Chapter Text
The first time Dorian coughs up petals, he is alone in the library. They delicately spread in his hand, tiny wisps of blue and he stares at them wide-eyed, the clench in his chest still present, and thinks I’ve always fallen in love too easily.
He burns them there, in his palm.
His chest unclenches slowly and he calms his wildly beating heart —treacherous thing that would kill him— and then returns to perusing the musty tome he had been looking at. No matter how much he would love to drink, to forget, to lock himself away even if it is just for a day, Dorian knows that news travels fast in Skyhold; it wouldn’t do for anyone else to know this, so delicate, so intimate, so deadly.
His chest filling with flowers, little branches and leaves, growing slowly within him, he who is so attuned to death, cannot make them wilt, will himself be consumed and yet—
“Deep in thought?” Ellana’s voice makes him raise his eyes, and she moves so quietly, he will have to be careful, burn any evidence away so quickly so she cannot surprise him.
“Well, some of us have very difficult jobs” Dorian throws her a charming smile and relaxes minutely when she smiles back, no suspicion.
“Could I persuade you to leave the difficult job and join us at the Rest?” Her hand on his shoulder is warm. “Bull will be there too”
And for her sly tone, Dorian knows her eyes are soft. And yet, indeed.
“Far be it from me to deprive you of my company” he gets up, curls his moustache around his fingers and watches as the Inquisitor’s smile grows fond.
Bull always kisses as if he means it, as if there is so much yet to give— slow, fast, tender, sweet, hard, tempting— they are always filled with something, a secret Dorian wants to unwrap with his own mouth. They have kissed for minutes and hours, and it has never changed. Right now, Bull kisses him gently as they are lying on the bed, the sunrise painting the whole room in hues of golden and pink, Dorian feels the secret so acutely, in Bull’s mouth, a taste of the future, a taste of unknown.
“I know it is early, but we are departing for the Hinterlands soon” says Bull, anticipating the complaints from the mage, and Dorian obediently grumbles. He does not want to get up, wants to pull Bull back into the kiss.
And maybe he can indulge in this, even for a little bit, he surely deserves some comfort, so he does exactly that, feels Bull’s laughter as a rumble against his chest. It is warm, and so good against the rebellious garden inside him. If he closes his eyes and focuses on the way his body feels, how Bull touches his arched back, how the crisp morning air is coming through the ridiculous hole in the ceiling, then there is no reason to think of blue flowers, their delicate petals, leaves like strings. If he could only kiss Bull forever—
“Why the Inquisitor insists on sending us to inane Hinterlands missions I will never understand” the tevinter states, later, when they are much more awake and dressed.
Bull laughs, touches his bare skin, there on the patches that his armour leaves exposed, a point of warmth against the chilling autumn air.
“I know you don’t mean that, big guy” and Dorian leans against his touch ever so slightly, rises one eyebrow.
“I can see why they made you a spy”, despite the sarcasm, his heart stutters as Bull winks at him with his one eye good-humouredly.
Foolish, foolish heart.
Dorian thinks of vines and leaves, of small blue flowers unfurling in front of his eyes like wings of an insect, scintillating, but no demons come to haunt him. The mage wonders if that is because he already carries his great temptation within himself, both terrified and marvelled by the tiny petals that escape from his lips, those he burns mid-air and watches as the ashes are swept away by the wind.
It is easier than it should, to keep this a secret. Swallowing coughs until his eyes sting, eventually acknowledging a slight cold or once, memorably, choking between Bull’s legs and prettily smiling up, twisting words into innuendos, kissing away the pain in his own throat. It will come a time where this is not enough, but he cannot simply let it go now— these crumbs are probably delaying the growth of the flowers within him, slowing down the rate he walks to death.
Cole knows, of course, but Dorian tells him over and over again please don’t say anything please don’t try to soothe it and his pleading is successful, even if the spirit turns wide-eyed and murmurs about helping. But there is no help that can be given, love cannot be forced (Dorian knows that so intimately, in scars he carries in his body and mind) and the mage just shakes his head please, Cole, watches as the spirit gently puts his hand over Dorian’s chest.
“You don’t want it gone.”
The tevinter smiles. From his window, the voices of the Chargers can be heard, Bull’s the loudest of all, as they train in the courtyard.
It is only when his body is racked by coughs on his way out of the library, he is not fast enough, and looks up to see Solas, shock across his usually haughty expression— all leaves and petals and green turns to ash, but he is not fast enough—
“Forget you’ve ever seen this” he warns, stalks out of the library with his heart pounding in his ears.
The elf comes to him much later, when he has managed to fall into a fitful sleep, hidden away in his own room, away from the Herald’s Rest and caring, but prying eyes.
The Fade changes around him, and he is standing far atop the mountains, watching Skyhold from a distance — there is snow everywhere, but Dorian feels no cold. Solas is standing right next to him, hands clasped behind his back, looking down at the fortress below.
“I thought you would appreciate some privacy when discussing it” the elf states.
“We are not discussing this” Dorian knows his voice is rising, and makes a deliberate effort to lower it. “Just leave it be, Solas.”
They stand side-by-side under sunlight (Dorian is aware it is nighttime, but the Fade is mysterious, and he is grateful for the way the light tinges the gray walls of Skyhold, softens the stone) and neither moves. He could just leave, but Solas navigates dreamspace much better—
“There have been many Love spirits around Skyhold recently — they are not common, as you know” the elf continues, as if Dorian had not interrupted him. “Now I understand why.”
Dorian had noticed them too, when he walked the Fade in his dreams, little wisps of warmth and a giggle, a soft sigh — he had been prepared to have demons coming to offer him relief I can make him love you, I can make him want you but they did not come. The Love spirits, however, were always there, hiding behind trees or whispering in the wind, coming towards him, touching his chest in wonderment, making his heart slowly overflow.
“You are dying.” the tone is not soft, but almost a rebuke, and it gets under Dorian’s skin in the worst possible way (he remembers the whispers when a Magister had been taken ill, his father’s laugh at the man’s folly, such weakness).
“And yet, I have no wish to get rid of it, thank you very much” Dorian states, waspishly.
Solas turns to him, tilts his head slightly, as if puzzled. It is a look Dorian has often seen him direct at Ellana, a surprised, doubtful expression — it is off-putting, but simultaneously makes the tevinter feel as if something has shifted.
“I won’t tell the Inquisitor” and now it is Dorian’s turn to widen his eyes in surprise as the apostate looks away to the slowly rising sun. He thought this was why Solas was here, to chastise him on Ellana’s behalf— deny all he wanted, Dorian had seen the stolen glances, longing etched into them, a longing he recognised mirrored in his own eyes.
Of course, since the Inquisitor’s heart was so obviously ensnared, they were still very different.
“You do know that it cannot be hidden forever” said Solas again, but the tone is gentler now, almost friendly, and Dorian wants to yell don’t pity me but there is none of that in the other mage’s expression, so he chokes on the instinct to push away, straightens his back, watches the windows of Skyhold shine under the morning light — if this wasn’t a dream, he would soon see Bull joining Cassandra for morning training, good-humoured smile and strong arms, and the image makes Dorian avert his gaze towards the sky.
“I just want a little more time,” he says, and is grateful that Solas does not react to the way his voice wavers.
Bull smiles at him the next morning, “Hey big guy, how is the cold?”
And Dorian, with his treacherous heart, makes an airy hand gesture, dismisses any concerns,
“Probably just the side-effects of horrible Ferelden weather” and sits at the breakfast table as if he hadn’t spent his night watching a slow sunrise, feeling his chest rise and fall and wondering when would it stop.
Solas sits opposite him, but beyond a mere polite nod, there is nothing else, and Ellana fusses over him briefly before dashing out to the War Room, giving him a brew of something fresh-smelling and most likely Dalish. It is another common day, and Dorian complains about the lack of spices in southern food (and pretends not to notice how Bull smiles amusedly into his cup), Sera yells something colourful about his fancy eating habits and then tells him he better come to the Rest tonight.
(He hopes that he can, he cannot keep on not drinking with her and the Chargers, if there is one thing Sera cannot leave alone is a secret.)
“You would have liked Krem’s story about the haunted forest, Dorian,” says Bull, and Dorian rolls his eyes with half-exasperation. He has heard the story three times and Bull knows it — and if they both know that Dorian really enjoys it, well, he has so little time, why not take what he can?
“I am sure I have heard all of the Chargers’ stories by now, Bull” is what he says instead.
“Sounds like a challenge to me!” And the qunari has the nerve to wink at him, and he has to physically contain the urge to cough just because it feels like the flowers should be growing faster, that at this rate he will be able to feel the foliage inside his chest whenever Bull smiles at him.
(Solas appears by his alcove in the library, hands him a small vial.
“It will help slowing it down,” he merely states, and walks off before Dorian can even utter a word.)
It is dark and cold in the Emprise du Lion, and Bull’s body irradiates warmth inside the tent. Dorian has draped himself over the qunari, the temptation of heat stronger than his facade of disinterest. They breathe together, slowly, too tired for sex — and Dorian knows that this has stopped being about sex long ago, but holds on to it tightly, desperate for any kind of distance that maybe will fool his heart and body.
“You seem tense” comes Bull’s voice, deep and heavy, a hand sneaking around the tevinter’s hips, gently pressing into his skin.
“Who wouldn’t be, walking in the cold all day? Some of us are not furnaces,” Dorian speaks against the qunari’s neck, keeps his eyes closed. He wills his mind away from the slow crescendo of death, small garden of interruptions, and focuses on this one moment, heat against the cold outside, darkness obscuring both fear and desire.
“Hothouse orchid,” states Bull, and Dorian can hear the teasing in his voice, soft and tentative. Sometimes it is almost enough. There are many things he desires, but nothing has ever felt like this. His chest swells painfully but he grits his teeth, buries his head against Bull’s shoulder, and this almost what he needs - a gentle, warm heart beating next to his.
Dorian mixes Solas’ brew into his morning tea, sometimes into his evening drink. The apostate just wordlessly replenishes it, and Dorian has no wish to ask how he makes it, how he knows. It will mean a long meandering answer into the Fade, if there is any answer at all. It is a mages’ ailment, that he knows, but it is secretive and terrifying. Spoken in hushed tones, in furtive glances, and maybe even in passed down potions to dilute the blossoming, the inevitable explosion of spring.
Dorian thinks of Vivienne, drinking tea in her balcony, and of Solas, painting slowly the walls of his room— and of himself, reading through the tyranny of his ancestors.
A mage’s heart is given with trembling fear.
They kiss fervently inside Bull’s room, ignoring the chill coming from the wrecked ceiling. Tomorrow is the Qun and Dorian will be left behind (too many mages, too much suspicion, are the words in Ellana’s mouth, her eyes worried and tired), and this might be the end - Dorian chest aches so sharply that he loses balance, collapsing unto the bed, a desperate effort to make this last. Bull’s eyes rake over him, reddened face and bare shoulder, and there is such desire— and if this was enough—
“Fuck, you are so gorgeous,” it is breathless, and also maybe desperate because they both know it is all so fragile, a moment that might be undone.
“Come here,” he replies, and moves up to meet Bull, kisses his scarred lips, his hands resting so lightly against the qunari’s face. The fireplace light softens ever so slightly, and it might have been Dorian, but it could have been the wind. Their breaths slow as they kiss again and again, a less frantic pace, as if they can stay the hand of tomorrow.
Time magic, he thinks, but this is merely a wish. Time is so fraught, so elusive, won’t be stopped, and it is all moving towards an end.
“I am thinking of sending Bull with the Chargers to Therinfal Redoubt,” says Ellana, touching Dorian’s arm gently. “I think it might be a good distraction. What do you think?”
He tilts his head at her and then nods, feeling the usual pinprick of guilt when he meets her soft, worried eyes. Ellana has a generous, giving heart and a steely resolve — if she knew, she’d tear apart the vines and leaves and flowers, scratches on her hands, hug him tightly, whisper affection in his ear.
“I think that would be good, yes, Inquisitor,” he touches her hand, feels the ways her fingers clasp at his. Bony fingers, cold skin, so different from Bull’s hands. He thinks of them, warm against his skin, rough and yet so gentle.
“It’ll be alright, Dorian, he is strong,” says the Inquisitor, smiling at him and Dorian feels something constrict in his chest, faster than leaves, faster than flowers. He pulls her hand towards him, kisses her knuckles, watches her eyes soften.
“You are my best friend,” he knows his voice is strangely solemn, but cannot avoid it, a tired gnawing ache has settled and he wants to appease it, begging please, he cannot bear more pain. Ellana moves closer, rests her head against his chest
can she hear it, the slow growth of death?
and wraps her arms around him.
“You are my best friend too, Dorian.”
Dorian is walking out of the library, his mind still caught up on the musty tomes he managed to obtain from Tevinter, the slow and painful dredging up of genealogy, histories of great deeds, terrible and woeful, the flow of history as spilt ink on his parchment. He hopes Sera has already left the Undercroft and is in the Rest, to yell and make lewd jokes and insult his forefathers — hopes for a sip of ale, hopes that Bull returns soon.
He is on the first step when his vision sways. Breathe in, breathe out, everything is so out of focus, the steps away from the library escape his feet, his heart os overflowing, his chest is so full, there is love but also danger, and he cannot take another step, needs to find Ellana, needs to find Solas, needs to find someone, breathe in, breathe out, but there is almost no air left, there are small petals, tiny leaves, wisps of something that could be beautiful, a sharp stab of pain where his heart should lie—
There is a voice risen in alarm and someone holds him as he falls. These are not warm rough hands, or cold gentle ones, but he has no strength left to care.
He dreams of a garden.