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."
Bull follows Dorian to his alcove but doesn't quite step inside it, thinking that he shouldn't just invade Dorian's space even if he's been invited there.
He finds himself grateful for Dorian's blunt statement of things, the clarity of his request, though it is clear to Bull that it costs Dorian something to put it out there. Part of him is ashamed of himself: he is better than this, he has always been straightforward regarding his expectations with his partners. Dorian deserves no less.
But none of his other relationships have been nearly so complicated as his with Dorian.
Bull looks down, watching Dorian's fingers brush over his knuckles. He wants nothing more than to catch the mage's hand, to bring it to his lips and apologize for his stupidity and stubbornness. But he can't go back now. Not after going this far. Even if Dorian would take him.
"The Qun is coming, Dorian," he says quietly. Maybe he can give the mage an explanation, even if he feels he can give him nothing else safely. "And the Qun is my life."
And there is no room for Dorian in that life. There can't be. Because the Qun must come before everything, and if they stayed as they were... it would be difficult for Bull to remember that.
That's plain enough for him. "Of course," Dorian agrees, and gently withdraws his hand. He curls his fingers loosely into his palm to disguise their nervous quivering as his heart hammers somewhere near his throat and his stomach roils with anxious nausea. Outwardly at least he is mostly placid, thank the Maker. "No distractions. Understood."
The Qun is Bull's life. He knows that. He's always known that. And that is the worst part of all of this. He's been aware all along that this was a terrible idea, had warned himself against becoming too emotionally involved at every step and junction, and yet he did it anyway. It's been nothing but wishful thinking all along, and he has only himself to blame for the hurt he feels now. Bull is only acting according to his nature, one he had never tried to obfuscate. Dorian can't blame him for that.
"Well," he says, false levity as he forces a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Bitterness draws the corners of his mouth too tight. "It was fun while it lasted, wasn't it?" Reducing everything they'd shared to that seems so cheap, but what else can he do? He has to stop giving it so much emotional weight if he's ever going to put this behind him.
There is still a part of him that urges him to fight harder for this, that tells him that he is giving up on the best thing that's ever happened to him. And that much is true, but how can he possibly compare to the Qun in Bull's life? It's become clear that Bull has had to pick one or the other, and he has chosen. It's deeply, viscerally painful, but it's no surprise.
Bull feels something in his chest shift when he says it. He's letting go of something he didn't realize he'd been holding so tightly. Dorian has gotten past most of his armor and Bull doesn't remember when exactly it happened. Little moments here and there of vulnerability and affection, and now he has to close himself off again.
But he does have to. There simply isn't an alternative. It would be dangerous for him, dangerous for Dorian, if they were to continue this. Bull knows who and what he is, knows what purpose he may be asked to serve. Knows that to put anything before the Qun is to unravel what he has believed his entire life. And he doesn't know that he has the strength or the bravery to do that. His whole life only makes sense under the Qun.
He knows that Dorian is in pain. The tight draw of his mouth, the false levity, the superficial smile. The way he seems ready to sweep their entire history under the rug. But Bull doesn't know what he can do to lessen the hurt. Give Dorian space, time.
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no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
He finds himself grateful for Dorian's blunt statement of things, the clarity of his request, though it is clear to Bull that it costs Dorian something to put it out there. Part of him is ashamed of himself: he is better than this, he has always been straightforward regarding his expectations with his partners. Dorian deserves no less.
But none of his other relationships have been nearly so complicated as his with Dorian.
Bull looks down, watching Dorian's fingers brush over his knuckles. He wants nothing more than to catch the mage's hand, to bring it to his lips and apologize for his stupidity and stubbornness. But he can't go back now. Not after going this far. Even if Dorian would take him.
"The Qun is coming, Dorian," he says quietly. Maybe he can give the mage an explanation, even if he feels he can give him nothing else safely. "And the Qun is my life."
And there is no room for Dorian in that life. There can't be. Because the Qun must come before everything, and if they stayed as they were... it would be difficult for Bull to remember that.
no subject
The Qun is Bull's life. He knows that. He's always known that. And that is the worst part of all of this. He's been aware all along that this was a terrible idea, had warned himself against becoming too emotionally involved at every step and junction, and yet he did it anyway. It's been nothing but wishful thinking all along, and he has only himself to blame for the hurt he feels now. Bull is only acting according to his nature, one he had never tried to obfuscate. Dorian can't blame him for that.
"Well," he says, false levity as he forces a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Bitterness draws the corners of his mouth too tight. "It was fun while it lasted, wasn't it?" Reducing everything they'd shared to that seems so cheap, but what else can he do? He has to stop giving it so much emotional weight if he's ever going to put this behind him.
There is still a part of him that urges him to fight harder for this, that tells him that he is giving up on the best thing that's ever happened to him. And that much is true, but how can he possibly compare to the Qun in Bull's life? It's become clear that Bull has had to pick one or the other, and he has chosen. It's deeply, viscerally painful, but it's no surprise.
no subject
Bull feels something in his chest shift when he says it. He's letting go of something he didn't realize he'd been holding so tightly. Dorian has gotten past most of his armor and Bull doesn't remember when exactly it happened. Little moments here and there of vulnerability and affection, and now he has to close himself off again.
But he does have to. There simply isn't an alternative. It would be dangerous for him, dangerous for Dorian, if they were to continue this. Bull knows who and what he is, knows what purpose he may be asked to serve. Knows that to put anything before the Qun is to unravel what he has believed his entire life. And he doesn't know that he has the strength or the bravery to do that. His whole life only makes sense under the Qun.
He knows that Dorian is in pain. The tight draw of his mouth, the false levity, the superficial smile. The way he seems ready to sweep their entire history under the rug. But Bull doesn't know what he can do to lessen the hurt. Give Dorian space, time.
"Good night, Dorian."