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.
Dorian's eyes brighten and his lips turn up a tick as Bull corrects himself. Just as he'd thought. Maker help him, but that's endearing.
"She's asked me to, though I can't imagine why. Perhaps an acknowledgement of my superior taste at long last." Never, of course, but Dorian is still a bit tickled to be included. She must respect his opinion at least more than any of their other companions. When he considers the group, however, that comes as no surprise. "Which is to say--yes. I'll come along."
By nudging only a little further against the Bull's side, Dorian is able to lay his head lightly against his bicep, considering again the people below as he does. "Do you like it here?" He wonders. "Does it remind you of anything--of Qunandar?" Dorian thinks, a moment after he says it, that it sounds ridiculous. It must be. He chuckles and amends, "I suppose that would be terribly different. It's just that whenever I'm here, I can't help but think of Minrathous, even if the look and sound and smell is entirely wrong."
Bull smiles and brushes a light kiss to Dorian's temple when he confirms he'll come along. He looks down at the city and considers the question.
"Yes and no," he admits. "The architecture is different, the scents and sounds aren't quite the same. But the general bustle is familiar. There's less politicking in Qunadar," he says with a wry smile. "And now and then you see tamassrans with a gaggle of kids. Not many humans to speak of."
He's quiet for a moment, watching a small argument happen below. It looks like it's mostly for the drama than any real violence. "I don't think it's strange that it would make you think of Minrathous."
"It makes sense that Qunadar would be consist mostly of Qunari by birth," Dorian reasons. "Converts would be more useful abroad, and have little reason to travel there." He wishes, for one strange moment, that he could see it. Impossible, of course, but just for curiosity's sake. Just to know the place that the Bull had come from, the place he must be thinking of now.
The skin at his temple still tingles from the fleeting brush of Bull's lips. They often share such things privately now, and Dorian often reminds himself that it must be as new and strange for the Bull as it is for him. But it's wonderful, to be able to give and receive appreciation in that way. Yet Dorian still feels that he receives far more often than he gives. It's difficult for him to initiate. But he can reciprocate, at least. He reaches for Bull's hand and slots their fingers together. He likes how much larger Bull's hands are, how one can so easily engulf both of his. He likes how Bull's callouses feel against his skin, the slight curve of his claws if it's been a little time since he's filed them. He even likes the fingers that are half missing, the smooth scar tissue that covers the remainder.
"It's the atmosphere, I suppose. All these people living and working so close. It isn't at all like Minrathous otherwise." He watches the same altercation as Bull does. He understands a little Orlesian, but the shouted words that makes it up to them only form a part of the conversation. "We should go somewhere tonight," he suggests. "Find a place to drink. It might be fun to visit a different tavern for a change."
Bull can't help the little smile that tugs at his mouth. "You can only be Qunari by birth. Converts are always called Viddathari."
He's never seen or heard of an exception and he doubts he will.
"But you're right. Most of them just don't travel that far north or have any reason to. They mostly live on Seheorn and in colonies along the northern coast."
That being said, Bull has seen Viddathari on Par Vollen - usually there for some official reason, though some went there for advanced learning. Bull slides his fingers against Dorian's as they tangle together and he takes a moment to appreciate how it feels and how it looks when Dorian holds his hand.
"I know a few places you might like," he offers. "You want rough shod or somewhere with a little more class?"
"Viddathari," Dorian repeats. The word is familiar. "Right." He'll remember it in the future. Lately, learning and understanding what he can about Qunari culture has become increasingly important to him. Interesting, too.
The sun is sinking swiftly, already out of sight beyond the tallest buildings, but its last rays wash the city in pink and gold, with harsh shadows to contrast. Looking up at Bull's face lit with that warm light shifts something in Dorian's chest as they stand together hand in hand.
"Oh, rough, if you please," he says, plaintively enough to be suggestive. "What Orlesians consider class is all obnoxious frippery. Take me somewhere that you like."
Bull considers for a moment, sorting through his memories of the city. He huffs a quiet laugh. "I think I know a place. You want to go now?"
As he asks, he pushes himself up from the balustrade and stands straight. They're both freshened up, but there's a solid chance Dorian might want to change again before they go out anywhere, regardless of how rough the establishment might be.
"All right. For better or worse, I'll trust your judgment." He squeezes Bull's fingers once more before releasing his hand and stepping away. The waning sunlight comes through the open balcony doors, bathing their room in that same soft golden glow.
"Should I wear something else?" He wonders. "You know more about this establishment than I do. Though..." He pauses to let his gaze trail pointedly over Bull, and he can't quite contain a bemused smile. "If they'll let you in wearing nothing but those horrid trousers, I shouldn't have cause for concern."
Bull gives Dorian an amused look when the mage digs at his preferred style - Dorian is not entirely off the mark, especially in Val Royeaux. But he can't hold back a retaliation:
"No one's stopped me at the door yet."
He squeezes Dorian's shoulder as he passes and makes sure that he has everything he wants before they leave. Bull takes them down a few smaller streets, winding them down toward the lakefront. The tavern is lively when they approach; outside, two well-dressed woman in masks stand intimately close as they exchange gossip. One of them is wearing the latest in men's fashion - and doing it quite well, if anyone is asking Bull.
"I'll have to keep an eye on you," he rumbles quietly. "I suspect you'll be popular."
And that's the only warning get as Bull steers them inside.
That is a highly suspicious statement. Dorian is about to ask what in the world Bull means by that when he steps inside, and very quickly understands. The tavern is lit low, warm candle light and shadowy corners, but is raucous and crowded. Visually, there isn't much that sets it apart from other taverns Dorian has visited; chandeliers hang overhead--a rustic style, but still very Orlesian--and sturdy wooden tables with chairs to match are situated throughout the wide room. The bar runs half the length of the lefthand wall, and people crowd around it waiting for their drinks. The remarkable thing about this establishment is the people. The women outside were a precursor to many similar interactions inside. Two men flirt openly by the bar, leaning close to one another and smiling. One elven woman has her arm around another, sharing a chair as they play cards. They exchange a kiss, brief and casual. Dorian has seen such things other places in the south, where they aren't condemned as they are back home. But every couple here--or group, or even those hoping to find someone to spend the night with--follows a similar pattern. It's the exclusivity of it that is shocking. Dorian had never known that a place like this could simply exist out in the open.
"You say that," he says to Bull, as quietly as the volume in the room will allow, "as though you aren't popular here yourself."
Indeed, the Bull's presence is impossible not to note, and there are eyes on them already. Dorian moves further into the room, a bit unsure of how he feels about that. "I'll follow," he says, gesturing toward the bar. He isn't about to elbow his way into the throng of people amassed there, but the Bull can wade through them easily.
"I'm only popular for one reason," he quips as he heads toward the bar.
People part before him rather than risk getting knocked over by even a gentle nudge. Dorian has an open swath behind him to follow. Bull is also very good at nudging in at the bar. He notices immediately the eyes that are following Dorian's every move. Of course they are. He's foreign, he's Tevinter. Mystery and danger, all wrapped into one. Bull doubts it will be very long before someone is bold enough to approach the mage, even if Dorian did arrive with him.
"Found this place years ago. Noble I was uh... seeing... mentioned it."
Bull learns a lot of useful things from pillow talk.
"Implying that I may be popular for more than one reason? You charmer," Dorian teases. He keeps close to Bull, one hand laying flat against the expanse of his back. He can feel the shift of the thick muscle there with every step and twist of his torso, and has to disagree with Bull's assessment. There are a whole host of reasons why the Iron Bull might be popular at an establishment like this one.
When they reach the bar, Dorian slips beneath Bull's arm to stand with him rather than behind him, well within Bull's personal space so as not to be jostled by the other patrons. When the bartender stops for their order, Dorian lets Bull handle it; he knows what he likes. His attention's been caught by the way a young man a ways down the bar boldly meets his gaze, smiling when he sees Dorian's noticed him.
"How generous of him to refer you," Dorian replies, a little distracted. "You've never left here alone once, have you?"
The young man is clean-shaven, but has a sturdy build. A nice smile, too. He probably works a physical trade of some sort. That's a type Dorian's certainly found himself favoring in the past. Leaning forward a little more, he raises his brows in an exaggerated fashion and moves his eyes slowly to Bull, asking a question that Dorian easily interprets. In answer, Dorian lays a hand surreptitiously on Bull's arm. He certainly isn't planning on going home with anyone else. A silent understanding passes between them, and the young man smiles resignedly and waves a hand--sorry--before turning to talk to someone behind him. Dorian relaxes and lets himself lean back a little against Bull, more than solid enough to support him.
If Bull catches the exchange between Dorian and the man down the bar, he doesn't make any indication of it. But he does keep his arm comfortably around the mage once he decides he wants to be under it.
"I have," he counters. "A few times."
Though, in his defense, each time Bull hadn't really been interested in taking anyone back. It'd been fun to flirt and his let downs had been gentle. Their drinks are delivered and Bull looks down at Dorian.
"You could talk to him, if you like."
The thought makes something a little hot and uncomfortable twist in Bull's chest, but he ignores it. Qunari should not get jealous.
Dorian's immediate reaction to Bull's encouragement is a strong one, though he manages to contain it to a furrow of his brow and a slight downward twitch of his mouth. It's good that he doesn't merely blurt the first thing that comes to mind. I don't. I'd like to talk to you, would be an embarrassing thing to admit outright.
"Maker, no. Far too young," he scoffs dismissively. It's an excuse, of course, and a weak one at that. He'd certainly been near enough to Dorian's age. But at the moment, he is interested only in the arm around him currently. In the interest of putting the topic behind them as quickly as possible, Dorian picks up his drink and takes a long gulp. Bitter, dark ale. Objectively terrible, and incredibly cheap. Just what he likes.
"Why?" He asks, making the question an idle one, almost bored. "Looking to foist me off on some other man? Has someone caught your eye?"
Bull's gaze softens and he leans down to kiss Dorian's temple. "Hm." He tightens his arm around Dorian's shoulders. "No, I'm not interested in foisting you off anywhere."
And he realizes, very deeply, that he isn't. Bull doesn't want Dorian to move from his side for the rest of the night. Dorian is warm against his side and Bull is very aware of all the eyes drifting their way.
"Do you want to stay here or find somewhere to sit and people watch?"
That kiss, small as it is, carries a weight that Dorian doesn't think even the Bull is fully aware of. He's never had anyone do that to him before; not even such a minor gesture of affection where an entire tavern full of people could see. But of course, there is no one to judge them here, not when so many others are being far more overt. His fingers tighten on Bull's arm for a moment as he takes a shaky breath, then releases it with a small, warm smile. It's a relief to hear that Bull has no interest in leaving him tonight, either.
"The latter. I'd prefer not to stand all evening. Though first--" Dorian extends a hand to ge the bartender's attention again, and orders two fingers of brandy for them both. The bartender, a dwarven woman with impressive braids, obliges him and produces two empty glasses, pouring generously right away. Dorian thanks her and pays from his own pocket, then takes one glass for himself and hands the other to Bull. "What shall we drink to?" he asks gamely. His eyes are lively, his smile bright. "Present company?"
Dorian's eyes are bright and beautiful and Bull isn't sure how much he should let that thought linger.
"To present company," he agrees as he touches his glass to Dorian's. Bull takes a drink before he gestures Dorian back through the crowd. He can see an empty space against the wall with a table.
Regardless of where he is, Bull always has his back to a wall, even when he's relaxing. Ideally, against a wall with a view of an entry/exit. It isn't too hard to maneuver back through the crowd.
Bull settles with a quiet sigh and immediately stretches his left leg out beneath the table.
With their toast decided, Dorian clinks his glass to Bull's and then downs half of it at once. Thankfully, he has two hands with which to carry his drink and his beer to the table that Bull has selected. He follows close at the Bull's back once again. People flow naturally to either side of him like so much water as Bull moves forward, and Dorian is glad to be in his wake.
They're lucky that one of the remaining tables is an advantageous one. Knowing the Bull as well as he does, Dorian is well aware that he likely wouldn't have settled at one that didn't have a wall behind it, let alone a clear vantage point of the rest of the room. Dorian, for one, appreciates his caution. Tevinter has taught him that much.
Dorian sits to the Bull's left, as he has lately become accustomed to doing. Another precaution, perhaps, but he is glad to watch Bull's blind spot, especially if it puts him more at ease. Easier that way, too, to lay a hand against his thigh beneath his table and channel magical warmth down to his knee. Dorian sits closer than he normally might, the bench with the wall behind them providing the opportunity to lean in, enough that Bull might put an arm around him if he so chose. But Dorian certainly isn't going to make that suggestion aloud. Instead, he quickly drinks the remainder of his brandy and sets the glass aside.
"The noble you were bedding who told you about this place--how did you meet? Was he one of your contractors?" Dorian wonders, leaning in to be heard above the cacophony of other voices and the strumming of the bard.
Bull finds himself comfortable with Dorian at his left. There are few that he lets sit there; most often it's Krem, sometimes the boss or Vivienne. Dorian, though, has earned a frequent place there.
His arm slides around Dorian to keep him close, content to feel him against his side. It feels natural to hold him now.
"Hm? No, we met at some soiree thrown by one of my contractors. They were so pleased with our work, they said they'd throw a party to introduce me around. Krem and Rocky came, too."
Ah, there it is. Bull's arm circles around him, and while Dorian knows that it's subtle, he can't help feeling like even this simple gesture is a declaration. A mixture of nerves and excitement make his stomach flutter, though all evidence shows that this is possibly the least provocative thing happening in the tavern this evening. He notes a few eyes on them still, but can at least rationalize this as being curiosity about a Tevinter and a Qunari being so familiar--or being here in this corner of Val Royeaux at all, really. A look of interest is very different from one of hostility, and Dorian has learned to detect both over the years.
Thankfully, the Bull's story provides just the distraction he needs to stop thinking about what others might assume. It shouldn't matter. He wanted to go out and enjoy the evening together, and that is precisely what he intends to do.
"Cremisius I can understand inviting. I'm sure he cleans up well. But Rocky?" He does, in fact, feel as aghast as he sounds. "Did your contractors need some light demolition done at their party?"
"Eh, figured he'd be a distraction," Bull admits. "He's good at getting and keeping attention."
Which was helpful if a spy wanted to be able to mingle with fewer eyes on him. And Bull had done exactly that, quietly collecting information and gossip and a handful of potential new patrons.
"But I met the noble there and he told me to call the next time I happened to be in Val Royeaux, so I did. We ended up here after dinner for some diversion." Bull rolls his eye. It'd been a brief affair, as most of them were, but Bull got what he wanted out of it and he's fairly certain the marquis did, too.
"Some diversion," Dorian echoes, stressing the word just as Bull had, though perhaps with a bit of an extra scoff. He's well aware that Bull has had many past lovers--as he has himself, if they could be called that. Still, something unpleasantly sharp and acidic gnaws at the pit of his stomach when he gives it too much thought. "How long ago was this? I'm surprised that no one here remembers you. You do tend to stand out."
It's easy enough to quell that part of him with the simple fact that Bull is here with him tonight, an arm around him and not sparing so much as a glance at anyone else. No reason for ill feelings about trysts of the past.
Dorian sips at his ale and says idly, with only a hint of venom, "Well, at least he bothered with dinner first."
He notes, as he looks down at his hand around his cup, that he'll need to paint his nails before the tailoring appointment he's agreed to attend with Bull. If Bull had shaved for it, the least Dorian can do is look his best as well.
"Did you need information from him?" He's actually a little surprised to find himself asking outright. His eyes remain averted, so as not to seem overly interested in the answer. "Or was he really so beguiling?"
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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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"She's asked me to, though I can't imagine why. Perhaps an acknowledgement of my superior taste at long last." Never, of course, but Dorian is still a bit tickled to be included. She must respect his opinion at least more than any of their other companions. When he considers the group, however, that comes as no surprise. "Which is to say--yes. I'll come along."
By nudging only a little further against the Bull's side, Dorian is able to lay his head lightly against his bicep, considering again the people below as he does. "Do you like it here?" He wonders. "Does it remind you of anything--of Qunandar?" Dorian thinks, a moment after he says it, that it sounds ridiculous. It must be. He chuckles and amends, "I suppose that would be terribly different. It's just that whenever I'm here, I can't help but think of Minrathous, even if the look and sound and smell is entirely wrong."
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"Yes and no," he admits. "The architecture is different, the scents and sounds aren't quite the same. But the general bustle is familiar. There's less politicking in Qunadar," he says with a wry smile. "And now and then you see tamassrans with a gaggle of kids. Not many humans to speak of."
He's quiet for a moment, watching a small argument happen below. It looks like it's mostly for the drama than any real violence. "I don't think it's strange that it would make you think of Minrathous."
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The skin at his temple still tingles from the fleeting brush of Bull's lips. They often share such things privately now, and Dorian often reminds himself that it must be as new and strange for the Bull as it is for him. But it's wonderful, to be able to give and receive appreciation in that way. Yet Dorian still feels that he receives far more often than he gives. It's difficult for him to initiate. But he can reciprocate, at least. He reaches for Bull's hand and slots their fingers together. He likes how much larger Bull's hands are, how one can so easily engulf both of his. He likes how Bull's callouses feel against his skin, the slight curve of his claws if it's been a little time since he's filed them. He even likes the fingers that are half missing, the smooth scar tissue that covers the remainder.
"It's the atmosphere, I suppose. All these people living and working so close. It isn't at all like Minrathous otherwise." He watches the same altercation as Bull does. He understands a little Orlesian, but the shouted words that makes it up to them only form a part of the conversation. "We should go somewhere tonight," he suggests. "Find a place to drink. It might be fun to visit a different tavern for a change."
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He's never seen or heard of an exception and he doubts he will.
"But you're right. Most of them just don't travel that far north or have any reason to. They mostly live on Seheorn and in colonies along the northern coast."
That being said, Bull has seen Viddathari on Par Vollen - usually there for some official reason, though some went there for advanced learning. Bull slides his fingers against Dorian's as they tangle together and he takes a moment to appreciate how it feels and how it looks when Dorian holds his hand.
"I know a few places you might like," he offers. "You want rough shod or somewhere with a little more class?"
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The sun is sinking swiftly, already out of sight beyond the tallest buildings, but its last rays wash the city in pink and gold, with harsh shadows to contrast. Looking up at Bull's face lit with that warm light shifts something in Dorian's chest as they stand together hand in hand.
"Oh, rough, if you please," he says, plaintively enough to be suggestive. "What Orlesians consider class is all obnoxious frippery. Take me somewhere that you like."
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As he asks, he pushes himself up from the balustrade and stands straight. They're both freshened up, but there's a solid chance Dorian might want to change again before they go out anywhere, regardless of how rough the establishment might be.
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"Should I wear something else?" He wonders. "You know more about this establishment than I do. Though..." He pauses to let his gaze trail pointedly over Bull, and he can't quite contain a bemused smile. "If they'll let you in wearing nothing but those horrid trousers, I shouldn't have cause for concern."
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"No one's stopped me at the door yet."
He squeezes Dorian's shoulder as he passes and makes sure that he has everything he wants before they leave. Bull takes them down a few smaller streets, winding them down toward the lakefront. The tavern is lively when they approach; outside, two well-dressed woman in masks stand intimately close as they exchange gossip. One of them is wearing the latest in men's fashion - and doing it quite well, if anyone is asking Bull.
"I'll have to keep an eye on you," he rumbles quietly. "I suspect you'll be popular."
And that's the only warning get as Bull steers them inside.
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"You say that," he says to Bull, as quietly as the volume in the room will allow, "as though you aren't popular here yourself."
Indeed, the Bull's presence is impossible not to note, and there are eyes on them already. Dorian moves further into the room, a bit unsure of how he feels about that. "I'll follow," he says, gesturing toward the bar. He isn't about to elbow his way into the throng of people amassed there, but the Bull can wade through them easily.
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People part before him rather than risk getting knocked over by even a gentle nudge. Dorian has an open swath behind him to follow. Bull is also very good at nudging in at the bar. He notices immediately the eyes that are following Dorian's every move. Of course they are. He's foreign, he's Tevinter. Mystery and danger, all wrapped into one. Bull doubts it will be very long before someone is bold enough to approach the mage, even if Dorian did arrive with him.
"Found this place years ago. Noble I was uh... seeing... mentioned it."
Bull learns a lot of useful things from pillow talk.
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When they reach the bar, Dorian slips beneath Bull's arm to stand with him rather than behind him, well within Bull's personal space so as not to be jostled by the other patrons. When the bartender stops for their order, Dorian lets Bull handle it; he knows what he likes. His attention's been caught by the way a young man a ways down the bar boldly meets his gaze, smiling when he sees Dorian's noticed him.
"How generous of him to refer you," Dorian replies, a little distracted. "You've never left here alone once, have you?"
The young man is clean-shaven, but has a sturdy build. A nice smile, too. He probably works a physical trade of some sort. That's a type Dorian's certainly found himself favoring in the past. Leaning forward a little more, he raises his brows in an exaggerated fashion and moves his eyes slowly to Bull, asking a question that Dorian easily interprets. In answer, Dorian lays a hand surreptitiously on Bull's arm. He certainly isn't planning on going home with anyone else. A silent understanding passes between them, and the young man smiles resignedly and waves a hand--sorry--before turning to talk to someone behind him. Dorian relaxes and lets himself lean back a little against Bull, more than solid enough to support him.
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"I have," he counters. "A few times."
Though, in his defense, each time Bull hadn't really been interested in taking anyone back. It'd been fun to flirt and his let downs had been gentle. Their drinks are delivered and Bull looks down at Dorian.
"You could talk to him, if you like."
The thought makes something a little hot and uncomfortable twist in Bull's chest, but he ignores it. Qunari should not get jealous.
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"Maker, no. Far too young," he scoffs dismissively. It's an excuse, of course, and a weak one at that. He'd certainly been near enough to Dorian's age. But at the moment, he is interested only in the arm around him currently. In the interest of putting the topic behind them as quickly as possible, Dorian picks up his drink and takes a long gulp. Bitter, dark ale. Objectively terrible, and incredibly cheap. Just what he likes.
"Why?" He asks, making the question an idle one, almost bored. "Looking to foist me off on some other man? Has someone caught your eye?"
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And he realizes, very deeply, that he isn't. Bull doesn't want Dorian to move from his side for the rest of the night. Dorian is warm against his side and Bull is very aware of all the eyes drifting their way.
"Do you want to stay here or find somewhere to sit and people watch?"
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"The latter. I'd prefer not to stand all evening. Though first--" Dorian extends a hand to ge the bartender's attention again, and orders two fingers of brandy for them both. The bartender, a dwarven woman with impressive braids, obliges him and produces two empty glasses, pouring generously right away. Dorian thanks her and pays from his own pocket, then takes one glass for himself and hands the other to Bull. "What shall we drink to?" he asks gamely. His eyes are lively, his smile bright. "Present company?"
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"To present company," he agrees as he touches his glass to Dorian's. Bull takes a drink before he gestures Dorian back through the crowd. He can see an empty space against the wall with a table.
Regardless of where he is, Bull always has his back to a wall, even when he's relaxing. Ideally, against a wall with a view of an entry/exit. It isn't too hard to maneuver back through the crowd.
Bull settles with a quiet sigh and immediately stretches his left leg out beneath the table.
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They're lucky that one of the remaining tables is an advantageous one. Knowing the Bull as well as he does, Dorian is well aware that he likely wouldn't have settled at one that didn't have a wall behind it, let alone a clear vantage point of the rest of the room. Dorian, for one, appreciates his caution. Tevinter has taught him that much.
Dorian sits to the Bull's left, as he has lately become accustomed to doing. Another precaution, perhaps, but he is glad to watch Bull's blind spot, especially if it puts him more at ease. Easier that way, too, to lay a hand against his thigh beneath his table and channel magical warmth down to his knee. Dorian sits closer than he normally might, the bench with the wall behind them providing the opportunity to lean in, enough that Bull might put an arm around him if he so chose. But Dorian certainly isn't going to make that suggestion aloud. Instead, he quickly drinks the remainder of his brandy and sets the glass aside.
"The noble you were bedding who told you about this place--how did you meet? Was he one of your contractors?" Dorian wonders, leaning in to be heard above the cacophony of other voices and the strumming of the bard.
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His arm slides around Dorian to keep him close, content to feel him against his side. It feels natural to hold him now.
"Hm? No, we met at some soiree thrown by one of my contractors. They were so pleased with our work, they said they'd throw a party to introduce me around. Krem and Rocky came, too."
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Thankfully, the Bull's story provides just the distraction he needs to stop thinking about what others might assume. It shouldn't matter. He wanted to go out and enjoy the evening together, and that is precisely what he intends to do.
"Cremisius I can understand inviting. I'm sure he cleans up well. But Rocky?" He does, in fact, feel as aghast as he sounds. "Did your contractors need some light demolition done at their party?"
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Which was helpful if a spy wanted to be able to mingle with fewer eyes on him. And Bull had done exactly that, quietly collecting information and gossip and a handful of potential new patrons.
"But I met the noble there and he told me to call the next time I happened to be in Val Royeaux, so I did. We ended up here after dinner for some diversion." Bull rolls his eye. It'd been a brief affair, as most of them were, but Bull got what he wanted out of it and he's fairly certain the marquis did, too.
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It's easy enough to quell that part of him with the simple fact that Bull is here with him tonight, an arm around him and not sparing so much as a glance at anyone else. No reason for ill feelings about trysts of the past.
Dorian sips at his ale and says idly, with only a hint of venom, "Well, at least he bothered with dinner first."
He notes, as he looks down at his hand around his cup, that he'll need to paint his nails before the tailoring appointment he's agreed to attend with Bull. If Bull had shaved for it, the least Dorian can do is look his best as well.
"Did you need information from him?" He's actually a little surprised to find himself asking outright. His eyes remain averted, so as not to seem overly interested in the answer. "Or was he really so beguiling?"
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