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
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."