who can share an intimate relationship with him and isn't ashamed of him is far more than he'd ever deemed realistic for himself, even if it isn't quite what he'd hoped. But of course, he knows himself. He knows that eventually even that won't be enough, and he'll start yearning for something that Bull cannot give him. Better, then, to not even pretend. It hurts now to leave Bull's room--his embrace--when he'd so enjoyed it in the months that they traveled together. But it will hurt more, he thinks, if he lets himself live a ruse until it crumbles around him.
It's clear that Bull, for all his perception and knowledge of the human mind, doesn't quite understand. If he did, he wouldn't try to convince Dorian to stay by making such offers. His body is pleasantly sore from sex, and Dorian would like nothing more, honestly, than to lay back down and pass the remainder of the afternoon in Bull's arms. To spend every night that way. But what he'd like and what he should do are quite different.
"I don't know how extensive you think my wardrobe is," he scoffs as he dresses, "but it's rather impractical for me to leave entire outfits elsewhere on the off chance I'll use them." He's being deliberately obtuse, but he doesn't want to address the real suggestion beneath Bull's prompting.
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He's teasing, mostly, but Josephine keeps making a point about how the Inquisition looks is as important as to how it acts. Bull knows both are true, which is why he's always wondered why the army is usually the first force a new people meet. The Beresaad is a rough first impression and not exactly indicative of Qunari society.
Bull watches Dorian pull on one layer, then another, which requires more attention to buckles and belts and is still not quite the final layer. He does not offer to help; he doesn't want Dorian to leave.
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Dorian buckles himself into the layers of leather that make up the second part of his outfit, using it largely as an excuse not to look at Bull where he still lounges, warm and welcoming and invitingly bare. Every time he looks, he wants to return to him. It always happens this way. As he leans over to pick up his discarded robe, he meets Bull's eye. He bunches the fabric in his hand as he rises, and against his better judgement, goes to sit on the edge of the bed. He shouldn't linger, he knows; that only makes leaving more difficult. But the affection he has for Bull has not abated even slightly, and tends to surface most at highly inopportune moments.
Robe in hand, he leans in first to kiss Bull's stubbled cheek, then his scarred brow. He may have chosen not to sleep beside him anymore, but he doesn't want Bull to think that he no longer cares. They've been through far too much together for that to be the case.
"Do you have nothing else to do this afternoon?" He wonders, half teasing and half genuine inquiry.
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Val Royeaux
Sleeping beside Bull in a tent again feels familiar and oddly comforting. Unfortunately, the last few days of the journey are by boat. Dorian had vowed never to cross the Waking Sea again, but as that is the fastest and simplest route to the city from Jader on the coast, he is overruled. He mostly survives the trip by laying on his bedroll below deck with a cloth over his face and a bucket close at hand.
Thankfully, he feels much better after spending a few hours on land, the sun overhead and solid ground under his feet. They check into their rooms at an inn in the market district in the early evening, and Dorian can't help a little embarrassment when Lavellan informs him that she'd procured just one room for the Bull and himself, as she anticipated that they would share anyway. She's probably right, of course, but it catches Dorian off guard so much that he actually flushes.
Still, the room is luxurious enough--by his current standards, at least--that he's soon able to forget his mortification. The bed is more than large enough to fit them both, for once, and covered in beautiful embroidered linens, soft and lightly fragranced with lavender. There is a big copper tub and washbasin behind a decorated screen, a large hearth, and even a small balcony that overlooks the street several floors below, teeming with merchants with colorful stalls during the day.
Once Dorian has freshened up, he leans against the railing out there, splitting his attention between the people wrapping up business for the day and the sun sinking behind the buildings on the horizon. Val Royeaux hardly holds a candle to Minrathous, of course, but it's nice to be in a proper city again.
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Once they're in Val Royeaux, Bull isn't surprised by the Inquisitor's assumption, but mildly concerned that Dorian will feel pinned by it. But Dorian doesn't insist on changing rooms, and Bull is pleased to see the bed looks big enough for both of them to be comfortable. He takes his time to inspect the room as Dorian freshens up, then takes his own time to do the same. When he feels more refreshed, Bull follow's Dorian's trail out to the balcony. He leans against the stone balustrade next to the mage, close enough that their arms touch.
"You're sure you don't mind sharing a room?" he asks quietly, gently. He knows how important appearances are to Dorian.
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"Everyone traveling with us is already well aware," he reasons aloud, though he still doesn't state exactly what they're meant to be aware of. "And Lavellan is quite right. We'd end up sharing anyway. This is more economical."
Let that be the verdict. He doesn't want to think on it any more. There will be teasing from their companions, of course, but no worse than what he's already heard, no doubt. After several months now, their status as bed partners is already becoming old news among their immediate friends. He's grateful for that much, even if it does mean realizing that a truly shocking amount of time has passed since that first night.
Rather than considering that further, he lets his full attention fall on Bull himself, and when he takes in the subtle changes that he's made to clean up, he practically beams.
"Look at this. You've made yourself halfway presentable." He reaches up to trace admiring fingers along the sharper lines of Bull's now neatly-trimmed beard. Hardly obvious to most, but very noticeable to Dorian. "Because Madame de Fer told you not to embarrass her in front of her tailor, no doubt. The appointment is tomorrow, yes?"
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"No," he says as he rolls his eye. Then, "Maybe."
Vivienne had been insistent about a few things and Bull finds it easier to go along with her demands than fight. None of them are particularly unreasonable, after all. Besides, Dorian apparently likes the results, and that makes it worth it.
"Yes. Are you coming along?"
He finds himself hoping that Dorian will be curious enough to join them. He's fond of Vivienne, but he finds himself turning toward Dorian. Bull can imagine himself looking and being disappointed not to see him.
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the return from Fallow Mire
Two or three weeks after the Inquisitor headed off to the Fallow Mire - with Dorian in tow - he submits to the flirtations of a new barmaid. The rumors make her bold and Bull allows himself weakness in this. It's just sex; what he has with Dorian is something else, entirely different and far, far more intimate.
Still, when it comes down to it, Bull finds himself... uninterested. He gives her what she wants - well, almost everything she wants - and sends her on her way. He doesn't seek fulfillment from her and he's sure that if she stays, the rumor mill will circulate that the Bull didn't - or couldn't - perform one night.
He doesn't really care. He's had so few repeat lovers that he is given to ignoring what one-night-stands might say about him. Most of his reviews are good, anyway.
A week or so after that, Bull gets word that the Inquisitor's party is through the pass. He hears the guards call their arrival as they cross the stone bridge into the keep. Bull doesn't run - he allows himself a shred of dignity - but the moment he sees Dorian, he sweeps the mage right off his feet and kisses him soundly.
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It also means that they're drawing close to Skyhold. Dorian tries to pretend that the excitement he feels is due to the anticipation of a warm bath and time spent in the library after too long away. But truly, he can't fool even himself; he misses the Bull, so much that it aches. He hasn't spent so much time apart from him since they began their...tryst? It certainly isn't that, after this long. But what else to call it? If there is anything to name still, of course. He's assuming that Bull hasn't moved on in some fashion in his absence. While he knows in his heart that likely isn't true, he's anxious all the same. He's never had anything like this for so long. He simply can't imagine everything going right.
But that anxiety is dispelled nearly as soon as he passes through the main gates. The moment he dismounts, he's lifted clear off the ground by huge, strong arms and pressed to a familiar broad chest as he's kissed with sheer joy, here in front of the entire courtyard. What can he do but return the embrace and the kiss both? Relieved beyond words, his arms wrap tight around the Bull's neck.
Even when the kiss breaks and Dorian scolds, "Not even a 'hello,' you brute? Fasta vass, put me down!" he holds on. His heart is full, touched by how much he's clearly been missed, and by Bull's complete lack of hesitation, even with the crowd around them. He isn't nearly so offended as he pretends, of course. His eyes are warm when they meet Bull's, and it's impossible not to smile.
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He kisses Dorian again, sweeter this time, like he's trying to charm all his cursing away. Bull can hear someone whistling and he also hears it suddenly cut off: he suspects Cullen or even the Inquisitor intervened.
"If I put you down, it'll be into bed or into a tub." His voice is low now, just for Dorian. "Take your pick."
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"Well, I don't think you want to fuck me fresh from the road," he says with amusement, just low enough to keep it between them. His thumb traces the line of Bull's cheekbone. Sweet Maker, he'd missed this face. "Or perhaps I shouldn't assume, given your tastes."
Bull's utter refusal to let go of him reignites feelings that Dorian has been attempting with great effort to smother over the last month. Apparently, they weren't buried very deep.
"I had intended to bathe," he continues, "and check on the library. Food, drink, and sleep would also be welcome, though apart from the bath, I'm not particularly attached to the order in which these things happen. So if you aren't going to allow me basic the basic dignity of letting me walk on my own, the least you can do is call for a tub and water."
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after halamshiral
Upon return to the fortress Dorian hadn't asked, and neither had Bull explicitly invited; they simply fell into a rhythm, and part of that was sharing a room. It's been very pleasant--he might even go so far as to say blissful.
Dorian has also taken to joining the Chargers for practice drills when he can get away from his work, finding it as enjoyable to watch as to participate. Being both an outsider and the Bull's lover has its perks; he can step in and spar whenever he wishes without being subjected to any of the training regimens he finds distasteful. As he prefers not to run laps or do push ups, he's currently lounging against the fence around the training yard, staff in hand, having quite a good time observing and occasionally making commentary.
It's in the midst of this that a messenger approaches with something for Bull, sent direct from Leliana.
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He's standing by while he watches some of his boys work, a faint smirk on his lips as he listens to Dorian's running commentary.
"Keep this up and your next dressing down is from the Vint," he warns Grim after Skinner lands a kick to his head.
Bull goes silent as one of Leliana's messengers appears and he accepts the letter the scout hands over. His expression becomes stony and he leaves abruptly, without a word to the Chargers or Dorian.
It's nearly two hours before the Bull appears again, looking no less grim than he had when he disappeared in the first place.
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He excuses himself soon enough, worry making him feel slightly nauseous. While it's nearly time for lunch--a meal he and Bull might have shared together in the great hall or the Rest--he can't even think of eating. He passes through the tavern on the way up to Bull's room, waves off a yell from Sera to come join her.
After leaning his staff in its not customary place beside the bed on the side that has become more or less his, Dorian spends the next couple hours attempting to read, though he winds up rereading the same sections several times, absorbing very little. He keeps thinking of the moment Bull's face fell, smoothing into an expression so utterly unreadable that it would have been less concerning if he'd actually looked upset. In the time they've known one another he's learned that there are precious few things that could necessitate Bull needing to pull that mask up. Whatever it is, it must be deeply serious.
Eventually Dorian gives up on the book entirely, setting it aside with a frustrated huff and standing up. When the door finally opens, he's been pacing in front of it for nearly twenty minutes.
"Ah! Here you are," he says lightly, though he can hear the nerves in his own voice. The look on Bull's face isn't heartening. Still, he perseveres. "I believe we've missed lunch, but I'm sure something could be sent up if I ask." He moves into Bull's personal space to put a hand on his arm, looking up at him with pinched brows and a mouth pursed with concern.
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But it is not enough to put his mind at ease.
"If you haven't eaten, yes."
He is not particularly hungry, though he knows he should eat when it's offered. It's an old habit, old wisdom: never know when his next meal might be, especially in a place like Skyhold where interruptions abound. His thumb strokes across Dorian's cheek before Bull drops his hand and gently pulls away from Dorian's hand. He's been turning this moment over in his mind. There is no hiding that something happened out there in the training yard, but how much should he share, and with whom? The Inquisitor knows, of course, and in short order Leliana, Cassandra, and Cullen are all likely to be informed. Why shouldn't Dorian know?
Bull sits down on the edge of the big bed and stretches his leg out. The question Dorian isn't asking is palpable.
"It was a letter from the Ben-Hassrath."
That alone isn't news: Bull gets letters from Ben-Hassrath agents all the time. Though there's something in the way he says it this time: the Ben-Hassrath.
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At first, just small things shift. Bull stops eating quiet meals tucked away with Dorian, instead keeping to his circle in the tavern. Dorian is never turned away, of course, but there are no invitations to disappear somewhere together. Bull's impromptu visits to the library whenever he goes up to see Leliana disappear eventually entirely.
In more subtle ways, Bull becomes less open. He no longer shares his concerns with Dorian anymore, does not read his letters in bed, does not offer his commentary on the goings-on within the Inquisition. He stops asking for the comfort Dorian so often gives him after long days and he does not accept it as readily as he had been. He is never rude or standoffish, but in many ways he is simply less there than he has been for so long.
It happens slowly over the course of weeks: Bull pulling away until one day Dorian reaches back for him and he simply isn't there. The Iron Bull disappears behind the veil of Hissrad as more correspondence comes in, as he spends more time planning with the Inquisitor, going over intelligence and coordinating exchanges.
Everywhere else, he is still the Bull. Still loud and rowdy in the tavern, still boisterous in the training yard, but outside of that, that man disappears entirely. Bull spends more time alone on the parapets, staring into the vastness of the Frostbacks.
He tries not to think about how much he misses Dorian. This is for the best. He should never have allowed himself to get so tangled up in the first place. A bit of fun is one thing, but the deep feeling he's developed for Dorian is dangerous. The Qun will be coming back into his life and he needs--
He needs to protect Dorian from that. From him.
Coming down from Leliana's tower one evening, he nearly runs into Dorian on the mage's way up.
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It hurts. Of course it does. At first he makes excuses; Bull is dealing with a lot right now, with an alliance with the Qun seemingly moving forward, though that information--and Bull's involvement in the matter--is known only to a select few. But naturally, he begins to question and worry and wonder: has Bull finally realized how foolish their relationship is? Is he trying to let him down easy? That possibility is on his mind constantly. He hates the idea of things ending with Bull. The thought makes him sick, makes his chest ache, makes him not want to let anyone else in ever again. But he hates the idea of them continuing out of pity more. He'd known from the start that this was a possibility. He'd just managed to convince himself somewhere along the way, against his better judgement, that he could handle it. But handling it and handling it well are quite different. It isn't even an exaggeration to say that it feels like his heart is slowly breaking, a piece at a time, day by day, as the adoration and comfort and warmth and trust he'd treasured and come to rely on turns distant and lukewarm.
He seeks Bull out sometimes, still hoping, but in the end it only hurts more. This last week he's slept in his own room exclusively, spending time otherwise in the library rather than the tavern, the courtyard, or the training grounds. He's researching late again tonight, past the hour where most of the library regulars have gone to dinner. He's been writing a letter, which he stashes in his robes when his path up the stairs to the rookery is suddenly blocked by the familiar and broad form of the Iron Bull.
"Oh," he says, surprise quickly dropping to resignation. "Hello, you." Dorian lingers for an awkward moment, just looking up at Bull's face as something constricts in his chest. Only a month ago he'd have grinned, happy for the coincidence, and reached for him. But now he knows that even if he did reach, Bull wouldn't be there. Not in the way he used to be. He loves this man, trusted that his feelings were returned to some degree, and he'd really been foolish enough to think that it could last. Good to know that he really can't resist temptation when he's presented with it.
Nerves twist unpleasantly in his gut and he breathes deeply to steady himself before he says, "Do you have a moment? There is something I'd like to discuss."
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There in the close quarters of the stairwell, Bull lets himself take in the mage's familiar features. His kohl is just slightly smudged beneath one eye and Bull can see the matching smudge on the side of an index finger. Dorian looks tired and Bull cannot help but wonder if that is to do with him or to do with whatever research Dorian has thrown himself into in the past few weeks. Maybe both. He wants to reach out and touch Dorian, wants to wipe away the smudge and kiss him. Bull does neither.
"I have a moment," he answers. "Where do you want to talk?"
He'll let Dorian have that control.
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Even now as he looks up at Bull he wants nothing more than to sink into his arms and pretend that the last month has been just a symptom of him catastrophizing, or a fluke. That they can go back to how things were. But he needs to have this conversation for his own sake. He breathes in deeply and then speaks, as evenly and unemotionally as possible.
"I'll be plain. If your intention is to put an end to things between us, I'd prefer that you say as much outright." There it is. He feels vaguely ill, but manages to sound resolute. "I understand if you don't want to be harsh, but it is far worse for me to wonder."
There are other things he wonders, too. If this is his fault, if he'd caused this by expressing his feelings, when Bull had never felt the same way.
"If that is not your intention..." It's impossible not to falter a little here, as he admits to the weakness of hoping, somehow, that he's wrong. His chest aches, and he gives in to the urge to reach for the Bull's hand. Gingerly, Dorian brushes his fingers over scarred knuckles as he admits, "I miss you."
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