Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

time flies by in the yellow and green / stick around and you'll see what i mean / there's a mountaintop that i'm dreaming of / if you need me you know where i'll be / i'll be riding shotgun underneath the hot sun / feeling like a someone

“I told you so.”

“Oh. He told me so,” Dorian announced with exaggerated theatrics to his empty car. His phone was attached to the dashboard and was multitasking an impressive feat. His Spotify playlist was paused (though it was mostly Mae’s music, some of which he loathed to admit he quite enjoyed) to allow Felix’s soft baritone to filter through the speakers, only interrupted by the default voice on his Google Maps app telling him to turn left in eighty yards. An evenly toned woman with a neutral accent was directing him God knows where through the backstreets of a neighbourhood he’d had no reason to visit before. Dorian had watched Bull with narrowed eyes as he’d used those ridiculous meaty fingers of his to stab the address into Dorian’s phone but even the calm voice of Siri or Alexa or whoever he knew he was, on a subconscious psychological level, more inclined to trust based on sound alone couldn’t stop him from considering the possibility that Bull was, in actual fact, pulling on his leg.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

Dorian took the second left as instructed. “And pray tell, dear Felix, what you told me exactly. Was it words of wisdom as utterly unhelpful as the ones you just uttered?”

“I told you it was a bad idea,” Felix repeated but there was no bite to his words. He sounded amused. In the background, Dorian could hear noise, cutlery and cups and people. A coffee shop most likely. Felix had immersed himself in the student experience wholeheartedly since his father had loosened his loving but often too tight grip. His thesis drafts were covered in coffee stains, more often than not. “It’s not unhelpful advice. You’re just beyond help.”

Why Dorian ever thought calling Felix for comfort, he had yet, in his thirty-odd years of living and over half of them actually knowing the man, to figure out. He made a displeased sound. “You’re not supposed to say that. Good friends don’t say that.”

“Good friends also don’t sell their vulnerable friends a big metal death trap as a replacement for a healthy coping mechanism.”

“It’s retail therapy!”

“It’s a broken motorcycle, Dorian. Not a new succulent to put on your windowsill.” Dorian winced at that, recalling his overcrowded windowsill. Felix carried on, ever the rational one. Absently, Dorian thought he had the kind of voice for a navigation app. “Good friends tell you to go see a therapist.”

“Bull is a therapist,” Dorian argued, weakly.

He could almost hear Felix’s eyeroll in response. “That doesn’t count. He’s your friend.”

“And not a very good one, yes, we’ve established this.” Impatience coloured his tone. Siri-Alexa told him his destination was coming up on his right and he slowed his car. “Listen, I know this whole thing is…”

“Stupid?” Felix supplied.

“A tad reckless,” Dorian snapped, glaring at his phone as if Felix could see it. He probably could imagine it well enough. Their friendship had an almost psychic quality to it at times. “I know everyone thinks I’ve gone out of my mind. But it’s been months since- since then.” If Felix heard the stumble in Dorian’s words, he was gracious enough not to point it out. Dorian pretended the pause was so he could focus on parallel parking. “I need to move on and that means change.”

“So change the colour of your curtains. Cut dairy out of your diet. Get a bloody tattoo on your arse!” Dorian laughed at the last one as he killed the engine on his car but Felix’s voice was earnest and a touch pleading. “Don’t pay hundreds of dollars to fix a bike you don’t know how to ride just to drive yourself off a cliff, metaphorical or otherwise, when things go to shit. You don’t need to do this.”

“It’s not a need, Felix. I want to. Get this bike fixed, that is, not drive myself off a cliff. As much as I’d like to get out of grading this term’s papers, I’m doing quite alright, thank you very much,” Dorian said, trying his best to making his voice light and assuring. He’d never been the comforter in their relationship. For all his oral talents, he doubted anyone would want his voice in their phone’s system to direct them towards the nearest gas station or pharmacy. “It’s just a bike. If the repairs are extortionate, I’ll give up on it, how about that? I’d probably sell it off once it’s fixed anyway so think of it as a side project.”

Felix sighed, resigned. “Couldn’t you just get into gardening like a normal person?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” When Felix sighed again, this time softly, with fondness, Dorian knew he was forgiven.

Dorian grabbed his phone off the dashboard and switched Felix to handheld, pressing it between his shoulder and ear as he exited the car. He closed the door with his hip and double checked that his wallet was in his pants before surveying the street. Quiet neighbourhood, if a little grey, though not too far from the city centre if Google Maps by Bull’s hand could be trusted (yet to be seen) and the not-so distant sound of high street traffic he’d just about avoided upon Siri-Alexa’s wisdom was any indication. The mechanic’s shop was still a little further up the road so Dorian figured this was as good time as any to say goodbye. “Anyway, if Bull hasn’t led me on a wild goose chase then I’m near the place. I’ll call you later.”

“I’m having dinner with Dad tonight,” Felix reminded him. “But text me. Let me know how it goes.”

“Tell the old man I said hi.”

“Want me to tell him you bought a bike?”

Dorian couldn’t help but grin. “He knows I’ve done worse.”

Felix laughed, a sound untouched by time. Dorian’s smile softened and he was glad that Felix wasn’t able to see it because he would have poked gentle fun though it wasn’t hard to envision a similar expression on Felix’s face as he said, “Yeah, I suppose he does. Talk to you later, Dorian. Take care.”

“You too.” He pocketed his phone and quickened his pace. Without Felix to anchor him, Dorian’s curiosity drove him forward. It was hard to believe his best friend was a few years his junior, especially when he had, over the years, been most of Dorian’s impulse control.

Most. The broken motorcycle he’d purchased had been against Felix’s insistence, as was this trip to a mechanic who supposedly had magic hands.

“Is that a euphemism?” Dorian had asked suspiciously.

Bull had shrugged. “The Commander’s a good guy. Won’t rob you blind either.”

“The Commander?” Dorian had echoed before glaring at Bull. “Okay, now you’re just messing with me, aren’t you? That’s definitely a euphemism.”

Bull had chosen simply to ignore Dorian again. He was quite good at that.

And yet Dorian bought a broken vehicle off him and took his recommendation for a mechanic, trusting the address that Bull provided which had taken him to a part of the city he was entirely unfamiliar with. Felix’s jokes aside, his friendship with Bull was a mystery to the entire world, including themselves, and yet it was one Dorian would put money on. Quite literally, in this case.

The auto repair shop that occupied the end of the road was much smaller than Dorian had imagined anything Bull could duck into being. The block was christened with the letters ‘ORDER AUTO CARE’ painted where one would assume a big shiny sign would be hung. It only appeared big enough to hold two or three vehicles. A small business, Dorian concluded, from its lack of flair. One that was used to treating locals, it’s owner uninterested in advertising or expanding its market. An overambitious garage more than anything else but Dorian was in no position to scoff at it.

Taking a deep breath, he marched through the car shaped gap that he assumed acted as a constantly open doorway and ignored his own curiosity about what the owner did when the weather got colder (business surely booms in dangerous conditions but the doorway situation is impractical in the snow so do they close shop? Is that a liable business plan?)

Inside, the place was no bigger but no smaller either and it surprised him how much it could hold. The ceilings were higher than he’d envisioned but the lights were low, long bars that glowed fluorescent despite the persistent daylight outside but in a random pattern that suggested not all of them were working. A car was parked up, a small but impressive vintage model that didn’t suit the neighbourhood it had driven itself into but Dorian was no different. Near every inch of the walls were covered in something, tools and types of storage that no doubt held tools and paper. Not posters but post-it notes, medication prescriptions, notebook pages torn unevenly covered with surprisingly neat handwriting juxtaposed by grease marks and the author’s inability to stay in the lines as they listed groceries, phone numbers or reminders. It smelled, unsurprisingly, of oil and was warm, even with the entire garage shutters lifted. Dorian had already unbuttoned his shirt further upon leaving work but ran a finger under his collar as he peered around. From somewhere that Dorian couldn’t quite place, there was the sound of metal and movement, like the machine parts scattered in different stages of production buzzed with an untraceable energy even as they laid here because they were considered broken.

The place was also empty.

It took Dorian a moment in his state of sensory overload before he spotted a familiar motorbike shaped lump under a paint-stained, grease-stained sheet. A part of him felt indignant that his bike was being subjected to such treatment, hidden away like a body in a morgue. A more rational part of him that had the steady voice of Felix told him that if the motorcycle wasn’t tucked and covered, it would be at risk of receiving more damage. Another voice, smooth but booming, told him to stop stalling by talking to the split parts of his consciousness and get his pretty little butt in there already. Dorian frowned but steeled his shoulders. He really didn’t like it when Bull was calling out his bullshit, even if it was all in his own head.

Of course Dorian only got two steps further into the shop before a series of events unfolded. It was hard to place what happened at what point when everything occurred in a few seconds but Dorian would, in the future, have plenty of time to consider the blur in slow motion. He would present it as the following: a strange noise (a low groan, muffled, on the line between human and unhuman) would come from the general direction where the handsome car sat immobile, startling him into stumbling back (no, he did not let out any kind of undignified noise) but consequently, knocking some sort of tool from its elevated station with his elbow, jarring it painfully just as he heard barking and after that, Dorian couldn’t quite place the order of events. There was a loud painful thud that had the car bouncing upwards accompanied by a very human ah fuck as a growling and yapping creature quite easily half Dorian’s size rounded the car to barrel towards him. Dorian’s feet, desperately backpedalling towards safety, tangled in some sort of wire that just happened to be lying around and he fell back (so maybe he did squeak a little), hard enough for the wind to be knocked out of him and on clutter that would definitely leave indents in his skin even through his clothes. A dog’s open jaw snapped just shy of his face and he squeezed his eyes shut just as a voice yelled, “Down, boy!” and the dog backed up, whining.

Dorian opened his eyes slowly and saw, under a broken light fixture, that a shadow had risen to full size. He was, however, not allowed a pathetic moment to catch his breath. Instead, the shadow moved towards him. With every step, the half-working, half-not fluorescent lights pieced together details of what was a decidedly human figure. A man, tall (though Dorian’s position on the floor may have been the fault of that), broad-shouldered and very, very blonde. Dorian watched, more dazed than he would have liked to admit, as a pale hand with dark fingertips ran comfortingly over the dog’s head as he passed, accompanied by a murmured, “Good boy. It’s okay. You can head back now.”

The dog, now that Dorian could look at it unblurred by motion, was a large, keen creature. Fawn-coloured by with a black mask and alert, pointed ears that relaxed at the instruction. His intelligent eyes watched Dorian with the same suspicion and wariness he gave it. Much like with cars, Dorian was able to appreciate dogs without being able to name their origins, preferring the more subdued energy of a housecat himself.

And yet he had come here chasing an order for a motorcycle of all things. Subdued energy, he thought, lying on his bruised backside, my arse.

It was only when the dog broke eye contact by turning back to trot towards his designated spot, hidden behind the car, that Dorian realised the shadow was over him and sufficiently illuminated by the light coming through the open garage door. A man who couldn’t have been much older than Dorian himself wore dull blue overalls, sleeves short to reveal decently muscular arms and unbuttoned enough for Dorian to make out a vest top underneath and the chain of a necklace tucked under it. He wore industrial boots, ugly but practical, and knelt beside Dorian now, those grease-tipped fingers brushing Dorian’s propped up knee with a touch so light it could have been imaginary. He had a handsome, angular face, a strong jaw peppered with a generous five o’clock shadow and a long nose, a pained pink across the bridge which probably explained the cursing earlier. His eyebrows were dark, indented in an expression of concern over soft eyes, wrinkled at the corners and weighed down by obvious sleepless nights but a deep, lovely brown. His mouth occupied Dorian’s attention for the longest because of the scar that pierced the top lip on the left side, creating a thin, white path through his stubble to stop at the edge of his lower cheek. The observation was made with some difficulty and Dorian frowned as he squinted until he realised the reason he couldn’t quite focus on the scar was because the man was talking.

“Christ. Are you alright?”

His voice was low, gravelly but not clumsy or without harmony, the kind that probably sounded nice when he hummed. Another contender for narrating directions. Dorian entertained the thought that he might have hit his head. Hot mechanics only happened in porn.

Somehow, his mouth managed to answer semi-coherently. “I- yes, I think so.”

The man didn’t withhold his expressions and his relief softened the stress around his eyes slightly. His mouth curled up, favouring one side. Up close, Dorian could see how his hair, so very blonde, was a nest of maintained curls but not immune to the elements. A light sheen of sweat glinted off the pale, lightly freckled skin and as a result, a rebellious curl fell onto his forehead. He settled back into a squat that strained the material of his coveralls at his thighs and Dorian’s mouth went dry.

There was wry amusement in his tone when he said, “That’s good. I don’t have much on hand to fix human parts.”

It took Dorian a second to realise that he was being laughed at but all he could do was gape in response. Maybe he hit his head harder than he thought. Hot mechanics definitely only happened in porn or in heaven. In a distant muffled part of his mind, Dorian entertained the idea that heaven was indeed a harem of uniformed men on their knees for him and how it was a shame that he was dead and thus, unable to rub it in his father’s face.

But then the man’s expression shifted back into one of mild worry and he reached out to touch Dorian, arm around his back to curl a hand at Dorian’s side as he lifted Dorian to his feet. His grip was firm enough for Dorian to come back to reality. Big hands, calloused fingers, warm to touch. Dorian felt slightly unstead and without thinking, he blurted out, “Do you just lie in wait with your beast dog to attack anyone who trespasses?”

The man stilled, his frown deepening. “You could have announced yourself.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “With what? A herald?”

“Or a knock,” the man grumbled.

Dorian levelled him with the most incredulous look he could muster. “You have no door!”

The man mirrored his gaze. “It’s a garage!”

It was perhaps one of the most ridiculous arguments Dorian had ever partook in and he’d been in many and had created twice as many. After a moment of stubborn glowering at each other, Dorian realised that he was still leaning on the man. He tried not to think about how unaffected he was by Dorian’s weight (he was also warm all over, even through his clothes.) Instead, Dorian straightened his back, stepping out of the man’s hands with his shoulders knocked back as if he hadn’t been made to eat the floor by a dog just moments earlier. The distance, small but enough, helped clear the remaining fog in Dorian’s head, making him feel a little more like himself. After all, he’d been in more compromising positions with handsomer men before. “What were you even doing back there?”

The man blinked. “Fixing a car.” When Dorian didn’t reply, momentarily stumped, the man added, “Because this is a garage.”

Is he sassing me? Out loud, Dorian asked, “Do you argue about definitions with all your customers?”

At that, the other man had the good graces to look at least somewhat sheepish. He lifted a hand (the one that had just been at Dorian’s waist) to rub at the back of his neck. “Ah, no. Sorry. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Positively peachy.” He spoke with mock cheer, preoccupied with dusting down his trousers. “Now, shall we get down to business? I believe you have my bike.”

“Your bike?”

Dorian looked up at the man’s confused expression and wondered if Bull had indeed tricked him. He gestured towards the motorbike shaped lump in the corner. “My motorcycle, yes.”

“You…” The man trailed off disbelievingly. “That’s yours.”

It wasn’t a question. Dorian squinted at the man, at his handsome nose that looked like it had been sunburnt. “Did you knock your head back there? I did hear a rather loud bump.”

“You’re the Iron Bull’s friend?”

“Yes, Dorian Pavus, unfortunately. Unfortunately on the friendship with Bull part, not on who I am. I am rather fond of myself on the best of days.” When the man merely continued to stare at him, Dorian prompted him impatiently. “He mentioned me then?”

“I expected you to be…” Another trailing sentence. Almost helplessly, he finished it with, “bigger.”

Dorian huffed, straightening up with as much dignity as he could muster. “Well, I could say the same about-” He broke off, staring as the man bent down to pick up the tool Dorian had knocked off earlier, revealing that his coveralls strained everywhere. Lamely, he said, “your workspace.”

“It’s big enough.” His tone was defensive and Dorian wondered if he’d caused serious offense, watching the back of the man as he headed towards where what Dorian assumed was his bike was stationed. Then, he looked back over his shoulder with an eyebrow raised. “You’ve just played pinball in it which is why it feels smaller.”

He is sassing me. Dorian followed him. The dog’s ears perked up at their movement but he didn’t otherwise move, curled up at the front of the car by a box of tools.

“Do you have a name?” At the random question, the man stiffened, gaze suspicious. Dorian rolled his eyes. “No need to look at me like that, my good man. I’m not going to use it to gain compensation or whatever nefarious scheme you imagine I’m capable of. You know who I am.”

He muttered something that sounded like I’m not sure I do but spoke clearly before Dorian could comment. “Cullen Rutherford.”

“Cullen Rutherford.” Dorian repeated it for no other reason except to weigh it on his tongue. Masculine and a little bit of a mouthful. His brain was elsewhere.

“Bull didn’t tell you my name?”

Dorian laughed a short note but it wasn’t malicious. “Bull also didn’t tell me the motorcycle I was purchasing was potentially beyond fixing. He doesn’t talk as much as he likes to make you think.”

Cullen didn’t seem to have a reply to that. Instead, he waited until Dorian came to a stop across from him with Dorian’s reason for being here between them. Only then did Cullen lift the sheet to reveal the motorbike underneath.

Like dogs. Dorian didn’t have the range of vocabulary to accurately describe the motorcycle that he had impulsively bought from Bull. The Iron Bull, a trained psychiatrist and enthusiastic pub-crawler, had a wealth of friends that often found themselves emptying their hands to him, at loss with their possessions but having faith that Bull would find them new homes. From niche European capitals trapped in snow globes as birthday gifts to phones abandoned to upgrades, Bull connected the strangest of people. Cullen and Dorian were just a single string in Bull’s cat’s cradle of connections. But the string held up an entire motorcycle, broken or otherwise.

For starters, it was red. The paint job had seen better days but Dorian predicted it was the only fault of it that would be easily rectified. The imaginations of those he told about the purchase blew the vehicle out of proportion but it was a humble machine, not terribly bulky. It had appeared, at first glance, to not be so terribly lacking but between gaps that were not supposed to exist, there were missing screws and springs and some vital part of the engine, according to Cullen, who listed the faults with a tone that bordered on awe. Dorian wasn’t sure if it was the motorcycle itself or the extent of its injuries that had Cullen inspired but he gave the other man a withering look anyway.

Cullen did not miss it. He closed his mouth then opened it again, not entirely undeterred. “I’m still waiting on the full extent of her damage-”

“Oh, no. None of that.”

“Excuse me?”

“That gendering vehicles business. I am not riding her. It’s an it.” Dorian considered his words. “Or him. I would ride a him.”

There was a pause long enough for Dorian to realise that the shop could be completely noiseless and the earlier sounds of tinkering must have been Cullen under the car. They were silent now. Then Cullen shifted, a hand going up to the back of his neck again, and he said, “Well, it’s not going anywhere for a while.”

Ah. Uncomfortable non-acknowledgement. Cullen carried on speaking but Dorian’s focus was on his hands and their respective journeys. The one at the back of his neck slid down and across the seat, the other’s fingertips tracing over the logo of the motorcycle with a gentle, reverent quality. Dorian wondered, as his gut turned, if he would ever not feel sick at even the quietest of judgements, ones that pretended he had not spoken at all, that he could not possibly exist even as he was right there.

Dorian Pavus had never done well at being invisible.

He tuned back in just as Cullen was digging through his pocket to fish out a scrap piece of paper to accompany the pen he extended towards Dorian over the bike’s magnificent corpse. Cullen gave no indication that he knew Dorian hadn’t been listening. “If you leave your number, I can give you a call when I know a bit more of what I’m dealing with and we can go from there.”

Number and name scrawled onto the back of a receipt (for dog food), Dorian watched as Cullen found an empty spot on the nearest wall to stick it. Dorian’s writing, in comparison, was a barely legible academic scrawl that drove his students nuts. He speculated, briefly, about the writing that dominated the wall, a pretty slanting cursive and if it was Cullen’s at all, so out of character for the burly mechanic. There was no ring on his finger but maybe he didn’t like to wear it while working or maybe he had a girlfriend who scribed everything. It seemed needlessly excessive but Dorian had seen straight men be anal about worse.

“So,” Dorian said, reaching for his wallet as they moved out towards the not-door open door of the building, “how much is this – what do you call it? Consultation? – costing me?”

Cullen crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned back on the back of the car he was fixing. Dorian tried not to stare, at the flex of his thighs or the wealth of his biceps. Not heaven but hell, Dorian decided. His father was right and wrong all at once. The torment was not what Dorian had been warned of. It took Cullen’s answer for Dorian to remember he had asked a question at all. “Nothing yet. Once I know the full details then we can talk about costs. Besides, I owe Bull.”

Most people did. “Fair enough.” Dorian shuffled unsurely on the spot but that was a dismissal, if he had ever heard one. He nodded a goodbye and turned away, pocketing his hands to give them something to do as he exited the threshold of the shop. Outside, the sun was deepening in hue, welcoming the end of the day.

And so true to his character, Dorian couldn’t resist a final look back. Cullen wasn’t watching him but his dog who had trotted back over to his owner’s side. One hand was running over the dog’s head and the other held a tissue to his own nose. Dorian stilled when he saw it come away with blood, the only indication beside the redness on his face that Cullen had hurt himself when Dorian had entered the garage. Then Cullen turned towards him again, noticing his still figure silhouetted by the sunset casting a long shadow on the eerie interior of the auto repair shop. Awkward embarrassment made Dorian feel unsettled, like he had just witnessed something he shouldn’t have. He left hastily.

In his car, Dorian sat for a moment, thinking about the broken motorcycle and the hot bleeding mechanic and his father’s idea of heaven and hell and the empty apartment he was about to drive back to. He recalled Felix’s words. Don’t pay hundreds of dollars to fix a bike you don’t know how to ride just to drive yourself off a cliff, metaphorical or otherwise, when things go to shit.

He looked down at his white shirt, now covered in grease stains. Fingerprints where Cullen had pressed his hands to help him to his feet. Then he sighed as he turned the key to his car. He needed a shower for too many reasons, some he was now grown up enough to feel ashamed about.

Chapter Text

The thing about Bull was that, unless you were scheduled specifically to speak to him about your feelings, he was not an easy man to pin down. Dorian had opted instead to text Felix a brief overview about meeting Cullen Rutherford (to which Felix replied ‘Dorian. Do NOT even think about it.’) and settle back into the monotonous rhythm of public transit, a life trapped between pages of research and coffee cups. It was an awkward time in the semester, the last of his grading sent out and little to distract him. The motorcycle had been bought specifically to fill that space, something that wasn’t the half-empty state of his apartment or the clutter of his office where students came to test his patience when the term got tough. Instead, with the bike across town under a sheet covered in grease and paint and no new texts on the state of it, Dorian had more time to stare at his online banking account and wonder if he had truly gone out of his mind.

By the time the weekend rolled round, Dorian had gotten so sick at staring between his phone and the cold right side of his bed every morning and every night that he rearranged his wardrobe to find something that didn’t make him look like a college professor (of course, his workwear was stylish but workwear, nonetheless), threw it on and marched out of his house with his head held high.

It was by pure chance that Bull was in Haven when Dorian ducked into it.

Bull’s back was to the door but there was no mistaking the expanse of his shoulders that could rival any of the tables in the bar. Or the long dark hair he swept chaotically into a bun – today, he had left most of it open and the rest split into two buns and he was just about terrifying and handsome enough that it didn’t look ridiculous. Even with his back to Dorian, Dorian knew how his mouth shaped around his loud laughter, the way his eyes closed as it boomed – the left was violently scarred and sightless – and how his pointed nose wrinkled with every gulp of a concoction of a drink that he refused to give the ingredients of but every bartender he talked to (see: flirted with) managed to make no matter the place.

Bull didn’t see Dorian’s approach but his best friend Krem, who sat across from Bull and in clear sight of Dorian’s fury, stopped mid-laughter to simply nod at Dorian with a sympathetic smile and rise to his feet. He clapped Bull’s shoulder in passing and before Bull could protest, Dorian dropped into the seat Krem had vacated.

“You bastard.”

To Bull’s credit, he didn’t even blink. He took a swig of his drink, sighed deeply and said, “What’d I do now?”

“You didn’t tell me he was hot!”

Bull gestured at Krem, signalling for a drink, before turning back towards Dorian. His expression shifted between distracted confusion to understanding. “Who- oh. Commander? Yeah.” He frowned. “Did the nickname not give it away?”

“Not even remotely,” Dorian hissed.

Bull laughed at Dorian’s pout. “Did you make an ass out of yourself, Dorian?”

“No!” He spoke too quickly. Bull scoffed. Dorian regretted not getting a drink himself before sitting down, if only to give his body something to do that wasn’t squirm under Bull’s knowing gaze. Instead, he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I would have just liked a warning, that’s all. About that and of course, the other unfortunate aspect of his personality. A tragic waste.”

Bull raised an eyebrow, inquiring, over a swig of his drink.

“He seems a tad homophobic.”

Bull responded by spitting his mouthful onto Dorian.

“Bull!” Dorian slapped his arm (though it probably hurt him more than it hurt Bull.) Whatever Bull was drinking, he hoped it didn’t stain impossibly. He liked this shirt. “You asshole.”

Bull hit his chest with his fist and said, between coughs, “Homophobic? What’d he do?”

“Nothing! He was just… well, a very heterosexual man.” He nodded gratefully at Krem who slid him his drink before disappearing again, always knowing just the right time to return to a conversation. Dorian watched Krem leave (he was a handsome man and goddamn has it really been that long since I’ve had sex) until Bull cleared his throat pointedly. Tearing his eyes away, he elaborated. “I thought they made naming transportation after women illegal.”

“He named your bike?”

“He called it a she.”

Bull sounded disbelieving. “And that made you think he’s straight.”

“He is straight. Have you seen him? He looks like he models knitwear in his spare time. I bet his girlfriend looks like she could be his sister.”

Now it was Bull’s turn to hit Dorian and it most definitely hurt Dorian more than it hurt Bull. Dorian glared fiercely at the man but he was unmoved. No one personified a block of concrete quite like the Iron Bull. “How out of practice is your gaydar, Dorian? Cullen’s not straight.”

Dorian blinked. “He’s gay?”

“Bisexual, I think.” Bull shrugged. “Never asked him to tick any boxes.”

Dorian felt a little bit like how he had being knocked to the ground by an overlarge dog. “He’s not straight.”

“That’s what I said. Keep up. Think he has a sister though. Two, actually. So watch it.”

“It’s just… he seemed off. Like he didn’t particularly care for me.”

“Oh, mystery solved.” Bull’s tone was flat. “That’s because you’re a piece of shit, Dorian.”

Dorian winced. “I suppose I didn’t make the best impression.”

“Dorian, what’d you do?”

“His dog jumped me!”

Bull didn’t even bother to dignify him with an answer. For a short while, they simply sat and drank. Haven was a small bar, dimly lit and every time Dorian came here, he complained heartily about the piss poor choice of drinks. But it was gay-friendly, Bull’s friends (dubbed as the ‘Chargers’ since the group’s conception) constantly occupied a corner and there was always singing which Dorian only pretended half-heartedly he didn’t like hearing. They could hear a song now, delicate guitar strings plucked between glasses clinking and Krem’s laughter that carried across the room. A woman called Maryden, who often performed improvised pieces about the occupants in the bar, now sang about a hero with one hand. It was a melancholy piece.

Bull was the one who broke the silence. “So you have plans for tonight?”

Dorian resisted the urge to curse. Bull was skilled at many things but his ability to turn simple perceptions into questions that prompted psychoanalysis disguised as regular conversation was particularly impressive and an absolute mindfuck. Dorian had almost forgotten why he had left his apartment in the first place. “To get positively plastered, yes.”

“How are you?” Before Dorian could even think of deflecting, Bull grabbed Dorian’s drink from his grasp and held it easily out of his reach.

“Bull, don’t- oh, for God’s sake-” Dorian broke off, shaking his head and sitting back with a sigh. “Work is fine. Felix is fine. My apartment could use a reshuffling, I suppose. Everything is fine. Peachy. Really. Please give me my drink back.”

“I asked how are you, not for your to-do list.”

Dorian kept his tone mild. “Don’t say Felix is on my to-do list. That’s rude. He’s my best friend.”

“Dorian.”

“Bull.” Dorian opted to swipe Bull’s drink and Bull watched as he took an ambitious gulp before choking. “Good God, Bull, seriously, how on earth do you drink this monstrosity?”

Bull sighed but didn’t exhibit any discomfort holding Dorian’s drink in the air. Unsure, a waitress wandered their way before accidentally making eye contact with Dorian and circling back. “I thought you were trying to be a new you, what with the motorcycle and everything.”

“Well, the broken motorcycle you sold me is at the mechanic along with my new more agreeable personality. Please allow two to five working days for a response to your request.” When Bull merely stared him down, Dorian exhaled through his nose. “No, of course not, two to five days is totally unrealistic.”

“A little optimistic, sure,” Bull conceded. “Did Cullen not give you an estimate?”

“Not yet. I suppose that’s an indication of the state of the thing. Maybe I’ll never get it back.” Dorian snorted humourlessly. “All this time I’ve been defending the mere idea of it and it’s a trashed piece of motherfucking metal.”

Bull lowered his arm and his voice. “It’s not beyond fixing.”

“What if it is? What if that’s it?” They weren’t talking about the motorcycle anymore. “What if we pretended objects were sentient and it had feelings on this matter? Don’t you think it would be bloody tired of being bashed about? Maybe it doesn’t want to be fixed just for some poor sod to stick their arse on it just to have a short run for fun and go and break it again. The poor sod is me, by the way. I don’t even know how to drive a fucking motorcycle!”

“Dorian-”

Dorian interrupted Bull with his gaze, unwavering and clear even as his voice struggled not to tremble or crack, like a grey sky above a parched earth. Begging for rain. “If you’re so convinced this stupid bike is a cry for help after- after everything then why did you let me have it, Bull?”

Bull pushed Dorian’s glass back towards him. When Dorian didn’t lower his gaze, Bull took his own drink out of Dorian’s hard grip, gentle but firm. That was Bull’s speciality. It was what made him a good therapist but an even better friend. “Because I don’t think it’s a cry for a help. I think it’s a bike, Dorian. It’s something to do. If you can fix it, great. If you can’t, well, screw it. Paint it gold, stick it on a pedestal and put it in the biggest empty spot in your apartment. It can mean something, it can mean jackshit. It’s yours.” When he spoke, it was with a fondness that Dorian couldn’t remember ever deserving. “Besides, I’m your friend, not your mom. If you want a motorbike, who am I to stop you?”

Dorian didn’t answer for fear of his voice breaking but he smiled, shaky but grateful. When he wrapped his hands around his glass once again, Bull raised his own and said, “To what’s yours.”

Dorian pressed his glass to Bull’s. On the other side of the bar, the Chargers began drunkenly and terribly singing along with Maryden, now a song about a commander of armies losing his clothes in a card game and having to run through his barracks bare-arsed.

Only when Bull had knocked back his drink, draining and slamming the glass down, did he announce, “Cullen’s single, just to let you know.”

This time, Dorian was the one to choke. Bull hit him too hard on the back. Krem mooned half the bar and it shook with the laughter of loud men.

*

Dorian was not a fan of waking up with a mouth that tasted like ass – or at least, not if it didn’t involve a handsome man sat on his face. He was woken by the sun between the gap in his curtains and his phone, buzzing, against his middle where he had dropped it when he fell asleep.

Not a call but a text from an unknown number. Dorian squinted down at his phone, chin pressed against his chest. It took him a minute to read it.

[+44 7700 900094, 10:53] Hi. It’s Cullen Rutherford from Order Auto Care. I have more information regarding your motorcycle. If you’re able to come by the shop this afternoon, we can discuss the repairs, an estimate, etc. Let me know. Regards, C.

It took him another minute to even comprehend it. It was practical and without flourish but the ‘regards’ was a nice touch. Perfect grammar and spelling which Dorian appreciated. He wondered if Cullen had to wipe his hands before picking up his phone and if he struggled with it because of the size of his fingers. For all Dorian had forgotten from the night before, he now remembered Bull’s words. Cullen’s not straight.

It was just past lunch time. Dorian saved Cullen’s number to his contacts and, too hungover to even consider playing coy with his mechanic, he replied a simple affirmative and tossed his phone aside. The other side of his bed was misleadingly mussed from his lonesome drunken tumbling into it but he didn’t have the time to linger on the thought.

Detangling his legs from his bedsheets, Dorian stumbled to the bathroom to clean himself up. His reflection looked a little washed out and his hair was ruffled but otherwise, he had been in worst states after a night out. His head, however…

After he had showered, brushed his teeth (twice) and had breakfast for lunch, consisting of some painkillers and whatever in his fridge he could fry, Dorian felt significantly better. He resisted the urge to call up Bull and demand to know the details of the night that still alluded him (he may have prepositioned Krem more than once.)

Instead, he dropped his dressing gown at the doorway of his bedroom and began his indulgent ritual of self-care. Eyes lined, moustache curled and hair styled, he walked through delicate spritzes of his favourite aftershave, pacing in front of his wardrobe in nothing but his jewellery. He inspected its contents as if he hadn’t only just rearranged it the day before settling on an outfit, only to change it three times before he was satisfied.

He settled with a button-up shirt (short sleeved, printed and, more importantly, dark enough to hide any stains), washed-out jeans that were frayed at the hems and, after a self-conscious stare-down with himself, a black leather jacket he hadn’t worn in years. It still fit. As did the jeans, quite nicely, over his butt.

He never did reply to Felix’s text.

Once again, Dorian drove himself to the mechanic’s garage. It was a lonelier affair without Siri-Alexa and Felix but he remembered the way well enough and didn’t want to disturb Felix during his studies, especially if it meant his friend would only nag him about the efforts he was making when visiting a mechanic, of all things. Impulse control was necessary but not always welcome. Hangover withstanding, Dorian was trying instead to focus on what Bull told him. Not (just) the part about Cullen not being straight but about the bike, what it meant and what it didn’t have to.

This time, Dorian parked close enough to see the garage shutters were up and hear the dog announcing his arrival.

Still, upon entering, he said, “Knock, knock.”

The dog was as impressively large as Dorian remembered, just as the shop was as small and neatly cluttered. Dorian proceeded with caution, palms raised. “Yes, it’s me again. The villain. Hello to you too, you terrifying creature.”

“Are you this rude to all dogs or is mine just special?”

Dorian looked over at the direction of the voice. Cullen was walking his way, his tone matching the amused smile he gave Dorian. It was warmer out, enough for Dorian to second guess his jacket and Cullen to be stripped down to a white vest top, the arms of the top half of his coveralls tied around his waist like a teenager’s jacket. He looked like a test from God.

“Rude? It was a compliment.” Dorian gestured at the dog. “He’s practically a war hound. I think he may have given me a concussion upon our first meeting.”

Cullen gave him a wry look. “You look fine.”

“Well, don’t let that fool you. I look better than most in the pits of it all.” Hesitantly, Dorian added, “You don’t seem too worse for wear yourself.”

Cullen looked unsure by the statement, his hand raising to rub at his nose as if he needed a physical reminder that he’d been hurt at all. “I’m fine.”

Dorian nodded, seeing no point arguing with him. “I’m glad to hear it.” At that, the dog whined and Dorian glared at him. “Oh, hush you. I’m trying to be genuine here. No need to play lie detector.”

At Dorian’s scowl, Cullen laughed, reaching down to ruffle the dog’s ears. “It’s okay, boy. No casualties this time.”

“Well, the night’s still young,” Dorian said cheerfully.

The dog growled and Cullen said, “Lion,” sternly. At that, the creature eased, accepting a petting as a reward. Dorian wished all reconciliations were that gratifying.

“Huh. An interesting name for a dog.”

“He’s got the soul of a cat sometimes. Wish he smelled more like one too.” Cullen squatted down beside the dog, unable to keep the fondness from his tone as he cradled the creature’s dark face. “He’s lion-hearted. Always been a protective thing, even when he was the size of my hand.”

Almost distantly, Dorian said, “Of course.”

Cullen looked up at him quizzically. “You’re not a dog person?”

“Not really. I had a pet snake as a child and I got a kick out of terrifying other children with it” – Cullen gave him a sharp look, a weird mixture of horrified and fascinated – “and cats can be quite… cute. But dogs…” He eyed Lion warily. “I’ve not had much experience with them, I suppose.”

“Lion’s incredibly well trained. Aren’t you, boy?” Lion barked an affirmative. “He’s a Great Dane so he’s a gentle giant really and friendly as anything. He’s just got a protective streak in him.”

“I’ve seen that,” Dorian said dryly. Cullen didn’t seem to hear.

“Here.” Cullen gestured him down and awkwardly, Dorian squatted beside the man and his dog. Lion watched him with those dark, intelligent eyes. “Be a good boy.”

It took Dorian a moment to realise that Cullen, tone stern but gentle, wasn’t talking to him. He willed himself not to flush.

Cullen then looked at him, gaze earnest. “You can stroke if you like.”

Oh, for the love of God- Dorian lifted his hand, perhaps too quickly, to hide the direction his mind was taking him. Lion growled. He was a menacingly large creature and Dorian snatched his hand back, embarrassed by the rejection.

Cullen was not off-put at all. He ran a hand soothingly over the dog until the growling ceased. “Easy does it.” Dorian wasn’t sure who he was talking to this time. “He’s just a little suspicious.”

“Him and I both,” Dorian mumbled under his breath. This time, Cullen heard and he laughed quietly. A rough sound but not unkind.

“Take it slow. Reach out slowly. Let him see your hand as a peace offering.” Cullen demonstrated as he spoke. The hand that wasn’t already stroking Lion was held stationary in the line of sight of the dog. Lion inspected it before butting his nose against it. Cullen gave him a loving rub with it. “Let him trust you.”

A sarcastic response sat on his tongue but Dorian swallowed down the sourness. He did as he was told, lifting his hand slowly with his eyes remaining trained on Lion. He watched, breath held, as Lion’s gaze shifted to his hand. Then a tentative push of his nose, wet under Dorian’s fingers. Dorian chuckled despite himself, a breathless sound, as the dog nuzzled against his hand. Expectant. He had never thought black eyes could be so soft but when Lion looked at him again, Dorian saw hesitance but also curiosity in their depths. Dorian ran his hand over his fawny coat, brushing behind softening ears. When his fingers bumped against Cullen’s, Cullen didn’t snatch his hand away. Dorian looked at him and his expression was proud and pink, high in his cheeks, as if Lion winning over Dorian was a personal victory for him. Maybe it was.

“He trusts that easily?”

Cullen shrugged, still smiling. “Maybe he’s just a good judge of character.”

In a strange turn of events, Dorian was at a loss on what to say. He could hear his heartbeat in his chest and spoke over it in case impossibly Cullen could hear it too. “So how’s the fixing-up going?”

Like a light going out. Cullen’s expression sobered and Dorian wished, as he often had in the course of his life, that he could snatch his words back from where they hung in the air, even if the words were mundane, ones that wouldn’t hurt for his hands to grab. All he could do was watch Cullen rise to his feet and follow reluctantly. “Slowly,” Cullen answered eventually. He sighed. “Bull’s friend did get back to me with a list of its problems but it’s extensive, to say the least.”

Dorian deflated a little. “Can it not be fixed then?”

Cullen looked over at him and said, almost hurriedly, “I didn’t say that.” He rubbed the back of his neck, a habit, Dorian noticed, that he seemed to do when he was feeling awkward or maybe nervous. “Finding parts that fit the model is probably going to be the biggest hurdle. For that reason, among others, it’s also going to take a little longer than I thought.” When he looked at Dorian again, his smile was hesitant but sincere. “I can’t make any promises but I’ll try my best.”

Maybe Dorian hadn’t truly regained his breath. When he said, “thank you,” it was quiet. But he meant it.

Cullen stared back at him then turned away but Dorian was close enough to see how his ears turned red at the tips. It was awfully endearing. Gruffly, he said, “It’s just my job.”

Dorian smiled before he realised this was as good an opportunity as any. He cleared his throat. “It’s not your job to put up with my piss poor attitude and I fear I made… a less than favourable first impression.” He took a deep breath before continuing, “I actually came to apologise. So I’m sorry. I’ll entrust in your judgement on all matters mechanical and… try to stay out of your way.”

Cullen looked like he didn’t know what to say. Then he shook his head. “You don’t need to do that. Stay out of my way, I mean. It’s your bike, you can drop in any time to see how it’s coming along. Especially if you’re in it for the long haul.”

When he smiled, it was lopsided and boyish. Cullen Rutherford was a dangerous man.

“Oh. Well. Alright.” Dorian’s mouth moved on its own accord. “I’ll try to find the time, then.”

Another light went out. Cullen’s expression shuttered but he was turning away before Dorian could catch what he had missed and what it was that he had said. He watched Cullen head back over to the work table he had been at when Dorian had arrived and tinker. Cullen’s hands were cleaner today, scrubbed, and they made distracted movements. “It’s an open offer. Whenever you’re not busy…”

“Teaching,” Dorian supplied, hopeful to regain Cullen’s attention. “I’m a professor. Currently bridging the gap between the sciences and the humanities. Philosophy of science best describes it, I suppose.”

Cullen put down the tools in his hands and looked at him again. “Can I ask a question?”

“By all means.”

“What’s a philosophy professor doing with a run down but relatively rare motorcycle?”

Dorian tried and failed to not sound insulted. “Do I not look the type?”

Cullen sized him up, from his hair that was not entirely immune to the elements either to his shoes, and Dorian tried not to preen. After all, he had dressed for this.

“Maybe,” Cullen said in a tone Dorian couldn’t quite decipher, “if it was a regular motorcycle. This is the kind of stuff bike nut’s care about.”

“And I don’t look like a bike nut.”

“No, not a bike nut.” Dorian watched Cullen’s teeth catch his bottom lip, fighting a smile his eyes made no effort to hide, and cursed Bull again.

Dorian sighed melodramatically. “Mid-life crisis?”

“You can’t even be thirty.”

That pleased Dorian. “Ha! Nearing thirty-two.”

“A bit of a random birthday gift to yourself then.” Dorian braced himself for an interrogation but Cullen simply asked, “How long do I have to fix it?”

It took a moment for Dorian to realise what the question actually meant. “Just over a month.” Cullen whistled through his teeth and the sound made Dorian shiver, even in the heat. He added, for good measure, “But there’s no time limit. It isn’t actually for my birthday.”

“No,” Cullen said firmly. He looked over at the motorcycle hidden by the sheet as if he could see more than its broken parts shrouded by white. When he caught Dorian’s gaze again, there was a familiar stubbornness in it and a promise in his words. “I’ll get it done.”

Chapter Text

[Cullen Rutherford, 16:47] If you go by Fade’s, don’t let Sera take my order please.

[Cullen Rutherford, 16:50] She put ketchup in my jam doughnut last time.

[Cullen Rutherford, 16:51] Sorry I forgot yohgui b

[Cullen Rutherford, 16:59] SORRY that was Lion!

[Cullen Rutherford, 16:59] I forgot you were in a meeting. Sorry

[Dorian Pavus, 17:00] No let him speak

“You have a more pressing matter to attend to, Professor Pavus?”

Dorian looked up from his phone to meet the unimpressed gaze of the head of the faculty. Vivienne was a striking and ruthless woman and Dorian was usually careful not to get on her bad side, if only because it was more trouble than it was worth. Now, he smiled sheepishly at her raised brow.

“Apologies, Vivienne,” he said breezily. “My mechanic.”

“Your car is broken?”

Dorian thanked his own lucky stars that he’d taken to commuting to work some time ago. Still, he couldn’t outright lie to his superior so he opted with a mumbled, “Something like that.”

Vivienne’s eyes narrowed but the meeting was more or less done and even her terrifying will could not stop the sound of shuffling papers and scraped chairs. To avoid being cornered by her, Dorian sprinted to catch up with Dagna, a highly impressive doctorate student who had recently begun teaching Archaeology, only stopping to half-apologise for knocking into Classics and Ancient Civilisations professor Solas. Having successfully entrapped Dagna into a conversation about her latest project on ancient weapons, he steered her out of the building by her elbow, partly to control a clean getaway from Vivienne but also because when Dagna started talking, she was often too distracted to do more than put one foot in front of the other. They made it out without casualty. Dorian dug up his phone.

[Cullen Rutherford, 17:01] Ha ha.

[Cullen Rutherford, 17:08] So, doughnuts?

Dorian could imagine his expression, hopeful and boyish. One of the things he’d learnt about Cullen Rutherford in the two weeks since Cullen had decided he would fix Dorian’s bike under an unnecessary time limit was that Cullen had a sweet tooth that could put a man in hospital.

[Dorian Pavus, 17:14] You’re no fun. I’ll try but no promises. You better hope Sera isn’t working today.

As an afterthought, Dorian sent another text then ducked into the underground so he didn’t have to agonise himself over waiting for a reply.

[Dorian Pavus, 17:16] And I trumpet you too.

Cullen didn’t reply but that wasn’t uncharacteristic. The shop got more customers than Dorian had first predicted and even when there was no one occupying his attention, Cullen had a tendency to make work for himself, hands folding over each other when he wasn’t occupying them with something, anything. Dorian had, not so subtly, disapprovingly commentated on the dark circles around Cullen’s eyes, but Cullen shrugged him off and he supposed it was the pot calling the kettle black. He had a similar obsessive tendency with his own work when he hit a breakthrough, working late into the night in his office, chasing ideas as if they were able to run away from him.

And of course, who was he to Cullen to tell him to take a break? In the last two weeks, Dorian had learnt a significant amount about the man, ranging from his weakness for sugary snacks to how he had a sense of humour, a dry wit that matched Dorian’s sharp tongue word for word, but was not overly generous with it. Yet Dorian couldn’t pretend that their bantering meant he really knew Cullen. Their handful of meetings were a result of Dorian’s tendency to live routinely, slipping into a habit of visiting Cullen after work to check up on his broken rarity. If Cullen had turned out to be good company and Dorian had nothing better to do, certainly not go back to his empty apartment and mope until he could justify opening a bottle of wine on a weekday, then what of it?

And Cullen didn’t seem to mind. Or at least, he didn’t tell Dorian to not visit, though his texts remained unremarkable. His dog stealing his phone to send Dorian a random series of emojis was about as riveting as it got. Often Cullen simply neglected to reply when the conversation no longer served a purpose.

Which made flirting rather difficult.

“Hey, knobhead!”

So much for Sera not working today. Almost on instinct, upon entering the coffee shop, Dorian ducked, just missing the dishcloth that had been lobbied at his head. He straightened up, adjusting his shirt, and scanned the place. Between the mismatched tables and chairs and the walls covered in posters that were an equally as random assortment, there were a few patrons (regulars, completely unmoved by the display) and of course, Fade’s employee of the month.

“Hello to you too, Sera,” Dorian said. He eyed the dishcloth she had thrown. “You can pick that up yourself.”

“Twat.” Sera glared at him, leaning on her mop. She was gangly and freckled and during the first few times Dorian had come to the shop, he had been unable to decide if she was a girl or a woman. There was a chaotic energy around her, from the fair bangs that she obviously hacked at herself and a fashion sense that consisted mostly of flannel and tops that had holes in them. She was by no means ugly but even if Dorian was inclined in that way, he had never seen someone look more like a lesbian if they tried. The feeling was mutual. The first time she had served Dorian, she’d taken one look at his styled hair and the fit of his jeans and said, in a bored tone, “Let me guess: iced coffee, right?”

He couldn’t even take offense. After all, she wasn’t wrong.

“How do you get any customers with such rude staff?” Dorian asked no one in particular.

“Easy,” Sera said. “Like this.” And then she made a farting noise with her mouth. Or at least Dorian hoped it was with her mouth.

Ignoring her, Dorian eyed the desserts on display. Behind the counter was Cole, a young man who had only served Dorian a handful of times but had an uncanny ability to guess the order before Dorian could get a word out, even when Dorian deliberately changed it.

Which wasn’t often. After all, Dorian was a creature of habit.

“Afternoon, Cole,” Dorian greeted.

Cole didn’t even blink. He was a pale, tired looking thing, who wore his work cap low on his eyes. “He is waiting for you. Always waiting. He is good at fixing things but not making thing. Can he make this a thing?”

Cole, Fade’s newest employee, also was probably a medium of some variety and Dorian never knew what the hell he was talking about. Including now.

Instead, he said, “Brilliant. Can I get extra ice?”

Cole set to making Dorian’s order and Dorian tapped a coin against the counter as he waited. Always waiting. He entertained the thought that maybe Cole was talking about him but it was short-lived. He was not a patient man, by any means, and the first time Cole had offered a vision in words, it had turned out to be a rather cryptic message about a late shipment of milk.

And if there was one thing Dorian was notoriously bad at, it was fixing things.

Perhaps Dorian was thinking too hard about Cole’s words and how to decode them because he didn’t hear Sera until she was by his ear. “Thinkin’ about your Curly-wurly?”

He started, leaning away but Sera was already sliding out of his personal space, cackling. Dorian recovered quickly. “My- excuse me?”

But not quick enough. Her grin widened. “You know. Your boyfriend.”

“I have a boyfriend?” Dorian blinked innocently. “You should have told me. I would have put my intense loneliness and lifelong fear of commitment down.”

She huffed at him, leaning all her weight on the handle of the mop. “No need to be smartass. We all know it.”

“All except me. What a surprising turn of events. Do enlighten me on the knowledge that I have been so deprived from.”

She spoke in sing-song. “You fancy Cullen.”

Dorian made the executive decision to pretend she hadn’t spoken. “Hang on a second. You call him Curly-wurly? How well do you know the man?”

“Well enough to know he’s got a real stick up his arse.” She grinned wickedly. “Do you pull it out for fun?”

“Surely you could have guessed that sticking it in is the fun part.”

“Ew.”

Dorian tutted. “Don’t pull that face, you’ll scare away the remaining customers, including me. And then where would this fine little establishment be?”

At that, Sera contorted her face as grotesquely as she could. He tried not to laugh. “Though you never answered my question. What did he ever do to you to warrant condiment filled doughnuts?”

Sera’s face sobered and she shrugged. “He’s just… you know. He’s wound up so tight, it’s fun watching him go off the rockers a bit. Loosen up. In the other way. Not your way.”

“Delightfully put.” He raised his eyebrows. “So you’re doing it to help him, in a roundabout way?”

It could have been the trick of the light in the coffee shop but Dorian could have sworn Sera was blushing. She scowled through it with dignity. “Help, shmelp. I want him to blow his top.”

“With that stick up his ass, you’d think he was a bottom.”

Sera pointed the tip of the mop handle under his nose threateningly. “I’ve ‘ad it with you.”

Dorian raised his palms in surrender. “Now, now. I’m not disagreeing with you. He is very serious about his work. It would do him good to relax a little.”

Sera moved the handle side to side, as if attempting to hypnotise Dorian. Her grin, sharp as a knife, returned. “And I bet you know all sorts of ways to make that happen.”

“Okay, you need to make up your mind. Are you partaking in the dirty jokes at my expense or horrified by them? Pick one.”

“I think the stick up your arse could use a pulling too.”

“Your way with words never fails to move me, Sera.” He spoke dryly. “And I’ll have you know that I am most definitely a bottom and I have no complaints about anything being up my ass.”

Cole chose that very moment to return, with two cups, a pack of doughnuts and the words, “It hurts, just not as much. Defending, pretending, ending. It will go one day. The pain will leave an absence to be filled with better things.”

Unhelpfully, Sera said, “Not another stick, I’d hope.”

Dorian didn’t have the time or energy to attempt to decode another one of Cole’s messages from the spirit world. He pushed the handle in his face aside and dug out his wallet. Doughnuts tucked safely into his work bag, he placed the usual bill on the table and forwent telling them to keep the change. By now, they already knew the drill. He marched out of the shop with the cups in his hands and Sera calling, “tell him I said his hair looks bad today!” after him.

It wasn’t a far walk from Fade’s to the auto repair shop. The first time he had made his way, with an offering of coffee, Cullen had looked up from Dorian’s motorcycle and his glare had softened into surprise. Dorian had announced that he was just checking in and Cullen hadn’t asked any questions, instead gesturing at a pile of tyres for Dorian to use as a make-shift seat and returning to whatever he was doing to make Dorian’s bike less of a broken bulk of metal. After a short while of silence, Cullen started gruffly explaining, as if the information would make any sense to Dorian who had no tools in his apartment that weren’t for below average cooking. But Cullen was reaching out, as Dorian had with a coffee cup in hand, and it filled the silence.

From it, Dorian learnt that Cullen didn’t just fix motorbikes but he knew a good few things about them. It was a boyish interest and when he caught himself babbling over the one Dorian had dropped into his lap, he flushed a little. He had the most delightful little blush, down to his neck, maybe further. Dorian couldn’t not tease him. He said, mildly, “Do you want me to leave you two alone?”

Even Lion barked a laugh, though it may have been a sneeze.

Dorian was as self-deprecating as he was flirtatious, a terrible habit that Bull often reprimanded him for. Cullen didn’t rebuff his teasing but he didn’t exactly encourage it. Had Bull not enlightened Dorian otherwise, Dorian would have gone on to assume the man was as straight as they come. But Dorian would be lying if that wasn’t what made Cullen so interesting, an enigma to understand and a puzzle to piece together. He was reserved, choosing his few words carefully, but sometimes the stiffness in his shoulders would ease and he would make a quip so well executed that often, it wasn’t until Dorian would be laying in bed that night relaying the conversation over to himself that he would realise he had been had.

Curiosity killed the cat, Dorian. Felix reminded him of his tendency to treat his interpersonal relationships like codes to crack and conversations like data. Dorian had told him that if that was the case then Cullen was simply another research project that Dorian would move on from. There was no cause for concern. The empty space in his life was meant to be filled with a motorcycle but the motorcycle’s mechanic would have to do.

Dorian had declared it, easily, lightly, but over the phone because he was avoiding seeing his best friend to avoid said best friend’s tendency to give good, reasonable but ultimately unfun advice.

“I’m not worried about you seeing him as a project,” Felix had said. “I’m worried about when you don’t.”

Dorian ignored that part.

Through his nationally recognised researching abilities, he had come to learn that Cullen wasn’t one to seek out company but it seemed to gravitate towards him. He knew people, not in the way Dorian or even Bull did, but his customers often asked about him like they knew him too. Lion’s a big boy now, wow. I remember when he was a little runt. How’s your sister? Do you know when Varric’s back in town? Is Cassandra still doing classes? Cullen would answer the questions simply, never offering more information than necessary, but it was enough for Dorian to go back to the drawing board, to scrap his theory that Cullen was a loner with no one in his life but his dog. The days and nights when Dorian was told the shop was closed, Cullen had a life that Dorian pieced together from scraps. It bordered on frustrating.

Dorian knew that Order Auto Care was owned by Cullen, though he had yet to decipher how Cullen had come about it. A family business maybe? But Cullen’s family were elsewhere (though, he had assured one customer, Mia and her family were due for another visit.) Cullen’s finances were a mystery to Dorian but he didn’t look like a trust fund baby with a hobby – and Dorian knew one when he saw one.

No, the shop, however he managed to secure it, was important to Cullen. He enjoyed cars, not quite like with a child-like obsession but a calm understanding. Maybe he liked the mechanics of taking things apart and putting them back together. Maybe it was what he was good at and he had rolled with it, as many adults did. Maybe Dorian was romanticising Cullen Rutherford but he was too handsome and rugged and unaware of his charms not to.

Dorian knew that Cullen was not entirely unaware when people were flirting with him but frowned like he couldn’t work out why. He also knew that Cullen had recently joined the trend of drinking flat whites and refused, of all things, to be embarrassed about this fact.

“What do you have against flat whites?” he had asked in the face of Dorian’s incredulousness.

Without thinking, Dorian had responded with, “I’ve dated too many.”

One thing Dorian didn’t know, however, was trapped in a single moment that reoccurred, like a loop in time, when Dorian would be about to leave the shop at the end of the evening and Cullen would stop him, sometimes with his name, sometimes without a word. They would look at each other, still, and emotions would pass through Cullen’s eyes like a show reel, too fast for Dorian to see, to comprehend or analyse.

But it would always stop on a kind of blankness, a shutter closing, and all it left in its place was another empty space. Unsaid questions, unsaid answers, unsaid words.

God, Dorian hated empty spaces.

When Dorian reached the shop five minutes later, he was met, as he always was, with a dog shaped bear. Lion’s enthusiasm, consisting of circling him and yapping, was most likely because he smelt food but Dorian still placed the cups on the nearest flat surface and squatted down to greet him with a thorough petting. Every time he did, it was not as hesitant as the last. “Don’t get too excited,” he told the dog sternly. “Doughnuts are terrible for dogs and humans alike but dogs especially.”

If Lion understood the gravity of his words, he gave no indication of it and continued to pant excitedly. Over the course of Dorian’s visits, the two of them had come to a truce, softened by petting and their mutual desire to please Cullen. Oftentimes, when Dorian didn’t realise he was staring at Cullen for too long, it was Lion’s knowing gaze that made him come back to himself, embarrassed to be caught gazing by a dog. He nudged Dorian now, his nose bumping against Dorian’s cheek to get his attention once more. Dorian shooed him away, gently and without maliciousness, and rose to his feet again.

He thought of Sera’s words. You fancy Cullen.

He was talking with a customer beside a car that looked like it had seen better days. Today he was wearing jeans that Dorian just knew Cullen hadn’t bought torn and a plain black tank-top that Dorian was sure had been bought with arms. His hair was not as perfectly controlled, as if he’d spent the day running his hands through it. Dorian’s own hands twitched at the thought so he retrieved his iced coffee to give them something else to do. When Cullen noticed him, he gave him a small smile, barely a tilt of his lips, but it had been two days since they had seen each other last and Dorian liked to think his gaze lingered as the customer nattered on, catching on the shoulders of Dorian’s work blazer and the drink in his restless hands. When Cullen raised an eyebrow, as he often did when faced with a chatty customer, Dorian had to bite his lip to contain his laugh.

A juvenile way of putting it but he couldn’t say Sera had been wrong.

The customer hadn’t noticed Cullen’s distraction or Dorian’s appearance. Upon closer inspection, he was a handsome fellow, only a touch shorter than Cullen but a tad bulkier too. His skin was lightly tanned, contrasting with the strawberry blonde hair he kept pushed neatly back from his face. He wore jeans that slouched but a rather fashionable denim jacket over a pale T-shirt and dark boots and Dorian wondered if he was on his way to something special to meet someone special. His face, animated in conversation, was boyish and rosy-cheeked, despite the stubble peppering his defined jaw. Had they been in any place other than in the presence of Cullen, Dorian would have flirted with him without a second thought, though he was not quite able to get a read on him. Bull had been right. His gaydar was not as it used to be.

“Alistair,” Cullen said, interrupting the man’s rant (about someone called Morrigan who he was one hundred fucking per cent certain had hexed him) in a patient tone. “Back to the car.”

“Oh, yeah.” Alistair’s smile was school boy guilty. “Like I said, I didn’t think there was anything wrong with it but I was driving and, well, there go the tyres. And I thought, jeez. It’s gonna blow if I die driving ten down a straight road. Like I’d rather not die altogether, thanks, but if I had to go in this rust bucket, it could at least have been a car chase or something.”

Cullen snorted. “I don’t think your rust bucket could survive a car chase.”

Alistair’s eyebrows furrowed. “No, I guess not. But that’s the point. To go up in flames and glory.”

Cullen ignored him. “Then what happened?”

“Half parked up on someone’s lawn just to check on the thing. Got out and took a look at it and I’m no car doctor but something doesn’t look right here.” He kicked the tyre nearest to him lightly. “Tell me you see it too.”

“I see it.” Cullen’s voice was mild but amused. “Have you made enemies in recent years, Alistair?”

“I should hope not.” Begrudgingly, he added, “I think it was Zev.”

“Zevran?” There was familiarity in Cullen’s tone and surprise. Dorian watched the conversation unfold, leaning back on a work table as he sipped his iced coffee. “Why would he slash your tyres? I thought you two were…”

Alistair had the most endearing blush Dorian had ever seen, second only to Cullen. The way Cullen trailed off, a little unsurely, obviously meant something. Alistair scuffed the toes of his boots as he spoke to the floor, like a child who was expecting a telling off. “We had a fight.”

“Of course.” Cullen squatted down near the tyre to inspect it and his jeans were tremendously tight around his thighs. Dorian took another long sip. “Not too serious, I hope?”

The sarcasm went right over Alistair’s head. “I don’t think so. Though Zev can hold a mean grudge and it has been nearly a week. Oh, God. What if he doesn’t forgive me?”

The panic in Alistair’s voice made Cullen settle more comfortably on the floor and look up, concerned. They were a couple of feet apart but it was a dangerous angle, Cullen on his knees in front of a handsome stranger. Dorian wondered if he would be better off taking off the lid of his iced coffee and chugging it straight.

“What happened, Alistair?” Cullen’s voice was gentle enough for Dorian to feel somewhat guilty for the direction of his thoughts. He was being a good friend. Mind out the gutter, Pavus.

Alistair shifted on his feet. Lion, a perceptive creature, wandered over to him and Alistair held him gratefully as he spoke. “It’s just… Isabella was back in town. And you know how he gets with her.” Another name that sparked recognition in Cullen’s eyes. He nodded, encouraging Alistair to continue. “So we argued a little. Or maybe a little a lot. And at some point, I realised I was being a brat and I trusted Zev. I trusted him with my life. So I asked him to marry me.”

Cullen’s face slackened in surprise. Alistair grinned awkwardly. “I know, right? He had a knife in his hand – don’t worry, the kitchen kind, he was cutting peppers – and there was the living room sofa between us and he had his hair pulled back in this little bandana and I was only wearing a towel because I just got out of the shower but I didn’t think. I just knew that I wanted him as a forever deal, you know?”

Dorian felt an acidic ache in his stomach where butterflies fluttered. The romantic notion was as sickening as it was sweet. It was not an uncommon feeling. Sometimes, for Dorian, forever felt like candy, so sweet it poisoned.

Cullen was laughing, that laugh that was throaty and quiet but never mean. “You freaked him out?”

Alistair crossed his arms over his chest, huffing. “Don’t laugh. He thinks I was joking and- well, you know Zev. It’s not something to joke about.” His voice softened lovingly. “Not with him.”

Cullen was looking at him fondly. “You still haven’t told me why Zev might have wrecked your car wheels.”

“Oh.” Alistair grimaced. “He’s mad because he thinks I’m messing with him so he’s trying to make my life hell instead of, you know, talking about it.”

Cullen rose back to full height. “I’m guessing the wheels weren’t the start of it.”

“Oh, no. He also binned my cheese, put his pinkest underwear in the laundry with my work shirts and only talks to me in Italian.” Cullen opened his mouth. Alistair corrected himself, “Rabid-fire Italian.”

Despite the obvious plight of Alistair, Cullen’s concern was not heavy. He smiled, crossing the short distance to clap Alistair on the shoulder. It was a very masculine gesture. Lion danced between their legs, demanding attention. Cullen’s other hand soothed him, curling over Lion’s ears almost unconsciously. “Then you talk to him. Show him you’re serious. If you want forever, you can’t just quit it when it gets a little tough. Put some elbow grease into it, Theirin.”

Alistair visibly relaxed, laughing. The ache in Dorian’s stomach travelled upwards. He wondered if it was a cause for medical concern and if he may be dying.

Cullen gave the car a despairing glance. “You weren’t kidding about it being a rust bucket though. You’ve had this thing since you were, what? Early twenties? Isn’t it time to let it rest?”

“Ah, well. I can’t afford a new one.” When Cullen raised an eyebrow expectedly, Alistair smiled that sheepish smile that Dorian had come to recognise, through their entire exchange, as staple to the man’s character. He admitted, “After me and Zev fought, I went out to buy rings. To show him I’m being serious.”

“You asked him to marry you and you hadn’t even bought the rings yet?” Now Cullen sounded offended.

“Save it, Leliana already chewed me out about it.” Another name packed with significance. Cullen looked entertained by the prospect. “Anyway, long story short, I can’t afford a new car.”

“Can you even afford new tyres?” Cullen grumbled, bending down a little to inspect another. It gave Dorian a great view of his ass. He was out of iced coffee. “And are you sure it’ll survive another tune-up?”

“I don’t see why not.” Alistair slapped the roof of the car proudly. “This bad boy can fit so many breakdowns.”

Without thinking, Dorian said, “Him and I both.”

Alistair jumped. It seemed impossible for Dorian to not be noticed, lounging against a work table with a straw between his teeth, but Alistair blinked at him as if he wasn’t quite sure he was real.

Cullen straightened up again to gesture between them. “Alistair, meet Dorian. Dorian, Alistair. Dorian’s bike is in for repairs.”

Dorian waggled his fingers in a little wave and Alistair smiled, completely genuine. “Hi. You ride?”

For the second time in one day, Dorian was forced to say, “Something like that.”

Cullen didn’t call out his bluff, though he smirked a little. Dorian wished he had answered with something a little more creative. It would have been satisfying to see the looks on both their faces had he come out with a tasteful not just motorcycles.

Then Alistair turned to Cullen and said, “Shit, was he booked in? You can change the wheels after. We’ve kept him waiting ages, right?” and his concern was sweet enough for Dorian to be glad he hadn’t said something somewhat unwarranted like yeah, your dad.

“You’ve,” Cullen corrected, “wasted more than his time, Alistair.”

“Yeah but I don’t care about you.” Alistair’s grin softened the blow of his words. “Fix his bike.”

“If only it were that easy,” Cullen said, more to himself than anyone else.

Alistair looked at Dorian quizzically and Dorian put him out of his misery. “It’s a bit of a long job, apparently. I just swing by to check on him. He gets lonely.”

Alistair kept blinking. “Who? Cullen?”

“The bike,” Cullen and Dorian answered simultaneously, Cullen through teeth and Dorian through laughter. Dorian added, “Cullen lets me hang around because I bring snacks.”

Alistair looked between them but seemed at loss at what to say. Finally, he directed his question at Cullen. “So you can fix the wheels now?”

“Do I not have other jobs or commitments or a bed to go home to?” But Cullen’s tone was teasing.

“Ooh, ooh! I know the last one.” Alistair raised his hand like a kid in class, smiling smugly. “Nope. You never sleep.”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “You gonna help me or just stand here talking long enough for Zevran to think you’ve chickened out and taken a hike?”

Alistair paled. Dorian almost felt bad for the man. “You don’t think-”

Without a trace of doubt, Cullen said, “Not for all the gold in the world.”

Dorian watched them get to work, a pleasant sight, partly because Alistair had shucked off his jacket as he joined Cullen on the floor but mostly because they worked well together, not entirely in sync but comfortable, betraying that Alistair had some experience in either changing tyres or simply just working with Cullen. Lion found his usual spot to curl up and watch, ears relaxed but eyes always alert. There was a companionable silence until Alistair said, “What chickens hike?” and Cullen threatened to lobby a spanner at his head.

Dorian was happy just to watch them work until Cullen looked over suddenly. “Do you know how to change a tyre?”

He had the good graces to be embarrassed at his answer. “Can’t say I do.”

Cullen didn’t comment on that, simply gestured him over, and Dorian hoisted his bag off his shoulder and, after a brief hesitation, his jacket too. He hovered near Cullen until Cullen gestured for him to lower himself down next to the car. He did so warily, mindful of how his work shirt and slacks were not made for any labour that didn’t involve a computer screen.

“We’ve already done some of the heavy lifting and it was only two of his tyres but take a look. Car’s already jacked, though remember you gotta loosen the lug nuts” – Cullen tapped his finger on one – “before you put it in the air.”

“Loosen the nuts. I’m listening.”

Alistair snickered but Cullen was unmoved. He looked at him expectedly and Dorian realised that he wasn’t getting a demonstration. “You want me to- now?” He looked down at himself. “In my work clothes?”

“Bust tyres don’t wait until you’re dressed down,” Cullen said seriously but his lips twitched. “But if you don’t think you can do it-”

“I don’t think I can do it? I could loosen nuts all day.” He rolled up his sleeves to punctuate his point. Somewhere in the background, Alistair sounded like he was choking.

Cullen shook his head. “All you gotta do is take the lug nuts off. Yeah, just with your hands- no, it’s” – he leant over, catching Dorian’s hand in his own to direct his fingers the other way – “counter-clockwise.”

“Ah,” Dorian said, smartly. Cullen was close, his shoulder pressing against Dorian’s, even through Dorian’s shirt. He was always so warm.

And then the warmth was gone. Cullen moved back, taking the flat tyre with him. “Alistair, roll over that spare tyre, would you?”

“Yes, sir.”

They exchanged tyres. Cullen handed the new one to Dorian. “Now line it- yeah, that’s it.” If you asked Dorian, Cullen had no business saying those words in that kind of tone. “Now you put the lug nuts back on and tighten them as far as they go by hand. That should do it. Here.”

Dorian accepted the wrench. It was cold and heavy. “Now, just give ‘em another screw.”

“They come back.” Dorian spoke under his breath. “They always come back.”

Alistair laughed out loud.

Cullen ignored them both. “Not too tight. Just firm. Alistair, pull your weight and lower the car.”

“Hey!” Alistair protested, half-heartedly. “I didn’t do anything.”

“That’s exactly my point.”

They waited as Alistair set to loosening the jack, grumbling all the while, until the car was lowered fully.

“Now you gotta tighten them good- not a word.” Cullen’s voice was low in warning but this close, Dorian could see laughter in those warm, honey eyes. He had such pretty eyes.

Dorian set to work as an excuse to look away from Cullen.

“Put your back into it.”

He blew out a frustrated breath. “I’ve definitely heard that one before.”

“Dorian.” Dorian had come to know a fair few things about Cullen since meeting him but no discovery quite delighted him like the new ways Cullen said his name. And he said it often, like this, always exasperated, sometimes exhausted.

It was a crying shame he couldn’t hear it under more erotic circumstances instead of when he was wrestling a wrench to fix another man’s tyre.

He sighed melodramatically but did indeed put more force into it or as much as he was able. He was by no means weak or terribly unfit but gaining purchase with sweaty hands was most of the hard work. “All this talk of nuts and tightening and screwing and you expect me not to make a song and dance about-”

He was cut off by his own surprise as Cullen wrapped his arms around him to once again cover Dorian’s hands with his own, head at Dorian’s shoulder and mouth at Dorian’s ear. “Behave.”

Good God.

Dorian didn’t say a word. He wasn’t sure he even breathed. With every turn of the wrench, Dorian could feel Cullen’s arms flexing. He felt, when Cullen tilted his head a little in concentration, the scratch of stubble against the side of his face. It was the closest anyone had been to Dorian in a long time.

And yet as soon as Cullen moved back, Dorian shot up. Alistair was stood close by and did not disguise the fact that he had been staring at them with wide eyes and a slack jaw. Cullen didn’t look at him but it may have not been pointedly. Dorian couldn’t work out if the flush on his face is from the heat of the garage or something else. Whatever that something could possibly be.

Dorian hadn’t realised he was still gripping the wrench, tight enough for his knuckles to go pale, until Cullen took it from him, almost gently, coaxing his fingers open and taking. Dorian could only watch, much like Alistair, as Cullen returned to fixing up the tyres.

“Okay,” Alistair said suddenly, too loudly. He was blinking rapidly, like he had been when he first saw Dorian, as if seeing him for the first time. “Okay.”

But before Dorian could ask what those okays meant, he started speaking again, a little faster than he had before. He brushed by Dorian with a light shoulder bump that felt deliberate somehow and stationed himself by Cullen to chatter away, all about people that Dorian didn’t know and a life that Cullen led that felt as foreign as the language he described engine parts and motorcycle brands.

When Lion wound himself around Dorian’s legs, Dorian obliged him. His hand shook as he ran it over the dog’s neck and he stroked over the fawny coat until the tremors stopped, only half listening as the two men argued about prices and who owed who what and when.

“Okay, seriously,” Cullen was saying, mock-sternly, “get out. Don’t you have a boyfriend to appease?”

Dorian turned in time to catch Alistair’s grin turn dopey. Every emotion was plastered on his face for the world to see. He was undoubtedly the result of what would happen if a man and a golden retriever swapped bodies.

Before he left, he shook Dorian’s hand and had an extended goodbye with Lion, with more barking than coherent words. When he backed his car out of the garage, he rolled down he window to yell, “wish me luck!” before driving off, perhaps a little too carelessly for new tyres but Cullen only shook his head with a smile.

The garage felt too quiet in his absence. Dorian cleared his throat. “So, a friend of yours?”

“Alistair Theirin.” Another name that just meant something. “We were roommates back in college.”

“Full of fond memories?”

When Cullen laughed, not too loudly, the tension eased a little. “A few. He was a slob and an idiot. Still is, if you couldn’t have guessed.” His sigh was fond. “There goes my evening.”

“You had plans?”

Cullen turned away to clear up some clutter. Like always, he needed to keep his hands busy. “I had work.” He spared Dorian a glance over his shoulder, smiling apologetically. “Sorry for wasting your evening too.”

“Not at all. It was nice to meet Alistair.”

“He’s a good kid.”

“Hopefully, he can reconcile with…” He waved a hand as if attempting to conjure the name from air, as if it wasn’t safely stored in his mind like all the information, small and big, he had accumulated from becoming background in the garage.

“Zevran. His boyfriend since college.”

Sometimes, the ache in his middle would creep up slowly, spreading like a virus. Sometimes, it simply felt like a kick in the chest. “Ah. They’ve come far, I presume?”

Cullen looked faraway for a moment. “More than you can possibly imagine.”

Lion was still at Dorian’s feet and he circled him once more. He was getting better and better at sensing Dorian’s discomfort. He whined until Dorian gave him a hearty ruffle. “You only want me when I’m coming or going.”

“You’re going?” Cullen asked. He didn’t look surprised so much as unsure.

“I should.” After a moment, Dorian added, “I have some work to be doing myself.”

“Of course.”

Dorian didn’t know what that meant. He retrieved his bag, put on his blazer and dodged Lion with half-expert grace. He wondered if his antics were because he didn’t want Dorian to leave or if he simply wanted to see Dorian fall flat on his backside again. It was hard to tell with the dog.

Like dog, like owner.

And like clockwork, Dorian was turning away when Cullen spoke again. “Dorian?”

“Yes?” He sounded hopefully and wanted to kick himself because Felix had been right. Dorian had always been rubbish at separating his work from his heart. Even the silliest projects had to produce a result to make him feel worthy. It was a matter of pride. It always had been.

Cullen looked at him, like he always did. Undecipherable. And then he said, almost tiredly, “Get home safe.”

Dorian left like he always did. He walked to the metro and rode it with his head tilted back. He thought about the work he should have done this evening but he couldn’t find it in him to mourn lost time when he thought of Alistair and if the rings fixed anything. Not even when the ache made him lower his head between his knees.

When he emerged above ground, his phone notified him of a text.

[Cullen Rutherford, 19:46] Did you steal my doughnuts?

Despite himself, Dorian smiled.

Chapter Text

It was a terrible idea, perhaps the worst Dorian had ever had. And he had an extensive history of bad ideas.

He’d prepared all the necessary material for tomorrow’s seminars, had cooked himself a meal that involved vegetables and even cleared his emails (his father’s emails went straight to the junk folder.) He had washed his sheets, put on a new set and then had a bath that eased the sore muscles of his back – Vivienne had warned him that if he didn’t sit upright at his desk, this would happen – and surrounded him in the fragrance of cedarwood and sweet orange. He even cleaned up his face, neatening his moustache and shaving around it. He had forgone underwear in favour of drinking wine, propped up in bed in nothing but a short silk nightgown like a tragically beautiful widow of a wealthy but aging patriarch.

Or simply a man overcompensating for a booty call who probably didn’t deserve all this effort.

The reality was neither here nor there. Instead, Dorian was on his laptop. After worrying his lip between his teeth, he opened his browser then reloaded it in incognito mode. He felt ridiculous.

He downed what remained of his glass and set it aside. He ran a hand through his hair which he had allowed to dry naturally and it curled at its ends. He entered something flagrant into his search bar and dragged a hand over his face.

He felt positively foolish.

If anyone asked, Dorian always pretended that he hadn’t been in a dry spell for a considerable amount of time now. But no one ever asked, either too self-conscious to or they were a heavily scarred and burly overgrown man who fixed people’s brains for a living and didn’t need to ask. Either way, he justified the behaviour as a natural course of action, part of the recovery process that only concerned him and his own right hand. Surely not taking his self-destructive behaviours out into the world was a form of character development. Everyone should be thankful he was engaging in a relatively healthy coping mechanism for once in his life.

One video was lovingly titled ‘Handsome Hunk Gets Nailed By Beefy Stud’s Hot Rod.’

So maybe the problem wasn’t that going on Porn Hub made him feel like a teenage boy trying to navigate the changes his body was going through. Desire was hardly an uncommon feeling to Dorian. But it had manifested, over the last few months, in poorly timed one-night stands, often getting too drunk to do anything more than fall asleep on any suitors, if they even got far enough to make it to a bed, or on Bull who rejected his fair share of advances because you’re drunk, Dorian, go the fuck to sleep. In retrospect, Dorian was glad that the worst thing to happen to him was mere embarrassment at his own actions but he never felt guilty about wanting sex. He’d had his years of shame and he had long outgrown them, thankfully.

No, the problem here was that he had passed the stage of uncontained insatiability into staring down the results of searching gay porn dedicated to the fantasy of fucking a mechanic.

In Dorian’s defence, he hadn’t intended to narrow his search down to something so specific. He had opened his laptop with the entirely noble intention of not thinking about Cullen Rutherford. He was to fix the entirely random desire pooling low in his stomach without thinking about Cullen or his hands or his thighs or the way his stubble had felt against Dorian’s face.

Except not thinking about the way Cullen had pitched behave low into Dorian’s ear was easier said than done. Dorian had been ignoring Felix’s texts and whilst being asked to stay late by Vivienne would be something he would later be thankful for because it meant he wasn’t making a fool of himself in front of Cullen in this state, he had come home irritable and naturally, lonely.

So he had changed his sheets because he knew his mess alone wouldn’t be enough to make it a waste of time and now he was staring, in a transfixed and vague sense of horror, at a video in which a ‘Sexy Twink Gets An Oil And Fix By Hot Mechanic.’ He wondered briefly if his standards had gone up since he’d last indulged in watching porn. Couldn’t they consider investing in a half-decent quality filter?

Or maybe he was simply looking for something that wasn’t there, a real man that he had a hesitant but budding friendship with in the caricature of mechanics in porn he really was too bloody old for.

He stopped the video when the Hot Mechanic had the Sexy Twink, sufficiently oiled, spread across the bonnet of a car (that was probably not broken) with a gruff “I’ll fix you right up” because of course he would. He closed the browser and tossed his laptop aside, settling back on his pillows with a huff.

Not entirely unmoved from the video, his cock laid across his thigh, just a touch too stiff to ignore. He stared down at it accusingly and said, out loud, “This is your fault.”

Then he wrapped a hand around himself.

Because Dorian thought of himself above a lot of things but one of them wasn’t a quick wank so he could pretend it wouldn’t leave him feeling cold and empty. He’d had a long day.

He circled through his usual fantasies, of the curve of muscles and the sharpness of a smile. He tried to paint a picture of nameless men that would fuck him into the mattress then leave without wanting breakfast or God forbid, a conversation. One after the other, they became hybrids of men he knew, men he respected and men he had loved. He banished them away, ghosts of the past that circled his bed until he closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to face them, hand stilling.

In the darkness of the privacy of his own head, he saw one stubborn man.

If you can’t beat them, join them.

Instead of a pornographic fantasy taking place in the repair shop, Dorian envisioned him here, kneeling between his spread legs, his golden hair hand-mussed and the weight of his eyes, darkened by desire, pinning Dorian against the bed. His fingertips, rough from callouses but light in their touch, would part his nightgown with an almost comical delicacy. His touch would be teasing, like the delight in the corner of his eyes and the pleased tilt of his lips. When his fingers brushed the soft skin inside Dorian’s thighs, Dorian would shudder. He shuddered.

Eyes still closed, his legs parted further, as if to accommodate another body as a pair of warm hands wrapped around his own. Up and down the length of Dorian’s cock slowly, so damn slow, pumping him to full hardness. Dorian arched up, desperate, only for thick forearms to press down on his hips. He made a noise in his throat as he thought of soft, rough laughter and warm breath hitting his cock. The head was wet under his thumb.

Dorian groaned, partly because it was too easy to imagine Cullen’s mouth wrapped around his cock but mostly because he was so hard at the thought of his new friend sucking him off that tears welled at the corner of his eyelids. He didn’t open them, refusing to let the image escape him, and was forced to feel around his bedside table for the lube. His empty wine glass hit the carpeted floor with a dull thud.

Hand wrapped now slick around himself, he saw Cullen with startling clarity. He saw the way the scar on Cullen’s upper lip would stretch as he took the head of Dorian’s dick into his mouth, the way his cheeks would hallow and how he would look, look right back up at Dorian with that inquisitive gaze. He would watch Dorian’s reactions carefully and move accordingly, licking and sucking the length of Dorian into his mouth until his nose pressed into the neatly trimmed hair at his groin, nuzzling it. Of course he would.

That thought should have made Dorian stop or at least stutter but Dorian only dug the balls of his feet harder against his mattress, only picked up the speed in which he fucked into his own hand. The wetness was cool but Cullen’s mouth would be warm, even when it was unforgiving. He would suck him with the same intensity that he gave anything that occupied his focus, like anything but victory was a loss he couldn’t fathom. Cullen came to conquer and Dorian would let him.

But, as Dorian gasped into his pillow, he couldn’t contain the man, not even in his thoughts. Cullen would pull off messily, colour high in his cheeks. The fantasy became something achingly human. Awkward and a little embarrassed, Cullen would be bashfully, stupidly happy about his lover’s pleasure. It was even easier to envision him ducking his head to hide that expression, like he did at compliments. He would cover it by pressing a kiss to Dorian’s hipbone. When he lifted his gaze, it would be flushed and sweet. And oh, wasn’t that a terrible thought?

Dorian didn’t cry out his name, couldn’t breathe at the realisation. When he came, he opened his eyes but not before his mind conjured the image of his cum staining Cullen’s face, droplets glinting off his parted lips, not before Dorian could imagine taking it into his hands and kissing the man, uncaring of the taste of himself on Cullen’s mouth.

Dorian laid there, sweat drenched, his gown slipping further off his shoulders with every heave of his chest. It had been a terrible idea because even if Dorian had found a porn star with striking physical likeness, it wouldn’t be Cullen. It would be a short-lived immersion on a thin thread because it was hard to imagine Cullen fucking in any other way except focused and self-conscious and earnest. It would snap easily because even in his own fantasies, where Dorian was so desperate to lack sentiment, Dorian knew Cullen, knew that he had a careful touch like he knew what his hands were capable of.

It had been a terrible idea because it was one thing to imagine fucking your friend, it was another to want to kiss them after. It was the worst idea he ever had because Dorian didn’t just feel cold and empty. He felt guilty and he was alone.

*

“Hard rubbers.”

Cullen stilled where he was leaning over to tinker with something on the motorcycle. He raised his eyes to look over at Dorian, who stared back at him from his position, part way horizontal, across a pile of tyres, one leg crossed over the other. The makeshift seat had appeared during one of Dorian’s visits. The tyres were large, larger than standard car tyres, and mismatched but clean. He had sat, hesitantly at first, as if afraid he would fall down the middle like a rabbit hole only to realise, upon close inspection, it was more like an immovable Russian doll. Tyres within tyres, carefully constructed. Cullen had stools, tucked under an elevated surface that he would refer to, with a touch of self-deprecation in his smile, as his desk. But Dorian had preferred the tyre throne because the first time he had sat down on it, Cullen hadn’t turned away fast enough for Dorian to miss how pleased he looked. Dorian had to bite his tongue more than once so he wouldn’t ask if Cullen had made it himself because otherwise, he risked shattering the illusion that it was specially for him.

Now, Cullen raised an eyebrow at him. Dorian added, as a significant afterthought, “Eight letters.”

Cullen looked, like he always did. Roughly handsome. He had a timetable but it was a mystery to Dorian so he never knew what to expect. Some days Dorian would find him rolled under a car and Lion would bark at Dorian’s arrival, as if to warn them both to prevent an accident like the first time. On those days, Cullen would be wearing his uniform of coveralls and his voice would be muffled in conversation.

But more often than not, Dorian would arrive to the sight of Cullen in jeans and a T-shirt or a flannel shirt that looked like something Sera would wear or God forbid a vest, sat frowning at paperwork. He would only stop to pet Lion or greet Dorian, acknowledging him with a smile that made Dorian think that it really didn’t matter what Cullen wore.

Nothing, of course, was also good.

Today he wore a white T-shirt that stretched across his shoulders and looked like the cleanest thing Cullen owned. His jeans were already grease stained. Dorian had made a noise in protest when Cullen had started fiddling with his bike so Cullen had fetched an apron.

And Dorian may have preferred Cullen without clothes altogether but he certainly had no complaints when he had, almost shyly, asked Dorian if he could tie the apron, hands helpless and expression embarrassed. He had laughed breathily when Dorian had knotted the ties. “I guess I should cut down on the doughnuts. I’ve, uh, gained some weight around my middle.”

Dorian let his hands linger at Cullen’s waist, at the bulk there that he had been struck with the urge to squeeze. Instead, he moved a hand upward to pat his shoulder, once, friendly, and stepped back. “And make Sera find another purpose in life outside tormenting you? Perish the thought.”

Cullen had turned to look at him. “No, I suppose not,” he said, voice amused but eyes soft, “I wouldn’t want to put Sera out of a job.”

At that moment, Dorian made the executive decision to buy an extra doughnut next time.

“Eight letters?” Cullen echoed, returning to fiddling with the motorcycle.

Dorian hummed in confirmation. He twirled his pen over his fingers and watched Cullen work, the only indication that he was thinking about anything other than the vehicle under his hands was in the furrow of his eyebrows. Whatever he was doing was another mystery to Dorian, despite the fact that upon every visit that coincided with Cullen working on it, Cullen would explain the process resolutely. Dorian would listen, politely, before saying something like, “My good man, I have not the faintest clue what you just said,” and Cullen would smile in laughter, shrug and say, “I still think you should know.”

There was something hopelessly endearing about it.

Some moments passed, enough to make Dorian eye the other clues. Then, suddenly, Cullen straightened up and said, “Ebonites.”

“What?”

“Ebonites,” Cullen repeated. “It’s a non-resilient rubber, formed by vulcanizing natural rubber.”

“Not to be confused, of course, with Ebionites,” Dorian said, “the patristic term for a Judeo-Christian movement from the early centuries of the Christian Era. How do you spell that again?”

Cullen spelled it out and Dorian fitted it into the squares of his crossword puzzle.

It wasn’t always a crossword. Sometimes Dorian would read reports or mark papers. On one occasion, he wrote out a grocery list and had added a treat for Lion. It was an excuse to do something with his hands and his eyes because it was too easy to stare, too easy to touch. Dorian was a tactile person, raised on kissing cheeks and pointed touches which he had carried into adulthood, into friendships and seductions alike. And it had carried into whatever his relationship was with his mechanic.

Whatever it was. That was precisely the problem. Because what was a friendly touch between friends? Except friends didn’t linger and friends certainly didn’t jack off at the thought of the other – unless the definition of friendship had changed in recent years and Dorian really was getting old.

He was still pointedly ignoring Felix’s texts, had managed to avoid Haven and thus, Bull by spending his early evenings with Cullen and letting Lion tire him out enough for him to close his eyes on the metro home. He knew it was temporary, that Felix would get a call in, Bull would get a hold of him or hell, Maevaris would fly back for the sole purpose of levelling him with a look that would force Dorian to admit something, anything.

And Dorian really didn’t want to call this infatuation a crush. He was a grown man and grown men didn’t get crushes. Instead, grown men stopped themselves from touching their friends and instead went home and touched themselves to the thought of said friends.

Bad ideas. Dorian was full of them. He had come to the awkward conclusion that he needed to look beyond cliché porn and take matters not into his own hands but the capable hands of someone else. Hands that weren’t big and grease covered but often surprisingly gentle, when they wrote or petted the dog or touched Dorian’s elbow to direct him or-

It wasn’t that Dorian was a stranger to fucking his feelings away but he was never this notoriously bad at it. He could only use Bull as an excuse to avoid Haven for so long. No, the problem wasn’t just that Dorian found Cullen attractive. It was just that it was very hard to find someone else to distract him when all he wanted to do was, give or take an activity, complete crosswords to the setting sun beside Cullen Rutherford himself.

He couldn’t exactly stamp down on this infatuation easily when the object of it was in his direct line of sight, in a T-shirt that was worn in more ways than one, stretching pale and translucent. So Dorian could do nothing except sit on his hands, even when the chain of the necklace Cullen always wore slipped out to dangle as Cullen leant down. Whatever hung off it was trapped under the neckline of his shirt, a shape Dorian couldn’t quite make out. He wondered if it was a cross. He spoke, stupidly, without thinking, “Are you religious?”

Cullen looked up, squinting. Dorian was raised well enough to feel embarrassed at his brash tone. He moved to sit up, pushing himself to stand. “Ah, sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“I believe in God,” Cullen answered, interrupting simply, “but that’s not the question, is it?”

Dorian raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t it?”

“Is this what your” – Cullen gestured vaguely – “teaching is about?”

Just as Dorian couldn’t follow Cullen’s explanations of his mechanic work, Cullen listened to Dorian talk about his work, complain about walls and enthuse about breakthroughs, but didn’t offer any further insight. Dorian had assumed that he simply didn’t care.

“Not nearly as exciting, I’m afraid.” Dorian moved to stand against a counter closer to Cullen, his ankles and arms crossed. “My research interests are on how the humanities were once mandatory, no matter what profession you go into. They were foundational. It’s a very academic pursuit. There’s no room for God in the classroom.”

“So you believe in Him?”

Dorian had been the one to broach the topic so he had no right to feel uncomfortable now. He made a non-committal sound. “I come from a… political family. So on paper, yes. In reality, God only made an appearance when you had something to gain or something to lose. Though, of course, in politics, that’s everything.”

Cullen watched him speak without interruption. He was a good listener, too good. Dorian’s words fell out of his mouth. “My mother came from a pious family but my father wasn’t- or at least, he hadn’t been in my childhood.”

“And yet they married still?”

Dorian couldn’t help but laugh. “My friend, it was hardly the first of their differences – but yes, they married still. It was arranged. As most marriages are in the north.”

Cullen opened his mouth then closed it. Dorian knew the question that he hid between his lips. Instead, he said, “This is the first time you’ve talked about… where you’re from.”

Dorian forced himself to exercise the tension in his shoulders. “What’s there to say? Terrible place. Poor political landscape but fantastic food.”

Cullen was not swayed by the diversion. “It’s just you never mention your family.”

“Well, you’re not as forthcoming about yours either,” Dorian countered defensively.

“You want to know if they’re religious?” Cullen sounded disbelieving.

“I want to know if religion is a tool, powerful but a tool nonetheless, everywhere or if my homeland is simply capable of making a weapon out of anything.”

“That’s a… harsh way of looking at it.”

Dorian considered the hesitation in Cullen’s words. Stubbornly, he wanted to explain himself. “My father- he was an intellectual, scoffing at the idea that success could be bargained with from any god. But he was smart enough to know the people he wanted to govern. And perhaps it was old age that made him revisit and rethink his faith. It was he who sewed the seed of philosophy in my mind. A belief that man could be greater, perfect even, without any god. Imagine my surprise when he one day simply… changed his mind.”

He watched as Cullen licked his lips. It was terrible timing. “You talk in the past.”

Dorian laughed again, a single, sarcastic note. “He’s not dead so don’t pity me. It would have saved us both a great deal of trouble had he been but no.” He shook his head to dispel the thought and that specific line of conversation. He pointed at Cullen in a needlessly comical fashion and said, “You never answered my question. Or at least, you answered it terribly.”

Cullen smiled, either not noticing or was happy to ignore Dorian’s deflection. “My parents are far from pious but religion was a regular part of our routine, in a small town church, everybody knows the pastor sort of way. But my parents never cared if we didn’t say Grace so much as we didn't waste food, you know?”

“I don’t,” Dorian admitted, more honestly than he had said anything in his life if he was being truthful to even himself. “I bet you were taught that God loved you, no matter what.”

Cullen squinted again. It was more a look of confusion than it was suspicion. “Well, yes. God as lover and giver.”

“A novel concept.”

The conversation was barely in his control. He knew by now how words hung in the air and yet he had spoken his father into the open and now his presence occupied their conversation, an uninvited, unwanted visitor. It was hard to imagine him in between the folds of Cullen’s shop, however, and Dorian grasped at that, at something to tether him to this reality, one that Halward Pavus had not touched. Lion, ever observant, trotted over to butt his head against the hand Dorian didn’t clutch his pen with and there was nothing quite as warming as the affection in a dog’s licks, even if Dorian claimed to hate them.

Cullen watched the exchange with something akin to slightly smug pride. Dorian felt the urge to take his slobber-swathed hand and wipe it against his shirt in retaliation because for all of Dorian’s suspicions of Cullen’s overly-large dog, he had proven Cullen right by falling for the mutt all the same. He was a warm and comforting creature and Dorian was not above admitting, at least to himself, that he needed some warmth and comfort.

But he still had a no touching rule so he just said, thoughtfully, mouth curling, “So weekly church? Did you sing?”

That knocked the smirk off Cullen’s face but tilted the world back into balance. His father’s presence dispersed, unwilling to watch Cullen flush like a school boy. “Growing up, yes. A little.”

Dorian’s grin widened. “Of course you did. I can just imagine you as the golden-haired choir boy. Which one was your favourite?”

Cullen gave him a flat look. “It was a long time ago. I haven’t been to church since my niece’s Christening.”

“And why is that?”

“Didn’t feel right.” He shrugged mildly. “Not everyone is fortunate enough to go to a church that won’t turn them away.”

Dorian blinked. “That is… a noble cause.”

“Hardly.” Cullen looked uncomfortable at Dorian’s words. He focused instead on doing something unnecessary with the motorcycle. Dorian, if nothing else, had come to learn when Cullen was genuinely working or when he was simply making a crossword out of mechanic parts. “I’m not staging protest, by any means. It’s just at some point, you realise you can’t be within something and not be… corrupted by it. Even just a little. So faith just became a more personal matter.”

“Interesting, then, that our outlook on organised religion is not so different,” Dorian observed, voice quiet. “We were both driven away, in some way, by the corruption of the institution.”

They didn’t speak for a moment. Then Cullen stopped fidgeting and just stared down at his hands. When he spoke, he sounded the words like he was chewing them for taste. “It can be comforting sometimes, I think. I’m not saying this to convince you to a more righteous path or anything of the sort. But it’s nice to know you’ll never be alone.”

When he looked up at Dorian again, Dorian realised he had been wrong to think the world spun on a steady axis, with or without the words of his father as weights in the air. It shifted again and Dorian wondered if the world intended to throw him into Cullen or away.

He stood his ground and smiled without teeth. “And if that’s all you want? To be left alone?”

If Cullen had an answer in his sad, honeyed eyes, Dorian was not destined to hear it. The world kept spinning, a silhouette appeared at the garage entrance and maybe the undead ghost of his father would never stop haunting him because Dorian had half expected the figure to be Lord Pavus himself.

But then Cullen said, surprised but not unhappy, “Josie?” and Dorian blinked. The outline softened, curving where Dorian had feared sharpness, coming into view.

A woman walked towards them with shoulders back and hands laced in front of her, a poised if not confident walk that Dorian recognised as the result of upper class upbringing, not unlike his own stroll. Yet where Dorian walked with leisure (a habit he had yet to break, even years away from the privileges of his home), she walked with calculated purpose, as if she yet had something to gain whereas Dorian had been taught that he was everything.

Whatever she was doing looking for everything in a small repair shop, she also brought a presence of lightness, a graceful, almost bounce to every step. Her dark hair was pinned up, revealing an elegant neck, with the exception of a few curls that parted on an alarmingly pretty face. Her cheekbones were pronounced but otherwise, she was by no means a harsh sight. Rather, there was something glossy about her features, her soft mouth and her dark skin, not too much darker than Dorian’s own, contrasting lovingly against her summer dress. It was like staring at a magazine cover.

Her expression, instead of bred arrogance, was mild but polite and sweetly elegant. When Lion trotted over to her, she bent at the knee to greet him in a musical, accented voice. She was, quite frankly, the most beautiful woman Dorian had ever seen.

“Cullen,” she said in response, petting Lion before straightening up to greet the dog’s owner. “Sorry to drop by unannounced.”

“Never a problem,” Cullen said as he wiped his hands on the front of his apron. “You know you’re welcome to drop by any time. Your car running alright still?”

“Cassandra has barely let it run at all.”

Cullen smiled wryly, an inside joke. “With good reason.”

“Oh, stop, I’m not that bad.” She paused with calculated ease. “Speaking of Cassandra, I hear you’ve been avoiding her calls.”

Cullen’s smile dropped. “Ah, well-”

Dorian watched with a sense of wonder because Cullen was honest to God stammering. There was pink high in his cheeks. It was a good look.

Dorian was grinning until she turned to him and blinked, as if she was seeing him for the first time, before she smiled brightly. “And you must be Dorian! It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Josephine Montilyet.” When they shook hands, hers was slim and she squeezed Dorian’s fingers. “We’ve heard so much about you.”

Cullen made a noise, caught between protest and pain. “Josie-”

“Cullen has mentioned me?” Dorian eyed him, sly and more than a little pleased. He inclined his head towards Josephine. “Do go on.”

Josephine smiled innocently but there was a spark of mischief in her eye. “You’re even handsomer in person.”

Dorian decided he liked her.

Cullen lifted his head from massaging his temples, interrupting Dorian’s response. “Is there a reason you’re here, Josephine?”

The use of her full name did not go amiss. Josephine’s smile sobered into that mild expression once again, diplomatic and practiced. They were, undoubtedly, good friends that knew how to navigate around each other. “Cassandra was worried you had forgotten that we’re having our fortnightly catch up since you, like I said, haven’t been responding to her messages. I volunteered to come check on you.”

Cullen sighed, shifting on his feet like a child reprimanded. “You didn’t need to do that. I’ve just been busy.”

“I wanted to.” Josephine’s voice was both gentle yet immovable. “And I want you to join us tonight.”

“It’s not a lie. I have work. Dorian’s motorcycle-”

Dorian scoffed. “Oh, no. You’re not pinning this one on me. My motorcycle can wait.” Cullen glared at him, betrayed, but he simply waved a dismissive hand. “Go drink with your friends.”

“Of which,” Josephine added smoothly, “we can count Dorian. If you’d like to join us, of course.”

Cullen gaped at Josephine. Dorian almost fell over where he lounged. Josephine waited patiently for his response which was nothing more than a strained, “I- uh, I wouldn’t want to impose.”

Josephine looked positively offended by Dorian’s words. “Nonsense! Cassandra and Leliana have been pestering Cullen about meeting you too so we would be thrilled to have you at our table. Wouldn’t we, Cullen?”

Cullen avoided her elbow and mumbled, more to himself than anyone else, “I haven’t even agreed.”

It sounded, from what little Dorian could gather, that Cullen was in the habit to overwork himself at the expense of his friendships. It could perhaps explain why, over the weeks he had been visiting the man, why Cullen had never asked him for drinks or anything more than to bring back lunch from Fade’s (which they never agreed on how to split.) Josephine’s forwardness was unfamiliar to the repair shop but not unwelcome. Dorian’s surprise only spoke of how long he had been in Cullen’s presence, that being direct could surprise him, of all people.

He really was out of practice.

Dorian cleared his throat and tried to regain some resemblance of balance. “Well, if that’s how Cullen is going to be, I’d be happy to take his place.” He winked at Josephine. “I do love a girl’s night.”

Josephine laughed, a sound as lovely as everything else about her. Cullen, however, was pouting. A truly amazing sight. Dorian stifled laughter, raising his palms in defense. “What? I do!”

Cullen shook his head, muttering something else that just about managed to escape Dorian, then said, clearly, “Listen, Josie, I appreciate the gesture. I really do. But even if I wanted to, I can’t just drop everything and go out with you. Look, I even have Lion.”

Hearing his name, the dog raised his head and barked. They all gazed back at Lion, momentarily enraptured by the creature. Then Josephine said, “I’m sure Jim would be happy to look after him.”

“Jim has a life outside of caring for my dog, Josie.”

Dorian couldn’t help himself. “You really know someone called Jim?”

“He’s a college student that lives in Cullen’s apartment block.”

“He watches Lion sometimes,” Cullen added.

“And,” Josephine continued, serious, “we have good reason to believe he’s also very much in love with Cullen.”

Cullen was blushing and stammering again. Dorian wondered if this was commonplace with all of Cullen’s friends or if it was limited to a select few.

He joined in. He had to. Cheerily, he said, “Well, he clearly has Lion’s blessing. Should we expect a spring wedding?”

Josephine laughed again. Cullen groaned, squatting down to stare despairingly at Lion who merely panted back at him with a mouth that always looked like it was smiling.

Maybe Dorian was too soft on the dog (and owner) because he spoke a peace offering. “I know a dog-friendly place, if that would ease your mind?”

“I suppose it would,” Cullen conceded, a little miserably.

Dorian almost felt bad about forcing Cullen’s hand until Cullen looked up at him, expectant, and Dorian could think of little else except the effort it took to form words in his mouth. Fantasies always did little justice. So that’s how he looks down there-

“Haven,” he said, too loudly. “It’s on the other side of town, mind, and I don’t want you to think I’m hijacking your gathering and-”

He broke off, suddenly. The realisation made him feel cold and then warm. Cullen was still looking up at him, hands buried in the fur of his dog but eyes watching Dorian with the sort of merciless intensity that felt like revenge. Dorian saw, too clearly, the twitch of Cullen’s lips.

“Not at all.” Josephine was smiling encouragingly at him.

“And?” Cullen’s prompt was gentle, too gentle to be anything but teasing, knowing.

But Dorian owed Josephine an answer. “It’s, ah, a gay bar.” Dorian frowned at his own words. “Or more so a gay-friendly bar really. I feel as though that should be clarified up front at the very least.”

Josephine’s smile didn’t waver. She fished into her bag and dug out her phone. “What’s the address? I’ll text my girlfriend to meet us there.” And then she winked.

Laughing almost breathlessly, Dorian told her the address. Only seconds passed and Josephine received word that Cassandra and Leliana would find their way there. When she turned to Cullen expectedly, Dorian bit his smile down.

Cullen rose to his feet and looked between them for an indecipherable moment.

Then, with a resigned roll of his eyes, he said, “Alright.”

Josephine clapped her hands together triumphantly, looking delightfully young. Cullen only sighed as she wound her arm through his. And the guilt that Dorian had felt robbing Cullen of his excuses was replaced instead with the one that told him he didn’t deserve the look of fondness Cullen gave him over Josephine’s head. It curled in his stomach, between the ever-present tendrils of desire, tangling with what he wanted and shouldn’t have.

Because Dorian could smile all he wanted at the strange, unlikely but lovely friendship he had formed with Cullen but he couldn’t avoid the fact of the matter, not when he called himself a scholar.

Dorian wasn’t going to be able to fuck his feelings away unless he fucked Cullen himself.

Chapter Text

Josephine drove like a maniac. She rolled the windows down and the radio up and laughed when Cullen yelled over the wind and music, “Please think of the dog!”

Dorian had to roll up the window on Lion’s side because he was determined to stick his head out of it so he had a feeling Cullen was asking for his own sake. He only turned to check on him when, upon the closure of the window closest to him, Lion attempted to climb onto Dorian’s lap to reach the other open window on Dorian’s side. He got as far as his snout out before Dorian tackled him back, wrapping his arms around Lion’s body like an embrace and face smothered against the warm fur. He heard rather than saw Cullen laugh and craned his neck around Lion’s body to glare at him but it was softened (against his will and, Dorian would argue, deliberately) by Lion giving his cheek a long, hearty lick. At Dorian’s blinking, Cullen only laughed harder.

They arrived at Haven in impressive time, screeching to a stop which made Cullen wince. Lion planted his front paws on Dorian’s thighs, confused as they came to a halt and peering suspiciously out the window until Cullen appeared at Dorian’s door. Lion barked happily as the door opened, launching himself out of the car. Cullen allowed himself to be pushed back by Lion, who stood on his hind legs to yap excitedly, a stream of woofs that sounded very much like a recount of his journey to which Cullen answered, between laughter, with sincere is that so?’s and really?’s. Dorian only realised he was smiling at the sight when Cullen looked over Lion’s head to smile back. Lion, a creature of habit, licked his nose and Cullen answered by dropping a kiss to the top of Lion’s head. It was disgustingly adorable.

After Lion found interest in the nearest streetlamp, Dorian clambered out, trying not to brush against Cullen who was leaning his weight against the open door. He was still smiling. “Have fun back there?”

“Like a rollercoaster.”

Cullen leant in, unnecessarily, and pitched his voice low as he said, “Cassandra has tried to tame her to no avail. Her license is somehow still clean.”

Dorian recalled their exchange in the garage and pieced together the assumption that Cassandra, who could only be Josephine’s girlfriend, was understandably wary of letting Josephine behind the wheel. “So you didn’t meet Josephine when a tow truck wheeled a trashed car into your garage? I find that hard to believe.”

Cullen breathed out a quiet laugh. Up close, Dorian could appreciate the folds at the corner of his eyes. “No but I suspect it’s why they keep me around.”

“Now, now, Cullen,” Dorian said, mock sternly, “don’t sell yourself short. You’re also not too hard on the eyes.”

He nudged Cullen’s shoulder with his own as he passed, joining Josephine on the sidewalk. She smiled at him, patient but not without a twinkle in her eye, like the adrenalin from the car ride hadn’t worn off entirely. He merely gestured at the entrance of Haven and said, “Shall we?”

Lion barked his assent.

It had been some Friday nights since Dorian had visited Haven last but it had not changed, still loud and dingy and serving the same terrible drinks since from what he could only assume was the beginning of time. He felt almost self-conscious about bringing Josephine and Cullen here but the former was simply looking around for her other companions and the latter was running a soothing hand over an excitably overwhelmed Great Dane. If they were less than impressed with the bar, neither visibly showed it. Dorian did, however, wince as he heard a crash and a cheer, the familiar sounds of the Chargers toasting the weekend, though he thankfully couldn’t see Bull among them.

His relief was short-lived.

“Dorian!”

Behind Dorian was a wall consisting of a man, a woman and a large dog. In front of him was a reminder that the last time he had been in Haven, he had probably not left on the best of notes. His memory of the night was hazier than he liked but he recalled enough to feel embarrassed – though unfortunately he maintained enough dignity that he didn’t scamper behind Cullen like a child. A waste of all that impressive bulk.

Luckily, Dorian’s voice remained normal. “Ah, Krem. No Bull?”

Krem, Bull’s best friend and knighted second in command, was an attractive man. His hair was always growing out of a militant cut and he was square jawed and bulky, though it was hard to describe anyone ‘big’ when they were constantly dwarfed by the ridiculous size of Bull. The Chargers made an intimidating bunch until Krem smiled, brilliantly white, as he did now before Dorian, sporting an ale which he took a generous swig from.

Krem had a deceptively straight nose so it had been his skin, as dark as Dorian’s, that had struck familiarity within Dorian’s chest when they first met, through Bull (always Bull.) They had been led to believe that it had been at random but Dorian had been homesick without realising. Meeting Krem was warming and chilling all at once, like a cold-induced fever. They had bonded, quite instantaneously, reminiscing on the things they missed and reminding each other of the things they didn’t.

Perhaps for that reason Dorian was much closer to Bull than to his right-hand man. The feeling was mutual. It was hard, sometimes, to face yourself, even if what you saw was in the shape of another man.

That, of course, made Dorian’s tendency to flirt with Krem all the stranger but he took a pleasure in irritating the Mother Hen that Bull absolutely was. And Krem was simply very handsome.

He spoke now, “Chief’s got a hot date. A redhead apparently.” He nodded behind Dorian. “Commander.”

“Krem.” Dorian didn’t need to turn to see the smile on Cullen’s face but he did anyway, admittedly gawking. “Good to see you.”

“You too. What brings you to our neck of the woods?”

“I put a gun to his head,” Dorian interrupted flatly. “You two know each other as well. It shouldn’t surprise me. Do you run Bull’s Facebook?”

Krem snorted. “Not if I wanted to be scarred for life.”

“That’s a rude thing to say about his clients.”

“I’m talking about his bedfellows.” Krem rolled his eyes at Dorian’s laughter and looked at Cullen again. “All that aside, I’m glad to see ya. You look good.”

It was more a fact than a compliment, said without a trace of self-consciousness. Cullen still looked embarrassed. “Thanks.”

When Krem’s eyes slid back to Dorian, his grin made Dorian scowl. “Must have been some threat, though. Me and Chief used to bother him after every session but he always turned us down.”

Dorian ignored the implication in favour of asking, “session?”

“Didn’t Bull tell ya? Commander used to work us to the bone at the gym across town.” To Cullen, he said, “I’m assuming you’re here with Cassandra? She’s over there.”

They all followed his gaze across the bar. Two women were watching them over their drinks. In different ways, their stares were making Dorian wonder if he had made a mistake. At the very least now, he definitely felt somewhat ashamed of his choice of establishment, in which the two women didn’t necessarily look out of place but were certainly above. Dorian grimaced when the Chargers let out another hearty cheer and the short-haired one watched with what could only be described as distaste. The red-haired woman, however, didn’t take her eyes off them- or, more specifically, Dorian and that was so much worse because Dorian couldn’t look away either, not until Krem’s words registered and he tore himself out the daze. To Cullen, he said, “You went to the gym with Bull?”

A tad irritably, Cullen said, “Is that so hard to believe?” He sighed when Dorian merely blinked at him, surprised at his tone, if not the root of it, a self-consciousness that Dorian had observed many times before, going beyond Krem’s fair assessment of his plenty fine physique. Less sharply, Cullen added, “I sparred with whoever needed a partner from time to time.”

“He led drills like a man going to war, more like,” Krem clarified.

“That explains the nickname then.” Dorian side-eyed Cullen. Cullen stared back sourly as if he knew Dorian’s next words would be along the lines of, “Unless you have something to tell us about what you have under your pants. Or lack thereof-”

“Dorian.”

“This is a safe space, Cullen. No one is here to judge you. In fact-”

“Dorian.”

Dorian shrugged his shoulders in surrender, dropping them with this particular line of conversation because Cullen’s had eased. The corners of his mouth twitching felt like a victory. Behind him, Josephine was smiling behind a hand.

Krem verbally elbowed his way past them at the sight of her smile. “You boys are rude. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Dorian gave him a pointed look. “This is Josephine. She’s meeting her girlfriend here.”

Krem rolled his eyes, easing back with an admirable smoothness that retained his dignity. His eyes twinkled in humour as he nodded at Lion who was sat almost politely beside Josephine. “I was obviously talking about the dog, no offence.” He reached past Dorian to extend his hand, murmuring a not so quiet “can’t blame a man for trying” to which Dorian gave him a look that said, incredulously, at a gay bar?

To Josephine, he said, “But it’s nice to meet ya.”

Josephine took his hand. “None taken. Lion is much more accommodating to attention anyway.” Her amused smile betrayed that she was not entirely immune to Krem’s boyish charm. Dorian almost felt, foolishly, like pouting until he saw that Cullen was watching the exchange with his bottom lip trapped under his front teeth, laughing with his eyes. He watched, unsurprised and with the prophetic sense of a dog-owner, as Lion, at his name, butted their joint hands apart. Krem, a good sport, laughed and extended his hand for Lion to inspect. “I can see that. He yours?”

“Mine.” Cullen raised his palm like a school child which made Dorian smile. “Once I stopped coming by the gym so often, I figured I needed something to keep me on my toes.” Dorian’s smile dropped immediately when he used it to gesture between Dorian and Krem. “So how is it you and Dorian know each other?”

Krem didn’t miss a beat. He threw his arm over Dorian’s shoulders. “I’m just the man of Dorian’s dreams.”

Dorian winced at that particular memory. Under his breath, he said, “I was hoping you’d forgotten.”

“Nope.” Krem popped the ‘p.’

Dorian attempted to wrestle out from under Krem’s strong impressive, tanned, unfairly muscular arm as he loudly proclaimed, “Any man is if I have enough drinks in me.” Dropping to a whisper again, he said, “Did I apologise about that night? Let me apologise about that night.”

Krem held his gaze for a second, searching then knowing in a way that reminded Dorian that not only was Krem Bull’s protégé but he understood Dorian in a way that even Bull couldn’t, blood deep and something awful. That’s what it meant to be people like them, even in a bar that couldn’t be further from home even if it tried.

When he said, “I’m glad you’re doing better, Dorian,” Dorian knew he meant it, perhaps with more sincerity than Dorian deserved.

Then Krem laughed, letting go off him with a whack on the back, hard, not knowing his own strength. “And it’s all- what would Bull say? Water under the bridge, all that. Though you be careful where you’re pointing those eyes. A guy’ll catch some feelings.”

Momentarily physically and mentally imbalanced, Krem was giving him a hand. He knew what Dorian did best or rather, what Dorian had been trained to do best. Charm. He found his footing in flirting.

Sighing dramatically, he batted his eyelashes at Krem. “Really? How’re you feeling right now?”

Dryly, Krem responded, “Heterosexual.”

“Unfortunate.” Dorian stepped away from Krem with a smile. “You know where I am if you ever change your mind.”

It was as much a truce as it was a threat. Krem winked at him. “You’ll be the first to know.”

A truly good sport if Dorian ever knew one. As unsettling as it was to be his friend, Dorian was hard pressed to feel anything but an intense, almost overwhelming gratitude to have found the man, here of all places. Smiling, Dorian concluded the conversation simply with, “Don’t let Bull hear you saying that.” He turned his attention back to Josephine who was watching the conversation with curiosity and Cullen who wasn’t watching at all, squatted by his dog. “What can I get you, Josephine? Cullen? They do a few craft beers here. Some of them taste like feet but- no, that’s it. That’s the sentence.”

“I’m sure Cullen can handle our drinks.” At Josephine’s words, Cullen’s head snapped up. The tenseness had returned at some point, untamed by Lion’s nose bumping against the hard line of his shoulders. Dorian frowned as Josephine hooked her arm around Dorian’s in a familiar gesture, much like she had done to Cullen except nothing at all when coupled with her next words. “I’ll introduce Dorian to Cass and Leliana.”

It felt as it always had to Dorian, who grew up in a land of snakes and tricks. A trap.

Dorian opened his mouth in mirror with Cullen. They both closed them at the same time. There was no arguing with Josephine, Dorian was quickly learning, however deceiving her soft demeanour appeared.

But in that moment, there was a sliver of solidarity. Cullen smiled weakly and Dorian inclined his head. “No running away from us now. I still want to hear all about those spars of yours…”

When Cullen merely gave him a withering look, Dorian added, over his shoulder with a grin, “Commander.”

He was not given the satisfaction of seeing Cullen’s reaction before Josephine led him away though he heard Krem’s laugh and then a muted conversation between the two men. Though perhaps that was for the best. After all, he was about to face two women who watched him approach with an undeniable sense of distrust. He needed his wits about him.

Hardly anything new, however. Dorian Pavus had a reputation for having a reputation that proceeded him. When they stopped at the table, he allowed Josephine to introduce him. When he smiled, he did so without teeth.

Cassandra Pentaghast, Josephine’s girlfriend, was not entirely unlike what Dorian had been expecting. She was beautiful and Dorian refused to allow her hard expression distract him from that fact. Her face was angular with a particularly devastating jawline that Josephine pressed a delicate kiss to in greeting, skimming the scar down the side of her face. Her hair was cut handsomely short, like she had taken a pocketknife to it. When Josephine put her hand on Cassandra’s shoulder and squeezed, it was not hard to imagine Josephine insisting her help, fixing it without judgement but with an eye for detail, carding her lovely, slim fingers through it carefully at the end.

Cassandra wore plain, practical clothes (a T-shirt, dark jeans and a pair of boots) that reminded Dorian of Cullen. In her weathered eyes, naturally distrusting, it was not hard to imagine them being good friends. Similar.

But not entirely alike. What surprised Dorian about Cassandra was the way she sat, proper, shoulders back, though not exactly military. As if she could hear Dorian’s thoughts, she slumped slightly, her frown that of someone unlearning something instilled. He saw that expression in himself, in the mirror where he could trace his father’s features over his own unsmiling mouth. Whatever her upbringing, it was not as far from Dorian’s as he had first predicted.

On her muscular arm was a tattoo, a shape like the sun, its rays almost eerily like tendrils and in the centre, an unblinking eye. Dorian didn’t look at it for too long. Like Cullen, she wore a necklace around her neck. Unlike Cullen, it was a clearly visible cross. Perhaps that was the most surprising thing of all.

Leliana was… different. Where Cassandra was hard, Leliana was sharp and they were two different things, like a hammer and a knife. Leliana’s features were slimmer, paler, and her nose straight except where it curved slightly at the end like a bird’s beak. Dorian would even say there was something almost delicate about her, if it were not the unforgiving depth of her eyes.

And oh, she was so much harder to read than her companion. Her hair was straight, fine and red, cut into a bob, and she wore a black turtleneck at a bar and made it feel as though it was everyone else who was not dressed accordingly. When Dorian raised his gaze from her outfit to hers, she matched him not with a direct force but something unflinching. It made Dorian feel hot at the back of his neck, like a pubescent boy being caught staring at the curves of his teacher as she leant over to help him with his work. It was not a familiar feeling by any standard.

When they gave their names, Cassandra’s manner of speech betrayed Dorian’s suspicions, confirming that, regardless of how she tried to carry herself now, she had once been raised at some level of social standing above the norm. Still, she said her name with confidence and it was comforting, in an odd sort of way, to know there were others like him, escaping something above them for whatever reason.

Leliana spoke with a voice that was almost and disarmingly musical and yet betrayed little else. Both women had accents, Cassandra’s clipping the edge of her words and Leliana’s lilting them further. When they shook his hand respectively, Cassandra’s grip was unsurprisingly firm and Leliana’s deceptively light.

“It feels good to put names to faces,” Dorian said and immediately, from how all three women looked at him, he knew he had said something wrong.

Leliana did not miss a beat. “Cullen talks about us? That’s not like him.”

“He’s hardly forthcoming in conversation, no, but your names have cropped up once or twice when he’s spoken with others.”

Cassandra grumbled something that sounded like, “That sounds more like Cullen.” Dorian tried not to smile.

Leliana spoke again, drawing his attention back to her, entrapping him. “He’s fixing your motorcycle, yes?”

“He is, indeed.”

“But you don’t ride, normally.”

His pause was painful. “That is… correct.”

“Cullen was not lying, then,” Cassandra said, flatly. “You really did buy a broken motorcycle you do not know how to ride.”

Dorian felt, suddenly, like he was being interrogated in some way.

Josephine nudged Cassandra and gave Leliana a pointed look. “Dorian is a grown man. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”

What a woman. “Whilst I appreciate the sentiment, my dear Josephine, your companions are not wrong. It was an impulsive decision and a poor one at that. But had I not done it, I would not have met Cullen so it’s not the worst purchase I’ve ever made.”

Something around Cassandra’s eyes softened. Dorian noticed how her fingers touched Josephine’s. Her demeanour, whilst appearing hardened, betrayed in the slightest moments a softness that Josephine leant into.

Leliana was not as easy to melt. Her gaze remained unmoved. “I’m sure you didn’t buy it with the sole purpose of making friends with its mechanic.”

Dorian snorted like it was a joke though it very much wasn’t. “Well, I hardly planned for it to be broken. I bought it to ride it. As I imagine many motorcycle buyers do.”

Leliana was quick. “Even though you don’t know how to ride?”

“I was planning to learn.”

A perfectly arched eyebrow lifted. “And you insist on not only keeping it but waiting around on the off-chance it could be fixed? Seems like an awful lot of effort just to learn the skill, is it not?”

“Leliana.” The warning this time came, surprisingly, from Cassandra.

“What can I say?” Dorian shrugged. “I like a challenge.”

Whatever Leliana had to say in response to that was lost at Cullen’s return, struggling only slightly with three drinks and a large dog at his feet. Josephine took hers gratefully. Dorian accepted his with a thanks, nodding at Cullen’s bottle, a non-alcoholic alternative, which Cullen held close to his chest as he took the only available seat between Cassandra and Dorian. “Not planning to let loose tonight?”

Cullen stiffened. “I’ll pass.”

“Pity.”

He seemed to be bracing himself for something, further questioning, but Dorian knew discomfort when he saw it. He looked away, at Josephine barely containing a grimace after taking a sip of her drink and said, only a touch more loudly, “I told you, the drinks on the tap always taste like feet.”

The conversation from that point on felt less like a targeted attack. Dorian talked less than he was used to. More often than not, he found himself usually in a companionable silence with Cullen who seemed to vastly prefer being side-lined. He took slow measured sips from his drink as if it was real alcohol and petted Lion absentmindedly who, as if sensing Cullen’s mood, stayed close, curled up at Cullen’s feet. Whenever the conversation turned to Cullen, he looked slightly overwhelmed, even if it was ask him how his drink was or something about Lion (who perked up at his own name with far more enthusiasm than his owner.)

Dorian couldn’t really blame Cullen’s reluctance to engage, however. Within the first couple of exchanges, his dynamic with his three friends became evidently clear because it was one that was, on the part of the women, ruthless. Dorian was an only child but felt like he was watching siblings interact. Cassandra had the concern of the oldest sister, accidentally insulting Cullen in her insinuations and blinking with genuine innocence when everyone laughed at Cullen’s expense. Josephine was the mostly harmless middle sibling though she threw her own fair share of ribbing with a delightful twinkle in her eye, much more subtle than her counterparts but no less effective. Leliana remained the quickest, the little sister who troubled at the prospect of being seen as weak and so her wit always hit perhaps a little too close to home. It was good-natured and Cullen was hardly a child being bullied but Dorian felt an irrational need to defend him as if they were not proving his own observations correct. Cullen worked too much, he didn’t always take care of himself and sometimes, he smelt like his dog. It wasn’t like they were doing it for any reason other than the fact they cared about the man’s wellbeing.

Though perhaps Dorian felt partly responsible, like Cullen’s recent string of selfless decisions had something to do with the stupidly broken bike he had brought to the garage.

Some things Cullen shrugged off or gave little retorts to but mostly he admitted defeat with the sort of tiredness that a brother might concede into going along with a plan hatched by his three sisters. He agreed to take a holiday, to come by the gym, to let Lion get groomed (but drew the line at Josephine’s suggestion that Cullen purchase a spa retreat for himself) and buy some shirts without holes in or stains on them. Dorian offered his help in the last one and told Josephine that he’d happily be her spa companion instead. The conversation moved on with easy laughter and Cullen’s shoulder bumping against Dorian’s with just enough force to feel deliberate.

When Dorian returned with the second round, he asked how they all knew each other.

“Remember Alistair?” Cullen said, taking his bottle from Dorian with a smile as a thank you.

“The image of him proposing in nothing but a towel is seared to my mind so yes.”

Cullen pretended Dorian hadn’t even spoke. He gestured at Leliana. “These two were friends, among others.”

“Cullen,” Leliana chimed in, “was the housemate we did not like.”

“Oh?”

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. “With good reason. I was not the greatest person to live with.”

“I believe,” Josephine said, too mildly to not be teasing, “Cullen is being modest.”

Dorian gave Cullen a puzzled look. It wasn’t hard to imagine him as an awkward young man who had still not yet grown into his handsome features but it was harder to envision him as particularly difficult in any way. “What, did you drink juice straight out the carton?”

Cullen’s face of contempt at the mere prospect answered Dorian’s question without words but Leliana provided a verbal response nonetheless. “No but Alistair did and was convinced that Cullen would kill him in his sleep for it.”

“Which is a ridiculous notion,” Cassandra said earnestly. “Cullen has always been an honourable man. He would have challenged him to a duel direct.”

Leliana’s mischief was in the corner of her eyes. “I believe he once did.”

“Alistair was hardly the easiest man to live with himself,” Cullen grumbled. “I can’t be the only one who vividly remembers how bad his socks smelt throughout the entirety of first year.”

Leliana shuddered. Dorian made a sympathetic noise. “That bad?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” Cullen took a long sip of his drink. “But they were right in their dislike of me.”

“Must have had some impressive character development,” Dorian remarked.

Cullen smiled. It was small and gentle. “I should hope so.”

Leliana cleared her throat but Dorian only turned his gaze from Cullen’s when she spoke. “We crossed paths again out of college by chance, a man me and Cassandra knew through our work. It had seemed that over the years, Cullen had… become more tolerable company. Some would say he was even fun to be around.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Cullen said dryly but he smiled at Leliana in a familiar way. Leliana smiled back and Dorian felt his prickling unease towards her lessen slightly into something numb and stupid. Dorian took a long sip of his drink to do something that wasn’t stare at the softness of Cullen’s mouth.

“Hawke did describe you as a work in progress,” Cassandra said. It was an inside joke that made the table laugh and Cullen flush.

“And you met Cullen through these two then, I presume?” Dorian asked Josephine.

“I used to work with Leliana. We kept in touch while I moved back home to work for my family’s business but it wasn’t until I returned that I met Cass. Leliana had recommended a new gym to me.”

Dorian pieced all this new information together. He tilted his glass towards Cassandra. “So you work at a gym?”

“I own the gym,” Cassandra said plainly, neither humble nor boastful. She was matter-of-fact in a way that Dorian found refreshing. If he was right in his assumption that she was, like him, unlearning parts of herself that had once been as natural to her as the blood that ran through her veins then it was impressive that she had not reduced her pride to pity in the process. It was easy to self-flagellate your privilege, to act as if you were so hard done by to grow up in relative ease only to come out ungrateful for it all. It was harder to simply exist. It was something Dorian struggled with. He still believed he was meant to be somebody. That somebody changed everyday but it was somebody, nonetheless.

“An entrepreneur, huh.”

Cassandra snorted but didn’t care to correct him. Dorian turned to Cullen. “Is this the same gym you sparred with Bull and Krem?”

Cullen looked embarrassed. It was hard to work out why. “I worked there for a while before the shop.”

“I would not have been able to get the place going without him,” Cassandra said. “There are regulars who still miss him running classes.”

“Well, aren’t you a jack-of-all-trades?” Dorian teased. “Do you still take on clients? My last PT was nowhere near as pretty.”

“Ha-ha,” Cullen spoke into his drink but Dorian could see he was trying not to smile.

“So there you met Bull. And I met you through Bull. It all comes to a full circle. The world is rather small, isn’t it?”

At Bull’s name, Cassandra perked up. “You know the Iron Bull? Well?”

“Some would say we’re friends. I would say they’re wrong.”

Cullen, amused, clarified, “That’s Dorian’s way of saying yes.”

“A mistranslation. Though I am more than happy to demonstrate all the different ways I can say yes.” The innuendo did not go unnoticed. Leliana raised her eyebrows and Dorian realised he was still on thin ice. He avoided her gaze and looked at Cassandra. “But I do know Bull. You’re familiar with the man?”

“He is good target practice.”

Dorian hummed, as if seriously considering her statement. “Yes, how can you miss?”

Cassandra’s lips twitched like she was trying not to laugh. Dorian pocketed another victory.

“He is also very good at provoking attacks,” she added.

Dorian could not hold back his grin. “Oh, I’m aware. Just the sheer size of him is so offending. I bet he told you that you fight like a girl.”

Cullen snorted. “I’ve never seen a man of that size go down so fast.”

Cassandra shrugged modestly but pink dusted her cheeks. “It was a good lesson to my class that there is no shame in fighting like a girl.”

“It’s what he deserves, the big oaf,” Dorian said, shaking his head.

The fondness in his tone did not escape Leliana’s notice. “Sounds like there’s history there.”

Cullen frowned. Even Cassandra shot Leliana a sharp look. But Dorian wasn’t intimidated. There was something birdlike about her. Beautiful but dark, like a raven.

But it would take more than a bird to catch Dorian out. After all, he had grown up with vipers.

“Oh, don’t mince your words on my account,” he said flippantly, using his drink to gesture towards her. “Are you asking if I’ve ever been involved with the infamous Iron Bull, sexually or romantically?”

Cullen was glaring at his friend fully now. “You don’t have to answer that, Dorian. Leliana-”

Dorian caught Cullen’s arm to stop him but kept his hand there, watching Leliana watch it. “No, no. If I were ashamed of talking about sex with Bull, I would have to stop being friends with the man entirely.” He waited until Leliana met his gaze once more, steely and cutting, like a knife’s edge. “If you must know, the only reason I became friends with Bull was because there was not a man on earth more unbecoming in the eyes of my father than the Iron Bull. But then he turned out to be a better friend than lover. Not literally, of course. He is the epitome of male peak performance.”

Josephine gasped. “So it is true!”

Cassandra gave her a disbelieving look. Josephine’s smile was only a touch guilty. “There are, ah, rumours.”

Dorian grinned at that. “They don’t call him the Iron Bull for nothing.” Then he considered his words. “Except maybe because he’s full of shit.”

Josephine laughed. Cassandra tried not to. Leliana remained unreadable. Dorian shrugged. “Of course, this is going back- what? Six? Seven years? And I’m afraid I simply do not have the stamina for his affections anymore. And he prefers redheads.” He looked pointedly at Leliana. “Are you single?”

Her voice was flat as she said, “I’m a lesbian.”

Dorian sighed melodramatically. “It’s always the gay ones.”

Beside him, Cullen was shaking. In disbelief or in laughter, Dorian did not look to find out.

No one spoke for a moment. Then, quietly, Josephine piped up. “Though I have to ask… is it true? About his size?”

Cassandra shook her head disapprovingly. “Are you still hung up on that?”

Into his drink, Dorian murmured, “A regrettable choice of words.”

Cassandra gaped. Cullen turned his head away to laugh and Josephine masked hers behind her hand. Even Leliana’s lips had turned upwards, though not against her will. Maybe Dorian was imagining it but Leliana seemed too in control of herself to offer Dorian a truce accidentally. When he tipped his head slightly in acknowledgement, she raised her eyebrow and her drink to her mouth.

Another victory. However small, he’d take it.

“And to answer your inquiry, Josephine, yes,” he said too loudly, “It feels like being impaled by a battering ram.”

Cassandra got to her feet. “Ugh. I’m going to get another drink.”

Josephine stood up too, her glass very obviously half full. “I’ll join you.”

Cassandra smiled at her, all forgiven. They were not a couple that appeared to relish excessive amounts of public displays of affection but rather, favoured subtler touches. Dorian watched Cassandra’s hand at Josephine’s waist, curling naturally, and found he felt nothing but warmth. That was character development, surely.

Leliana, too, rose to stand. “Bathroom.”

“They’re gender neutral. Terrible for quickies.”

Another raised eyebrow. “You speak from experience?”

“The girl by the pool table has been making eyes at you since I got here.” Dorian did not need to point. Leliana did not need to look.

She smiled and it was not as sharp. “Before you got here, actually.”

Cullen and Dorian watched her leave, quiet in a way like and unlike Josephine. The web of their friendships made perfect sense. They all shared the kind of dynamics only gained from relationships that had survived the tests of time into adulthood. Watching them, Dorian felt, guiltily, a pang of longing for his own best friend. He vowed to call Felix this week, maybe meet up for coffee or have dinner with him and his father. It had been a while.

Cullen spoke, bringing him back to the present. “Sorry. About Leliana.”

He shrugged in response. “I don’t take personal offence. I am the intruder, after all.”

“You could be the birthday boy and she would still have grilled you.” Cullen shifted, speaking carefully. “Leliana can be… wary of newcomers.”

Dorian could have said something scornful, a simple no shit or her and I both. But there was something endearing about his nervousness, as if it really mattered to him that Dorian did not harbour any hard feelings towards his friend. He smiled. “I’m sure she has reason to be.”

Cullen gave him an assessing look. “You take a lot of things remarkably well.”

At that, Dorian snorted. “Don’t sound so surprised. And don’t speak so loud either. I have a reputation to uphold. I can’t have people knowing I’m not a complete brat.” More seriously, a tad gently, he added, “She’s protective. It wouldn’t be the first time someone is. I’ve heard I’m somewhat of a bad influence.”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “Yes, a philosophy professor who does crosswords for fun. You’re an absolute terror.”

Dorian was secretly too pleased by this. He pretended to bristle. “Hey now, I bought a motorcycle.”

“That you can’t ride.” Cullen shook his head. “Is that why you bought it? To look cool?”

“Isn’t that why anyone buys a motorcycle? It’s death and injury rates are hardly it’s selling point.”

“Not a daredevil?”

“I’m a philosophy professor who does crosswords for fun, remember?” When Cullen smiled at him, Dorian felt disarmed. It was not often when he turned words back towards a person outside of the sparring of language meant to maim. This felt intimate. Cullen was sat close enough that even the dreadful pub lighting could do nothing to obscure the laughter in his eyes. Dorian spoke on hurriedly. “What about you? Or do you only find thrills in fixing cars?”

At that, Cullen, unfortunately, leant back. “Not in the way that you’re thinking.”

“No judgement here, my dear Commander.”

Cullen rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath that sounded like a curse towards the nickname. He cleared his throat before saying, more clearly, “I like my job. It pays the bills. That’s as far as my passion extends.”

“You’re not one of those car freaks, then.”

“I can appreciate a good one, I suppose.” He shrugged. “I prefer motorcycles.”

There was a long pause where Dorian simply stared at him, incredulous. Then, “You ride?”

Cullen shrugged again, appearing unaffected by Dorian’s shock. “Not much these days. Can’t cart Lion around on a bike.”

His casual tone was a tease. He took a sip of his drink to hide the smile that twitched at the corner of his mouth.

Still, Dorian bit the bait. “All this time! You ride and you didn’t even tell me.” He turned away with a dramatic huff. “I thought we were friends.”

Now, Cullen sounded offended. “You never asked!”

When Dorian turned to face Cullen again, they were somehow closer than before. Neither moved back. “Teach me how to ride.”

At that, Cullen spluttered. “What?”

“How to ride,” Dorian repeated. “A motorcycle.”

“Dorian, yours isn’t fixed. I’m still not sure it can be.”

“So teach me on yours.” Cullen levelled him with a look so flat, Dorian felt ruffled. “Oh, ye of so little faith. I’d pay you.”

“I don’t want your- Christ.”

“For a holy man, you sure do say the lord’s name in vain.”

Cullen leant back, looking tired. “You bring that out in me.”

“You’re not the first man to tell me that.” Dorian leant back in. “I’m being serious, Cullen. I want to learn. Or would you rather I drive into the wilderness with nothing but the clothes on my back and my reckless ambition to guide me?”

Cullen scoffed, not unkindly. “Do you even know how to start a bike?”

“I’m sure there’s a YouTube tutorial on it.”

Cullen stared at him like he couldn’t quite believe Dorian was real then sighed. “Fine. In the interest of public safety. But only after I fix yours.”

“Fantastic.” Dorian clapped his hands together. “I look forward to it.”

After a moment, Cullen said, “So the wilderness? That’s what you want to see on your bike rides?”

Dorian snorted. “Hardly. Not that mother nature isn’t a magnificent creature but I prefer my sights on the back of postcards.”

“This shouldn’t surprise me.”

“Let me guess: you chop your own firewood?” Dorian was only half-serious.

Mildly, Cullen answered, “I have. Before.”

Dorian couldn’t help himself. “With or without a shirt?”

Cullen took a pointed sip. Dorian glared at him. “Come on. Work with me here, Cullen. The least you can do is make the tree hugging fun.”

“It can be fun. Lion loves hikes.”

They both looked at where the dog had fallen asleep curled up on the floor. Dorian tried not to smile at the sight of the gentle giant. “Lion also loves doughnuts. I’m not sure his judgement is the soundest.”

Cullen looked offended. “I love doughnuts.”

“I said what I said.”

“So you’ve never hiked before?”

“I’ve barely walked in my life, Cullen. If I had it my way, I would be carried from place to place.”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I!” he sighed. “My family were never the sit around a fire and sing kumbaya type. They always thought of the great outdoors as a middle-class thing to do. Nothing says I have money but not enough to not pay my taxes like buying outdoor gear. So, no.” Dorian shrugged. “No hiking, no camping- though I do know how to ride a horse.”

There was no other way of putting it: Cullen was gawking at him. “You know how to ride a horse but not a motorcycle?”

Dorian grinned. “You think that’s impressive? Wait ‘til you hear what else I can ride.”

Cullen shook his head, raising his drink to his mouth, but he wasn’t quick enough to hide his smile.

And then there was a natural lull in conversation as Cullen watched people and Dorian watched him. Cullen drank slowly and if he had been nursing something alcoholic, it would be the actions of a man trying to pace himself. Yet his drink was something bubbly and decidedly not dangerous. Maybe he took his time to be frugal though his business gave no indication that he was a man who was struggling.

This line of thought made him frown. The evening was making Dorian realise how little he actually knew about Cullen.

But then the ladies returned to the table and Dorian had to smile as the Chargers started singing a song about a ragtag team of heroes saving the world from the sky caving in that had Josephine clapping along. He bought Cullen a soda and lime and Cullen bought him a beer and when Dorian toasted to friendship, Cullen didn’t take his eyes off Dorian’s and he didn’t smile, at least not with his mouth.

The night went on.

Chapter Text

Dorian was foolish to think a night in Haven could end in any way but disaster. And it had started out so promising.

For the most part, the evening went along without incident. Though neither Cassandra nor Leliana warmed to him necessarily, he had managed to find a dynamic within the group’s extensive friendship that did not outright offend the two. He was able to make light conversation with Josephine who had the uncanny ability to talk to just about anyone, making her irresistible to the men in the bar, gay or otherwise, who had probably not seen a woman so beautiful in all their miserable lives. He was, thankfully, not left alone with Leliana and he struggled when fate had him sat with Cassandra who stared at him with a furrow in her brow even when he sat in silence, as if the mere existence of him puzzled her. It went both ways.

When Lion tired of basking in the attention of every patron, coming and going, he charmed the bar staff into letting him sleep behind the counter. Cullen would frequently check up on him but, despite Cullen’s own very transparent separation anxiety, he did not seem to have the heart to wake up his peacefully sleeping dog from the warm corner he had curled up in.

Dorian would tell himself that he kept close to Cullen to ease Cullen’s anxieties but truthfully, he himself could only really relax when he was near the other man. Cullen served as a broad-shouldered buffer to the women’s intense curiosity for him, even though most of that curiosity was directed at them. Even Josephine was unable to avert her inquisitive gaze. Frequently, he would look over to find the three women talking intensely, periodically glancing over at Cullen and Dorian. It seemed impossible for Cullen not to notice but he seemed used to it, as any man became when he had a history of women in his life dedicated to micromanaging him. Dorian was less unmoved.

The problem, they had yet to realise, was that Dorian Pavus loved an audience.

“How are you this bad at this?” Cullen said when Dorian completely missed the billiard ball he had been confident he would strike.

“Well, for starters, I am intoxicated.” Dorian pointed his cue under Cullen’s nose as menacingly as he could across the pool table. “Was this your plan all along?”

Cullen raised his eyebrows. “What, so I could win a game against an opponent so pathetic I feel bad about it?”

Dorian retracted the stick to lean his elbows on the table, balancing his face on a hand as he fluttered his eyelashes at the unimpressed man stood on the other side. “If you wanted to take advantage of me, Commander, all you needed to do was ask. Nicely, mind. Good manners are very important to me.”

Cullen did not grace Dorian with a proper reply, only grumbling something, most likely about the nickname, as he retrieved his bottle from where he’d placed it on the edge of the pool table. He was, several drinks in, still on the non-alcoholic kind. Dorian wandered closer, around the table separating them to ask, “Is that any good?”

“You want to try?” Cullen tilted the neck of his bottle towards Dorian.

Dorian stared at it skeptically but then accepted the bottle, fingers brushing Cullen’s. He took an experimental sip and when he lowered the bottle, he licked his lips quizzically, considering, chasing the taste. Cullen was watching him, trapping Dorian against the pool table that Dorian leant back against. Suddenly, Dorian felt like a teenager, sharing indirect kisses from rims of bottles.

“Like it?” Cullen asked.

“Not the worst I’ve had of them. Sweet.” He pulled a face, his final review, handing the bottle back to Cullen. “You only like things if they’re terrible for you, don’t you?”

“Maybe.” Immediately, Cullen took a swig and Dorian couldn’t help but watch, fascinated with the way Cullen’s mouth curled around the rim, the affect it had on his scar, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed and how he lifted the back of his hand up to wipe at his mouth when he was done. “My liver isn’t complaining. And my head won’t be, in the morning.”

“We get it, you were a boy scout.” Dorian gave him a lazy salute then straightened, a thought occurring to him. “Wait, were you? A boy scout?”

“Don’t get excited. It was not the formative experience you’re imagining, Dorian.”

Dorian acted like he hadn’t even spoken. “Did you get all the cute little patches? What did little Cullen Rutherford excel at? I bet you were a real stickler for the rules.”

Cullen answered with the rim of his bottle against his mouth. “Knots.”

“Excuse me?”

Cullen took too long of a sip from his drink. Then, plainly, he said, “I was good at tying knots. I’ve always been good with my hands.”

Dorian stared at him. Cullen smiled and said, “Your turn.”

It was only when he knocked his cue against Dorian’s that Dorian realised he was gripping his hard enough to hurt. For reasons unknown to himself, instead of relaxing his hand, he simply let the stick go. It clattered to the floor too loudly. Dorian was aware of Cullen’s friends still watching them.

“Okay.” Cullen leant down to retrieve it and put his own aside to put a hand on Dorian’s elbow, as if to prompt him to his feet properly. “Maybe we should get you home.”

“Home?” Dorian repeated, sounding dazed even to himself. He shook his head. Knots. Bastard. He held his arm rigid in Cullen’s grip. “I am not that drunk.”

Cullen didn’t remove his hand and Dorian didn’t make him but he kept his feet firm on the floor. “I realise you have nothing to compare to but trust me, I have my wits about me. This is nothing. You should see me when I’m on the wine this late into the evening. Or- no, that’s not company fit for public.”

Cullen looked at him in disbelief. “And this is?”

Dorian glared at him and feared it looked more like a squint. “Are you always this rude or is it the non-alcoholic beer speaking?”

“I think it’s the non-fit company.”

“I’ll have you know I’m very fit.” Dorian stood at full height with exaggerated flourish to demonstrate his dexterity. “See. Haven has seen worse. If I’m not crawling out of the place then I am certainly not drunk enough.”

“Dorian, you’re still quite drunk.” Cullen spoke carefully, gently. “I can give you a hand.”

Ugh. Of course, Cullen Rutherford was a caring, respectful man. He played designated driver, he ordered Ubers, he returned glasses to the bar and apologised to staff for his friends with part embarrassment and part fondness. He was far too good of a man than Dorian deserved, especially when he was not drunk enough to pretend otherwise but too drunk to be smart about it.

Dorian wanted a hand. He wanted both hands.

Instead of voicing any of these concerns, Dorian said, “I want to finish the game,” like a child. He may have even pouted which would explain why Cullen’s gaze flickered downwards. At this position, Cullen’s grip still firm on Dorian’s elbow, his arm trapped Dorian’s between their bodies. They were so close that Dorian had to tilt his head upwards.

Cullen was warm. He was pale, almost ghostly sometimes when his eyebags were severe and he forwent shaving for days at a time, but he ran surprisingly warm, except for the tips of his fingers. Maybe it was why he always kept them busy, always fiddling with or fixing something, just to keep the blood pumping. Dorian wondered if the heat of his own skin was warming them now.

“Do you honestly believe you’re going to finish a game in this state? You haven’t potted a single ball in the last ten minutes.”

Dorian resisted an innuendo. “I just need a little help.” He exaggerated thinking about it and then exclaimed, “I know! You can do that thing. You know. When straight women pretend they just can’t do it and straight men help them from behind. Help them get the ball in. That didn’t sound any better, did it? Oh, well. I firmly believe straight people are at a disadvantage with the move. It requires some expert bending.”

“Dorian,” Cullen said, almost helplessly. Dorian relished the sound. “I think you’re a health hazard.”

Dorian grinned. “What happened to the philosophy professor who plays crossroads for fun?”

“I didn’t see him drunk,” Cullen quipped dryly.

“I’m serious,” Dorian said, voice low, “I can go so much lower.”

“I bet you can.” But Cullen sounded amused like he was simply humouring him. That made Dorian pause and then frown. He did not want to be humoured. Dorian wanted to be entertained. He wanted to be indulged.

“Fine, have it your way,” he sniped, pulling away from the other man. He looked past Cullen’s shoulder and called out, “Hey, Krem! Chargers!” The group looked his way. Dorian smiled and said the magic words, “Any of you interested in a friendly bet?”

*

An hour later and half the bar were involved in a series of pool games across the two tables that occupied the far corner of Haven. The Chargers emptied their pockets and the drinks flowed so heavily that Cabot couldn’t complain about the ruckus. He was pocketing every spare penny that spilt out of drunken pockets and onto the grubby floor of his bar.

It also captivated the women. Unsurprisingly, both Cassandra and Leliana were exceptional players, even several drinks in. Josephine played well too but preferred to organise the games, stood by Dorian who was better at spectating loudly than he was at the actual admin.

Cullen hadn’t seemed happy with the turn of events but Krem challenged him to a game and men were men. Dorian was petty, this he was well aware of, but the bet seemed to bring out the worst of Cullen’s stubborn streak. When he wasn’t glaring at the pool table, he was scowling at Dorian. If you asked Dorian, this was better than being babied. He was at his best with people who found him unbearably annoying. After all, he had been raised for it to be so. It was the natural order of the world.

Krem was, of course, far more good-natured about the whole thing. He patted Cullen on the shoulder when the tides turned in his favour. “Careful now, Commander. Don’t want to rob you of the clothes on your back.”

“Now, that’s an idea,” Dorian said, raising his drink in enthusiasm. “Like strip poker. You miss your shot, you take off an article of clothing.”

“Absolutely not,” Cassandra said immediately from where she stood in line for the next game.

“I’ll join in, out of camaraderie,” Dorian offered.

Cassandra looked no less convinced. “Hard pass.”

“Suit yourself,” Dorian said with a shrug. He watched as Cullen stole the game back from Krem and those who were invested gave out an excited cheer. Cullen elbowed Krem, not hard, leaning in to murmur something that was unheard by Dorian but he could see Cullen’s smile, favouring one side. Krem laughed. Cullen looked over Krem’s shoulder at Dorian and raised his eyebrows. It seemed as if Dorian was as much his opponent.

Dorian made a shooing gesture with his hand. Get on with it.

To Cullen’s credit, he did and he won the game. His celebration was a quiet little pumped fist and Dorian watched the muscles of his arm flexing and the skin, so pale it was almost translucent at times, revealing a pattern of blue veins Dorian had not paid enough attention to before. He followed the movement of the arm, down to the hand that extended to Krem who took it without any hard feelings.

When Krem wandered off to the bar to pay for his loss, Cullen and Dorian stayed where they were, simply looking at each other, over the pool table that now housed the next game between another one of the Chargers, Rocky, and Cassandra. If it were not for the awareness that Josephine and Leliana were watching them, Dorian would have just stood there, refusing to back down from Cullen’s stare, drunk on the knowledge that he had inspired in Cullen more than pity.

Dorian had always gone to stupid lengths to inspire others, for better or worse.

Cullen was the first to look away, turning to accept the congratulations or the request for the next game or whatever it could be from another patron at the bar. Dorian joined Josephine and Leliana where they were watching Cassandra’s game, his own gaze focused beyond it.

“What do you think, Dorian?”

Josephine’s question made Dorian come out of his head. He allowed himself a calculated moment to gather his wits, preparing to bullshit something about Cassandra’s game as if he was paying even the slightest bit of attention to it. But then he noticed how both women were also watching Cullen. Or rather, the conversation Cullen was in with a man who Dorian realised, upon further inspection, was not one of the Chargers or a regular he recognised. Good-looking enough, though mostly non-descript. Not Dorian’s type but maybe he was Cullen’s.

Dorian took a long swig of his drink. “You’ll have to be more specific, ladies.”

Leliana did not appreciate his tone but he was drunk enough to not care. “You don’t recognise him?”

“What, do you expect me to do a background check on every man that enters the same bar as me?” Dorian leant back on a nearby table, fixing Leliana with a wry smile. “I am not you, dear Leliana. I have no reason to care about Cullen’s conquests.”

From the pool table she was dominating, Cassandra snorted. “You are not a very good liar, Pavus.”

Dorian rolled his eyes to the ceiling. It spun.

“Cullen is not one for conquests,” Josephine said, as if that meant anything.

“Well, he should stop smiling at men in gay bars,” Dorian said, focusing on the dancing lights. “A poor bastard might get ideas.”

There was a pause. It said what was unsaid.

“Cullen isn’t interested.”

Dorian raised his head slowly. It was Leliana who spoke. Dorian blinked to clear his eyes, trying to see Cullen and his companion around the black spots of his vision. A hand on a forearm. A black leather belt. Pale, pale skin. He wanted to ask what was the question again? but instead, airily, he said, “Oh? So why do you need my expertise?”

Leliana didn’t respond. Josephine glanced unsurely first at Cassandra potting two balls with more force than necessary and then Leliana, before saying, “You’ve seen more of him in the past few weeks than we have in some time, Dorian. I think… I think he really values your friendship.”

“Well, that’s good. Here, all this time, I was thinking I was simply paying him an excessive amount of money to fix an unfixable machine.” He did not want the concern of Josephine or the pity of Leliana so Dorian made some effort to, when he stood at full height, only sway slightly, and smile. They were staring at him. “Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I need to use the restroom of the people.”

He staggered away, making a show of cutting between Cullen and the man who was still engaging his attention. He heard Cullen say his name in surprise as he brushed past but he waved them off with a mumbled apology, preoccupied with ducking under two of the Chargers who had opted to forgo the pool table and simply grapple for the other to buy them a drink.

He did not stop until he got to the bathroom which was, mercifully, empty. He went for a urinal since he knew, from experience, that the locks on the cubicles were broken from too many people slamming into them, whether alone or in company. Dorian hadn’t lied to Leliana, not really. The toilets were terrible for quickies. That didn’t mean they didn’t happen.

He thought, as he unzipped his trousers, of how long it had been since he had done it himself. Never in Haven. In Haven, he had drunk himself silly, picked up or been picked up by Bull (literally, unable to get home otherwise.) His memories of blowjobs in cubicles were fuzzy, not just because of the alcohol he had consumed, then and now, but because they were part of a life he had, despite what others thought of him, left behind. Going to his knees on the unsanitary floor of a public restroom for a stranger who would fuck his mouth without asking no longer held the same appeal. He had a job to think about, bills to pay and enough respect for himself to not ruin his knees, if not his mouth.

Cullen had been right. He was the philosophy professor who did crossroads for fun but he had become him. Buying a motorcycle was not reinventing himself so much as yearning for a version of Dorian that had done worse, hurt more and lived to tell the tale. The Dorian from before had survived. The Dorian of after, the Dorian of the present, was not as resilient. He had become complacent in the life he had built for himself because, though it was not the exuberant indulgence of his childhood, it was comfortable precisely because it had been suspiciously painless for so long.

Maybe he had bought a motorcycle because it was something the philosophy professor who did crossroads for fun wouldn’t do and yet he wouldn’t get to his knees here, now, this he knew. So, what was it? Had Felix been right? Had he merely bought it to drive himself to an end? It did sound like him, to not want to go down quietly. He liked the flames, the drama, the attention.

But did he want that?

The bathroom twisted and turned and he put a hand out on the wall to steady it. What did he want? A drink, a warm bed, company. But he’d already had it. He’d had it and lost it. So he bought a motorcycle to run away, physically, metaphorically, foolishly. That was it, really. Dorian had always been so bad at accepting that he could not always have what he wanted, a spoilt brat. He had run away for less.

He had been stupid. The ghost of his father had never needed an invitation. He did not need to see dark glint of Krem’s skin under bar lighting to remember home. It was not a building nor a city. It was more than a place. Home lived in him, in all its glory and shame. He could not run from what he was.

He closed his eyes. That way the world would stop spinning, stop being spotty, stop. People always assumed that when he ended up blackout drunk, it was like tripping across a line he did not mean to cross. What they didn’t realise was Dorian’s pacifiers were dipped in wine, his first lesson in silence and power. He was raised in a culture where prayers were spoken with a glass raised. He had never not been in control of this, at least this. Dorian had known what he was doing when he had tarnished his family’s reputation falling around on the streets of his home city. He had known what he was doing every time Bull had to carry him to a taxi. He had always been too aware of his body, its talents, its limitations, its desires, its fears. No blackout was an accident. Dorian turned off the lights in his mind by his own hand.

Wants were meaningless. One more drink. That was what he needed.

Dorian righted himself, fixed his trousers, washed his hands and left the bathroom. He walked steadily, sobering with every passing minute. A race against time. He went straight for the bar.

Tunnel vision made him almost miss Cullen, who was stood at the bar, forearms balanced on the counter and head low, shoulders high. He was alone.

Against better judgement, Dorian announced himself. “Did Krem win the rematch?”

Cullen looked up at him and smiled. If he noticed the high tremor of Dorian’s voice, he didn’t say. “No, I think I’m all gamed out.”

“Ah,” Dorian said, faking understanding. “Scared to give up your title. In certain parts of the world, they call people like you sore losers.”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “For that I’d have to lose.”

“Such confidence! Is that why they call you Commander?”

Cullen didn’t rise to the bait. His honeyed eyes were tired. Concern made Dorian pause and then move closer, pressing his side to Cullen’s, nudging. “Past your bedtime?”

At that, at least, Cullen smiled weakly. “Something like that.” There was a pause. Cullen was rolling an empty glass between his hands, watching the melting ice clink and the water slosh about like it was more entertaining than the games and conversations taking place behind him. He raised one hand to the back of his neck, rubbing as if to ease the tension there. “I am not… a social person.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Dorian said lightly. “Do your fortnightly – was it? – catch ups always happen at a bar?”

“Not always.” Something in Dorian’s question or expression made him tense. He clutched his empty glass almost defensively. “It’s not the setting really. Or, well, mostly.”

The Chargers let out a hearty cheer and there was laughter from Cullen’s friends. Dorian glanced back at Josephine celebrating Leliana’s victory for her, encouraging a reluctant Cassandra to spin. Then he looked at Cullen as he said, “A bit much, did you say?”

“More like downright overwhelming.”

There was no venom to his words but Dorian gave a little disbelieving laugh. “Oh, come on, they’re not that bad.”

Cullen grumbled, “You only say that because they’re not harassing you anymore.”

“You just make it so easy.” Dorian nudged him again. “I’ve never met a grown man quite so quick to blush. It’s positively adorable.”

Cullen didn’t look at him. “Go on, pick up where they left off then.”

“Oh.” Dorian was drunk enough that Cullen’s words hurt his feelings and not drunk enough to not care. He looked past Cullen at the nearest bartender who could understand the language of Dorian’s gestures and signalled for another drink. “Well, let me just get my drink and then I’ll get out of your hair.”

Cullen caught his arm, making Dorian look at him. Quietly, apologetically, he said, “I’m not being serious, Dorian.”

When Dorian relaxed under his touch, Cullen raised his other hand to make his own gesture. Dorian gave him a suspicious look. “What? What was that?”

“I asked for some water.”

“Thirsty?”

“For you.” It took Cullen a moment to realise what he had just said.

Still, Dorian grinned. “Oh, my.”

“I meant- for you to drink. You’re drunk.”

“Oh, no. Go back to saying you’re thirsty for me. I liked that line of thought better.”

“Dorian, you’re about to keel over.”

He was not wrong. Dorian was only held upright in a joint effort by the bar and Cullen’s hand. Still, he schooled his expression into the picture of dignity. He wasn’t sure how successful he was, given the fact that Cullen seemed to be trying not to laugh at him.

It was better than him looking mopey, at least.

“I told you, I’m fine,” Dorian insisted. A glass of water was rolled their way. Dorian glared at it. “You drink the water. I’ll take another beer, Cabot!”

Cabot ignored him. Dorian turned his glare to Cullen. “You’re ruining a fine business here.”

“I’m sure he’ll live.”

Dorian did not get the opportunity to reply. His phone started to ring.

At first, he didn’t realise it was his own phone ringing. He was still staring Cullen down. It was Cullen who acknowledged it, tipping his head downwards, towards the sound vibrating from Dorian’s pocket. “Need help with that?”

Oh, like you wouldn’t believe. Dorian gave him his sourest face and then pulled his phone out and to his ear without looking at the screen. “Yes?”

“Dorian!” Felix was on the other end. “Oh, finally. I’m outside your door.”

The sound of his best friend, breathless, made Dorian blink. “You’re- what?”

He could almost hear Felix deflate. Around him, the bar sounded louder than ever. Sadly, Felix said, “You’re not home.”

“No.” Drunk and suspicious, Dorian said, “Did we make plans? I thought I’d been ignoring you and doing a good job of it too.”

“You have been,” Felix quipped, “which is why I didn’t text you in advance that I was on my way.”

“That desperate to see me, huh?”

“Dorian. I need a book.”

“At” – Dorian pulled his phone back to squint at the time and found the numbers were far too small to decipher – “this time?” He pressed his phone back to his ear again. “Can it not wait?”

“If it could, I wouldn’t be stood outside your door. Where even are you?”

“Haven.” He could hear Felix’s judgement. “You don’t get to judge me.”

“And here I thought that was my job.” Felix sighed and the realisation that he still sounded out of breath sobered Dorian a little.

When he straightened up, Cullen took a step back. “What did you do, run all the way to my apartment like some sort of madman?” Now, he was sure Felix could hear his judgement. “Felix.”

“I’m this close to cracking this chapter and I know you have that book on theoretical frameworks of-”

“You sound like me.”

“Don’t start, Dorian.” Felix made a gentle but frustrated noise. “Do you not have a spare key hidden somewhere or something?”

“Now, you really sound like me.”

Beside Dorian, Cullen was waiting politely, his glass still rolling between his palms. It was mostly water now. Dorian sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re not far from Haven. Come get my keys if you must.”

“Already booked a taxi,” Felix informed him cheerily. “And Dorian?”

“Hm?”

“Sorry for interrupting.”

“How do you even know that-” Felix had already hung up. Dorian stared blankly down at his phone. “Okay.”

“Everything alright?”

Dorian sighed again and pocketed his phone. He grabbed the glass of water Cullen had ordered for him and took a sip before answering, “My best friend, Felix, is putting me to shame as the resident workaholic. He needs a book I own or something.”

Cullen smiled. “Must be a pretty special friend if you’ll drink water for him, then.”

Dorian smiled back. “Careful, now, Commander, you almost sound like you’re jealous.”

Cullen didn’t respond, looking down at his glass. The world could have been in it. Dorian was sobering too fast.

Without thinking, he said, “So what happened to your friend?”

“My friend?” Cullen pulled a face in confusion, looking quizzically over to Cassandra, Josephine and Leliana.

“No, not them-” Dorian ran a hand through his hair. He wished he hadn’t accepted the water. Everyone always said coming down was easier that going up but Dorian loathed it. He wanted to go all the way. All or nothing. He knocked back the water like it was a spirit. “That man you were speaking to earlier. You talked for some time.”

“Oh.” Cullen flushing was answer enough. Just like when customers flirted with him, his embarrassment always made him seem so much younger. “He’s not- I wasn’t-”

The whole stammering church boy act, though usually endearing, was, at this moment, trying Dorian’s patience. “Oh, don’t play coy, Cullen. He wanted to fuck you. It was obvious.”

Cullen blinked at his harsh tone. “I- yes. That much I gathered.”

“So what was the problem?”

“The problem?” Cullen repeated unsurely.

“Yes, Cullen. The problem. Because for all intents and purposes, the man looked perfectly adequate.” Dorian looked around for the man and when he couldn’t see him, he tried to recall his appearance for any obvious flaws. “Is he not your type? It couldn’t have been the fit of his jeans. You’re hardly an expert in that department yourself.”

Cullen just shook his head. “Dorian, I just wasn’t interested.”

“But why?” He knew he sounded like a child but he couldn’t help it. The night was ending too soon and then Dorian would go back to his job grading papers and Cullen to his nuts and bolts. The thought of Cullen calling Dorian’s name at the end of every evening they spent together only to wish him a safe journey home filled Dorian, suddenly, with an indescribable frustration. He wanted answers. “Did he suggest taking you home and fucking you? I know there are tops who hate that. Is it a masculinity thing? Or was it the other way round? I shouldn’t assume your preferences.”

“Dorian, I don’t-” Cullen cut himself off. Then, quietly, in a voice that had no business sounding as hurt as it did, he asked, “Did Josephine set this up? Is that why you’re here, to join them in helping to fix my perfectly fine life?”

Dorian had struck a nerve. It almost made Dorian want to laugh like every nerve of his body hadn’t spent the entire evening hyperaware of Cullen, the hair on his arms stood on end and the static making his ears ring. “Oh, you should know me better than that by now, Cullen. I am here for no one but myself. It’s called being selfish. I happen to be very good at it.”

“So I’m a charity case to make yourself feel better?”

This baffled Dorian. “Now, where have you gotten that idea from?”

“I don’t know!” Cullen was visibly frustrated, painfully rigid. “You’re the one mad at me for not fucking some random man I just met.”

“I’m just trying to understand.”

“Understand what?

Dorian put down his drink. “Who are you?”

Cullen stared at him for a long moment and then he let out a resigned sigh. It was the sound of someone realising they were dealing with a person too drunk to reason with. “You know who I am, Dorian.”

Dorian scoffed. “Then, who’s Cullen Rutherford? Who is he and what does he want?”

Cullen turned his head away. Dorian realised, with some distant clarity, that they were arguing. He had picked at a scab. He was not sure if the wound was his own or Cullen’s but it hurt.

When Cullen looked at him again, his eyes were bright. “I wanted a quiet night. I wanted to finish my work and go home and take a shower. Eat dinner. Catch up with some paperwork. Go to bed. And then you came to the shop and Josephine showed and I-” He stopped abruptly, as if struggling to find the right words. “Then I wanted to have a nice evening with my friends. I wanted you to have fun.”

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Have fun.”

“Dorian, I-” Confusion furrowed his expression. “Yeah. I had fun. I had fun with you.”

Stupid. Dorian was always so stupid. “Would you have fucked him, if we weren’t here? If you were a little more selfish, Cullen?”

Cullen put down his own drink, hard. When he turned his body entirely to face Dorian, Dorian’s turned too, on its own accord. They were chest to chest, like they had been all night and yet not at all. When Cullen spoke, his voice was low in a way Dorian had never heard before. “I’m not one of you academic friends, Dorian. You want a direct answer, you have to ask a direct question.”

Dorian inclined his head. “Okay, riddle me this: you’re aware your friends are trying desperately to make your life better, you seem to inspire that in people. Do you reject their help out of spite or because you truly believe yourself happy with your lot, which is, in my experience, a modest amount that one can find themselves content with, if that’s the limit of their imagination?”

“That’s not your question, Dorian.”

Dorian laughed. He forgot that Cullen was more perceptive than he gave him credit for. “You’re right. It’s not.”

Still, Cullen answered the indirect question. “Like I said, I’m not interested.”

“In what? Their help? Him?” A delicious pause. “Fucking?”

And unsaid: me?

Cullen looked down at him. Dorian watched him swallow, lick his lips, open his mouth-

Cullen’s words were lost to the sound of a commotion elsewhere in the bar. They both looked towards the source, the door of the bar open and the security guard carrying the weight of another man, slumped against him but conscious. The man was struggling, his shoulders heaving. Dorian had seen the movements before.

Felix did not need to raise his head for Dorian to recognise him.

He was lowered to the floor just as Dorian reached him, time speeding up and slowing all at once. Up close, Dorian could see Felix’s teeth chattering. His lips had turned blue. His eyes were struggling to focus, lids fluttering, but his hands, cold and stiff, found Dorian’s and Dorian squeezed them as if to say I’m here it’s me I got you. Then he began feeling around Felix’s denim jacket, desperate, trying to find his EpiPen or his inhaler or his pills or-

“Has anyone called an ambulance?”

“I’m on it.”

“No. It’ll take too long. Josie, your keys.” Vaguely, Dorian recognised Cullen’s voice. It was close and far away at the same time. “I’m sober. I’ll drive them.”

Chapter Text

All things considered, Dorian didn’t hate hospitals. That wasn’t to say he liked them because no one in their right mind could feel positively about them but he had found, every time he ended up sat in an uncomfortable chair in a waiting room for news, that it wasn’t the strong smell of disinfectant or muted aqua walls that made him spiral.

After all, being in his own head was worse.

He could not wage a war against the hospitals who he owed for Felix’s life, over and over. Doctors and nurses weren’t soldiers. He watched them as they passed, clocking in and clocking out, leaving for their break or attending to a patient. Unflattering scrubs and tired eyes. There was a time when Dorian had fancied himself a doctor but he had gotten the less noble doctorate, lacking the discipline that the medical field required. Now, he fascinated himself with the doctors who passed him. He wondered who Felix’s doctor went home to, if she had a partner who she would crawl into bed with. Dorian tried to imagine telling your lover about the man you saved the life of. He didn’t want to think about telling them anything otherwise.

“Here.”

Dorian lifted his head. Cullen was holding a plastic cup of water. Hospital lighting was never kind to anyone, highlighting the paleness of Cullen’s skin and the darkness of the bags under his eyes, but Dorian knew he looked far worse. Cullen added, “The shop was closed but I got it from a nurse.”

This time, Dorian didn’t argue. He took the cup. “Thank you.”

Cullen sat back down beside him. Dorian could tell, from the way his hands were not the only part of him unable to keep still, that Cullen, unlike him, was struggling being in a hospital. His leg bounced a relentless, restless rhythm. Dorian wanted to reach over and put his hand on Cullen’s thigh but he didn’t. It made Dorian have another one of those realisations, that he did not know Cullen as well as he thought or wanted. The source of Cullen’s hospital anxiety was not a popular topic when he was filling out crossroads on the floor of the garage.

But then again, it was not like Dorian had been forthcoming with the information that his best friend was the host of many precarious health conditions.

Nearby, Felix’s father, Alexius, paced. He was a thin man, with a slight face and fine hair, always looking far sicker than his sick son. Dorian had called him on the way to the hospital, Felix’s head on his lap in the backseat of Josephine’s car. It was not the first time Dorian had to and every time he hated it, more than any clinical smell or any fluorescent lighting. Maybe the real reason he had not become a doctor or the like was because he hated to be the bearer of bad news.

Even if it was what he had been doing most of his life.

To his credit, Alexius had always had more faith in Dorian than Dorian had in himself. He had seen in Dorian a potential that his own father was quick to lose patience in. It was how Dorian had become Alexius’ apprentice. When Alexius had moved, claiming the reasons as purely academic, even as costs for Felix’s treatment had made their homeland less and less appealing, Dorian had mourned the loss of not only everyday life with his best friend but Alexius who was also, strangely, a friend.

Dorian hadn’t needed to worry. It would not be long before he followed.

Felix was Alexius’ everything. Born in tragedy and precarity, the loss of his mother broke Alexius’ heart but Felix had held it together with his fragile little hands. Though his childhood had been a series of poking and prodding and pain, Felix bore it all with a gentle spirit and gentler smile. Dorian’s childhood, spoilt and silly, was only worth a damn because Felix had been in it, stumbling after Dorian, seated by him at the dinner table and holding his hand, always holding his hand, even when his fingers curled up and went blue. All his life, it had not mattered when Dorian was alone, for Felix was not far, family in all the ways Dorian’s own blood were not.

Dorian hung his head and closed his eyes. Every time, he was struck with the injustice of it all, how the worst of men flourished and the best of men hurt. Felix was the best of them all.

When Felix’s doctor called out Alexius’ name, Dorian startled, jumping to his feet. Alexius was already beside her. Cullen stood at Dorian’s elbow, steadying without touching. The doctor spoke to them all and when she said Felix was stable, well, just a nasty close call, a scare really, Dorian’s breath left him with such force that he felt Cullen’s chest against his back.

At the permission of visitors, Alexius looked at Dorian, as he always did, barely able to conceal his desperation. It had always been so horribly apparent to Dorian that it did not matter what he did when Alexius would be the first to burn the world to ashes for his son.

Dorian nodded for him to go ahead.

When Alexius went ahead, Cullen sat back down but Dorian couldn’t move. In that same distant way, he heard Cullen say his name and then felt a light hand on his elbow. Dorian didn’t realise he was cold until Cullen’s fingers felt uncharacteristically warm. He looked down at the hand but not at its owner. He said, with some effort, mouth dry even though he had finished his cup of water, “I’m fine.”

Dorian kept his eyes on Cullen’s hand until Cullen removed it with a quiet, “Alright.”

They hadn’t really spoken. Dorian’s attention had been focused on Felix and in the short period between Felix being wheeled away and Alexius arriving, Dorian had not been able to think, let alone speak. He had done this many, many times before but it had always been alone or with Alexius. He did not know, in this instance, how to school himself to a picture-perfect performance.

To Cullen’s credit, he had not spoken very much himself. He had driven them to the hospital in record time, carrying most of Felix’s weight until nearby paramedics heard Dorian’s calls for help. Then he had sat next to Dorian, hands folding in on themselves constantly and blinking rapidly at the tiny television that showed a rerun of a sports game that Dorian was unable to look at long enough to distinguish. When Alexius had arrived, he had left without saying a word and Dorian, stupidly, had been afraid he had left for good, that this would be, by some virtue of hyperbole, the last time Dorian would ever see him. But then he returned with the water and kept close.

Dorian could not work out if he preferred to be alone or not. That was a persistent problem in his life.

When Alexius, colour having returned to his face, came back out to give Dorian a moment with Felix, Cullen stood up with Dorian, even though it was just to say, “I’ll wait out here.”

Dorian nodded. As he passed Alexius, the man smiled a little, with some effort but nonetheless. “He is in good spirits.”

This made Dorian huff a laugh. “Of course he is. He’s Felix.”

When Dorian entered Felix’s room, Felix was sat up, looking a little rough for wear but awake. A nurse was fussing over his IV. When she spotted Dorian, she smiled, murmuring something to Felix that he laughed at weakly. She left the room and Dorian raised his eyebrows. “Do my eyes deceive me or were you flirting with that nurse? I didn’t know you had it in you, Felix.”

Even sat in a hospital bed, Felix was able to make a roll of his eyes so disapproving. “It’s called being polite, Dorian. You should try it some time.”

Dorian moved to sit on the edge of the hospital bed, reaching out without really thinking about it. Felix's own hand gravitated towards Dorian’s. Dorian was relieved to feel the warmth of his skin, the smoothness of his fingers. It was unlike the callouses and roughness that Dorian had grown better acquainted with recently.

He felt immeasurably guilty for the thought.

“Hey, now,” he protested. “I’m always nice. I am also very fun at parties.”

“I know,” Felix said, not unkindly. “Sorry for messing up your night, Dorian.”

Dorian was shaking his head before the words had left Felix’s mouth. He spoke with uncharacteristic gentleness. “I think your apology is misplaced. I’d rather you apologise to your body for overworking it to the bone. There are limits. You know this.”

Felix looked away. Dorian squeezed his hand. “I know what is not in our control is hard to confront but you have nothing to prove. Rest is not defeat.”

At that, Felix smiled at him. “Never thought I’d hear those words from Dorian Pavus.”

Dorian snorted. “Well, Dorian Pavus has become domesticated these days. Like a fat house cat. There’s no reasons for you to be running around the streets, Felix.”

At that, Felix sighed but inclined his head. “I know. I’ll take it easier.”

Dorian accepted it with a squeeze of Felix’s fingers. He knew Alexius would have already done his fair share of fretting and nagging. Sympathetically, he asked, “How was your dad?”

Felix pulled the same face he always did ever since he had been a child. “He’s gone to get his things. I’ll be surprised if he lets me out of his sight after this. He’s on my case to move back in with him.”

Dorian wasn’t sure how he felt about it. Alexius had always been painstakingly protective of his son. It had been the several years of nothing beyond a dizzy spell that had made him settle down. To be reminded of his son’s mortality had him, no doubt, desperate to eliminate anything that could threaten Felix, including but not limited to wasps, highly caffeinated drinks and rollercoasters. Like any overbearing parent, Alexius could not imagine that there was harm in smothering his son, even when it meant he was the cause for Felix being unable to breathe.

Though what did Dorian know? He was no expert on relationships between a father and his son.

“Give him time,” Dorian said, like he always did. “He’ll calm down.”

“Yeah.” In a hurry to change the subject, Felix’s expression shifted from a grimace into a grin. Slyly, he said, “Dad did mention your friend drove us here.”

Dorian glared at him. “I’m mad at you. Did I mention I’m mad at you?”

“Surely you cursed the evening for yourself by going to Haven for a date.”

He was not wrong but Dorian made an offended noise. “It wasn’t a date. I was meeting his friends.”

Felix blinked. “A bit fast but okay-”

“Not like that. We’re…” Dorian wanted to say friends but he thought of Cullen looking at him just before Felix had arrived, heavy with all the things unsaid. They had known each other for barely a handful of weeks now. Dorian had been asking the wrong questions. It wasn’t who Cullen was but who they were, together. The fascination of Cullen’s friends was not unfounded. It had fascinated and frustrated Dorian too, to be in this kind of relationship with another man. Maybe that was what had simmered to the surface in the bar, boiling weeks of looking and touching but not knowing. Dorian hated not knowing things.

Keeping his voice light, he said, “Well. Your timing was opportune, actually. I think we were arguing.”

He didn’t fool his best friend. Felix looked at him sadly, sadder than he ever looked about his own circumstances. “Oh, Dorian.”

Now, that made Dorian feel pathetic. He was not the person hooked to an IV. “Please, Felix. I know you believe me incapable of dealing with my own problems but I’d rather you didn’t collapse on the streets to intercept them.”

“He’s still here though, isn’t he?”

That made Dorian pause. “Yes.”

“That has to count for something, right?”

Dorian sighed and now it was his turn to change the subject (except not really.) “Whatever it means, it's made me act unforgivably. I’m sorry, Felix, for not being in touch as of late. It’s silly to avoid you over problems I make for myself.”

“Dorian. Water under the bridge.”

Dorian thought of Felix’s hands, as cold as ice. He had been right when he said he’d gotten complacent, in all senses of the word. “And if it hadn’t been?”

“Don’t think like that. You’ve been busy.” Felix shrugged. “And so have I. That’s just life.”

“Felix,” Dorian said despairingly, “I would have no life without you. You know this.”

Felix rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Oh, now you really sound like Dad. You met someone-”

“I have not met someone!”

“-and you’ve made new friends. You’re doing better.” Felix looked at him with so much genuine care that Dorian felt sick, knowing Felix’s next words. Knowing what better was relative to because Felix had seen Dorian at his best and at his worst and Dorian was not sure what he could call who he was these days, who he had been to Cullen- “I know what you’re thinking but you deserve it.”

“My best friend being hospitalised?”

Felix nudged him with his leg. “Stop being difficult, Dorian.”

Suddenly, Dorian recalled a conversation that had taken place hours earlier. You take a lot of things remarkably well. He felt his mouth twitch, despite himself. Felix saw it too and, as if able to read his mind, he said, “Can you call Cullen in? I want to thank him.”

Dorian didn’t argue. When he went out, he found that Cullen was sat with his arms rested on his thighs and head ducked. Even in the poor lighting and it stood at awkward ends from running his hands through it anxiously, Cullen’s hair looked angelic. Dorian looked at him for a moment until, as if sensing his presence, Cullen raised his head.

Dorian cleared his throat. “Felix wants to see you.”

Cullen scrambled to his feet. Something about the sight, like a child in a classroom afraid to get in trouble, made Dorian smile. “Don’t trip over yourself, my man. Felix isn’t going anywhere.”

Dorian led him to Felix’s room and watched, with the kind of amusement that Dorian was recognising, in his exhausted state, was rising hysteria, as Cullen folded his anxious hands in front of himself politely. Felix tried to sit up straighter and Dorian went to his side, hands hovering. Felix waved him off and smiled at Cullen. “So, you’re the mechanic, huh?”

Cullen looked surprised, as if he hadn’t expected Felix to know how Dorian knew him, as if they had gotten past using the motorcycle as an excuse to meet. Had they? “The one and only.” He looked at Dorian unsurely. “Or at least, I believe I am.”

Dorian looked back at him in disbelief. “Are you asking if I’m seeing other mechanics?”

Felix laughed. “Well, either way, I’m sorry it was in such circumstances that we met. I’ll try not to make a habit of it.”

Dorian turned his disbelieving gaze onto his best friend. “Try? Felix, you know I’m getting too old to handle this kind of excitement in my life.”

“Weren’t you both out drinking?” Felix said pointedly. Then to Cullen, he said, “Thank you, Cullen, for bringing us here. Sorry for messing up your night.”

“No need to apologise. I’m glad to see you’re okay.” It was half a question.

Felix smiled in his embarrassed way. He’d always hated drawing attention to himself. “I need to stay overnight for observation but that’s just procedure. Gotta make sure my heart doesn’t try to kick it but it’s done well so far.”

“Sounds like you have a lot on your plate,” Cullen said, somehow without sounding condescending. “If there’s anything I can help with, I gave your dad my number.”

Dorian blinked at him. He had no idea Cullen had even spoken to Alexius. He was so focused on Cullen, the side of his face, the dark hair of his stubble, the light hair of his lashes, that it took Dorian a minute to register Felix’s next words. “There is one thing, actually. Can you take Dorian home and make sure he stays there?”

Dorian had to shake himself physically to clear his head. “What? Felix. No. I’m not leaving you here.”

Felix looked at him patiently. “You’re not leaving me anywhere. I’m fine. Dad’s going to stay and besides, I’m a big boy.”

Dorian remembered when Felix’s feet couldn’t reach the floor. He remembered when his hair was tufty and his shirts would never fit. Something caught in his throat. “Okay. But don’t you dare even think about your thesis, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Now, go, before you start looking like my dad too.”

Cullen ducked out, wishing Felix well and giving them a moment to say goodbye. Felix watched him leave with a small smile on his face. Then he announced, “He’s hot.”

Dorian let out a sound that was neither a laugh nor cry. “Goddamn, Felix, now’s not the time.”

“I’m fine, Dorian.” Now, Felix just sounded tired. “You know how it works.”

“It doesn’t make things any easier.” Dorian moved to put his arms around Felix, giving him as fierce a hug as he was able without hurting him. He said goodbye with a kiss to Felix’s shorn head.

After speaking to Alexius about how he was only a phone call away, Dorian gestured for Cullen to lead the way out to the car. It was late – or early, depending on who you asked. It was also eerily quiet. Neither of them spoke.

It felt strange to get into the passenger seat of Josephine’s car. Cullen asked Dorian if he knew the way home from here and Dorian laughed, miserably. “Of course. You think this is the first time?”

Cullen said nothing and started the car.

They drove through silent streets, only broken by Dorian giving directions. He did not look at Cullen, leaning his head against the window. It was cool on his skin. He felt his hair unravel from its careful styling and he could not bring himself to care, not now.

When they stopped in front of Dorian’s apartment, he looked over at Cullen without really seeing him. “You don’t need to- what Felix said. You don’t need to babysit me.”

Cullen’s hands still gripped the steering wheel. He looked like he was thinking hard about his words. “You won’t sneak off back into the hospital once I leave?”

Dorian snorted. “Like they’d let me back in.”

Cullen killed the engine. “Are you okay?”

It was a strange question. Dorian felt the words in his mouth as he answered more than he heard them, shaping the vowels and spilling the constantans. He started to explain – or at least, he thought that was what he was doing, saying – Felix’s condition, his life-long struggles, the length between the last episode and this-

Cullen caught his wrist when his hand was raised in an instinctive gesture. His voice was soft. “Dorian. I asked, are you okay?”

Dorian breathed out loudly. “I’ve been worse.” He looked at Cullen properly and even in the dark, even in all this madness, he was struck by just how much his attraction to Cullen threatened to overwhelm him. “I’m sorry for ruining your night with your friends.”

“You didn’t ruin anything, Dorian. Seriously. I’m just glad he’s alright.”

“Me too.” After a moment, Dorian added, “It was very kind of you to give your number to Alexius.”

Maybe if it hadn’t been so dark, Dorian would have known the colour on Cullen’s face was a slight flush. “I just wanted to offer a hand. There’s not much else I can do.”

Dorian could have cursed him. The frustration from the bar bubbled here and Dorian willed it down, not through determination but exhaustion. His feelings for Cullen were not anyone else’s problem, not even Cullen’s. “You’ve done more than enough.”

His tone was off, Dorian could hear it in himself. He was tired. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. I meant to say thank you. I don’t think I’ve said that yet.”

“It’s okay.” Quiet and gentle. Like he was dealing with a wounded animal. Like it had been Dorian collapsing on the floor of the bar. It may as well have been. “You’re welcome, Dorian.”

Too loudly, Dorian said, “Well, I do believe this is my stop.” He opened the door and climbed out unsteadily, sober and exhausted. He held onto the door to right himself then looked back at Cullen.

His hand was outstretched as if he was going to help Dorian but had stopped himself. The car light had flicked on with the door opening and Dorian could see Cullen’s face, constructed in squares of shadows and light. He looked as tired as Dorian felt. Dorian spoke without thinking. “Do you- would you like to come inside?”

Cullen didn’t even need to speak for Dorian to know the answer. Whatever the moment had been, desperate and longing, it passed. Cullen retracted his hand. “It’s late. You should get some sleep. And this is Josephine’s car.” When Dorian didn’t say anything, unable to, Cullen said, “Lion is probably up waiting.”

Almost immediately, he winced after his words, as if he too realised how weak they sounded.

“Ah, yes. Of course.”

Soft, soft enough for the clear rejection to almost not hurt, Cullen added, “But call if you need anything. I can come back.”

Almost. Dorian swallowed, nodded and stepped back.

Then, just before he could close the car door, Cullen called out. “Dorian.”

There it was, his name, just before he left. But this wasn’t the garage at the setting sun. This was the middle of the night, outside his apartment, after hours sat beside each other in solidarity and then silence.

When Dorian looked at him, Cullen’s eyes flickered away. “Even if you hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have.”

“What?”

Cullen spoke more clearly. “I wouldn’t have gone home with him.”

They stared at each other. Then Cullen said a quiet, prompting, “Sleep well, Dorian.”

Dorian was holding the door with a grip tight enough to hurt. He let it go, closing the door, almost robotically. He walked towards his home, aware of Cullen sat in a stationary car as he fumbled with his keys and let himself in. He took the stairs and let himself into a dark apartment. He didn’t turn the lights on, stumbling to a window where he could see out front.

Cullen’s car was still parked up but, as Dorian lifted his curtain, its lights turned on. He watched Cullen drive away.

Chapter Text

Dorian should have known he could not avoid his boss indefinitely. As he sat at his desk, marking the recent pile of student papers, he saw, in his peripheral vision, Vivienne pass his office, presumably on her way home. It was almost comical to watch her double back, peering through the glass of his door.

When she knocked, he put down his pencil. As Vivienne entered, she simply said, “Oh, darling, don’t let me stop you hard at work. I am simply admiring the view. A rare sight as of late.”

Dorian could hear what was implied. “Now, darling, I know I have not given you any reason to doubt my dedication to my work. After all, has my quality of teaching or my papers dropped in any way? I dare say, I’ve been producing some of my best results. I’m sure my most recent nomination reflects positively on the whole department.”

“That is true,” Vivienne said, slowly, as if she wished it wasn’t. She was not a woman who enjoyed being wrong. They had that in common.

Vivienne was a tall woman and always stood to her full height. She was striking, with full lips that did not offer smiles readily, cheekbones that looked like they had been carved in another time and dark brown skin that always contrasted wonderfully with her wardrobe of expensive white dresses, all with high necks and extravagant sleeves that hung from her slim wrists. Her hair was shaved close to her head and, though she occasionally wore headdresses that matched her clothes (Dorian was a little bit obsessed with her wardrobe), today she went without. She was also one of the most intelligent people Dorian knew and he liked to believe he was in the business of smart people. She was in good authority to judge Dorian and not just because it was her job to.

Seeing her chew her words now made Dorian feel smug. Then, she said airily, “I had just noticed you seemed distracted in a number of recent faculty meetings, Dorian. I had feared the worst but I’m sure the results of these papers will ease my worries.”

Ah, of course. Put all my ability on a bunch of first year students who are more preoccupied with mixing vodka with pop and learning how to curl their tongues in new ways and places. Dorian had better sense than to say it. Instead when Vivienne smiled with a closed mouth, Dorian bared his teeth without smiling. “I aim to deliver.”

“Mm, see that you do.” Vivienne turned, swirls of fabric dancing behind her. “Enjoy your weekend, Dorian.”

Dorian let out a breath when the door clicked shut behind her and resumed the paper he was grading. A lesser man would have been inspired to mark more generously but Dorian had, despite his distractions so far this academic year, no reason to believe his teaching was any worse. Though Vivienne’s observation had been correct, Dorian found his lectures a welcome distraction from distractions, the double negative making a positive.

This was nothing new. In a lot of ways, his students humbled him, keeping him young with their ability to dramatize their busy little lives in ways that even surpassed Dorian’s overly wild imagination. Their freshness made Dorian strangely optimistic, even when half his classes were filled with meatheads looking for an easy credit. He had overheard once, between two young men of the like, a speculation on Dorian’s sexuality. It had made a knot twist in his stomach that only untied itself when they simply concluded that he was quite handsome. He realised, with every new face he met, that he had his own unlearning to do. In a lot of ways, he learnt as much from his students as they learnt from him.

Then, he remembered his hasty judgements of Cullen. Dorian had not always been the best of students.

He thought of Cullen now. It had been several days since they had said goodbye at Dorian’s apartment and Dorian had woken up with a phantom hangover and a groan. The other thing so wonderful about getting blackout drunk was not remembering.

The days that followed Dorian had been, admittedly, distracted by the pile of mid-module assessments sitting on his office desk and checking in on Felix. If it also meant that he could avoid Cullen beyond replying to his texts asking after Felix’s health then it was a matter of two birds, one stone.

Felix was fine, keeping his promise of easing back into life gently. He had managed to convince his father that he did not need to move back home but he was happy to see Dorian for coffee (a peppermint tea, Dorian had ordered sternly on Felix’s behalf.) It was quite a change for Felix to go from discouraging Dorian’s interest in his mechanic to reprimanding him for avoiding the man that had saved Felix’s life. I know I know, Dorian said and yet he could not bring himself to face him. Felix despaired at the extent of Dorian’s stubbornness, citing the argument at the bar as the root of his embarrassment, and Dorian didn’t correct him. For some reason, he kept Cullen’s last words to him a secret.

Even if you hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have gone home with him.

Dorian considered the possibility he had imagined them. He had done stranger things, when drunk and when sober. Because what other explanation could there be for Cullen’s words?

He banished the train of thought with a shake of his head, trying to focus on the paper in front of him. The last thing he wanted to do was prove Vivienne right.

To Dorian’s credit, he became so engrossed in his grading that he did not stop the sentence he was writing when his office door opened, speaking without looking, “If you’re here to attest to your commitment to my class, save it for a professor who’s behind on his marking and therefore, can be convinced. And what time would you call this? Do you kids not see my office hours posted-”

He cut himself off when he raised his head and saw Cullen stood at his office door. “Well. This is a surprise.”

“Sorry, I-” Cullen, too, interrupted himself. He was staring back at Dorian as if he had not expected to see him in his own office. He looked remarkably well, wearing his standard dark jeans and boots but with a clean T-shirt and a tan corduroy jacket lined with white wool. His hair was tamed. All in all, it looked like he had made some effort.

He also looked, hovering at the door of the office, awkward, as if he had come all this way without realising that it would require him to cross the threshold into Dorian’s space.

Dorian swallowed. This was what he had been trying to avoid. It appeared that they had left on a note that neither knew how to read.

Dorian, used to hosting guests who came into his home even though they did not want to see him, spoke first. “Come on in. You’ve hardly disturbed a sanctuary of peace. You’ll have to move-” He waved in the direction of a pile of books on the chair across him. “I put them there to remember to take them home tonight. I didn’t expect anyone would be sitting across me at this time. What can I do for you?”

Cullen took a step into the office, closing the door behind him. Then he took another and then another. He treaded carefully, as carefully as he spoke. “You’re talking to me like I’m one of your students, Dorian.”

And yet it was a brazen thing to say, all things considered. Dorian blinked then shuffled the papers in front of him as if they weren’t already organised. He was beginning to understand the need to do something with your hands. “Am I? Force of habit, sitting here, I suppose. I don’t get a lot of friends visiting my office.”

When he looked up, Cullen was looking away, around. He had a hand at the back of his neck. The sight of the habit made Dorian feel bad. Cullen had come here because Dorian had been avoiding him. The least he could do was not make an arse out of the man.

He stood up. “Do you want a tea or a coffee? Or just water. I have hardly a train cart but sometimes, students can get emotional over tests and it’s nice to offer them something to hold.”

“Water’s fine. Thank you.”

Dorian went over to his small corner that served as a coffee station, ducking under the table to pull a bottle of water out from the mini fridge he kept for emergencies, such as this one. He poured half the bottle into one cup and the other half into another before tossing the bottle into his recycling bin.

He handed Cullen a cup and sat back down in front of him, eyeing him over his own cup. “You clean up well. What’s the occasion?”

Cullen took a sip then smiled, a little. “Will you be mad if I say I’m not going on a date?”

Dorian had the good graces to look embarrassed and that made Cullen’s smile widen but only good-naturedly. Dorian felt like a drowning man, even as a lifeline was thrown his way. He said, “I imagine your friends have tried to set you up several times.”

“Something like that.” Cullen stared down at his desk, littered with papers and books and pens at varying degrees of working. “Do you need to work? I shouldn’t have dropped by unannounced.”

“I’m more surprised you knew I would be here.”

At that, Cullen’s cheeks coloured. “Ah, Felix mentioned you were going to be working late tonight.”

“You’re on speaking terms with Felix?”

Cullen raised his palms defensively. “He called me once he got out of the hospital to thank me again. I just asked about you since…”

Since Dorian had been avoiding Cullen.

Dorian refused to feel too guilty. “Did he give you my lecture schedule too?”

Cullen seemed more amused by his pout than anything else. “I don’t think I would be a very good student.”

“No,” Dorian said, without thinking. “Far too distracting.”

Cullen flushed. Dorian wished he could regret his words but Cullen was here, sat in his office, with a blush that travelled down his neck. There were no limit of fantasies Dorian could entertain.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Dorian said instead.

“What?”

“So, no date, then,” Dorian said, smiling because he couldn’t help it. “But surely the outfit warrants reason? That’s a nice jacket. I didn’t know you had it in you, Commander.”

Cullen was self-conscious, this much Dorian knew about the man, and at Dorian’s compliment, a familiar embarrassment resurfaced, both crabby and wary. “You don’t need to tease me.”

“I’m complimenting you!” Dorian schooled his tone to mock offense but then said, genuinely, “You look good. The colour suits you. The jeans almost fit right.”

At that, Cullen’s blush deepened. “Thank you.” His eyes held Dorian’s and then, almost abruptly, away. “I wasn’t sure what your office would look like.”

“Sorry to disappoint. Though I remain the pinnacle of mystery and fascination, my work hour dwelling is actually not particularly interesting. I certainly don’t have an oversized dog behind my desk ready to pounce on you.”

“It’s not disappointing.” Cullen was peering at his wall of books and then he nodded in the vague direction of some. “I didn’t realise you were a fan of Varric Tethras.”

“I’ve not read them,” Dorian admitted. “One of my co-workers is a fan and left the series on my desk. I probably should see if she wants them back. It would be just like Dagna to forget she gave me them in the first place.”

“Cassandra’s a huge fan.”

“Cassandra? Your friend Cassandra?” Even though Cullen was nodding, Dorian just blinked at him. “The woman who apparently nearly knocked the Iron Bull unconscious is a fan of this romantic drivel?”

“Cassandra is a romantic. And they’re not bad books. Varric is a good writer.”

Dorian narrowed his eyes. “You’re talking as though you know him.”

“We’re not really friends but our circles have crossed. He gives everyone he knows a nickname.”

“You have circles- wait, what nickname has bestseller author Varric Tethras given you?”

Cullen raised an eyebrow. “You really don’t expect me to tell you it, do you? One is more than enough.”

“Commander is a perfectly flattering one,” Dorian argued. “And I actually have two. Sera calls you Curly-wurly.”

Cullen winced. “Sera has called me worse.”

“That’s not hard to believe.”

There was a lull in the conversation where Dorian looked down at the assignment in front of him which he had just started grading. He returned it to the pile of unmarked papers. He would not fool himself into believing he would mark anymore tonight, not with this company.

When he looked up, Dorian found Cullen looking at the lone framed photo on Dorian’s desk. It was a photo of himself and Felix, suited up, taken after Felix has presented at his first conference a few years ago. Cullen was not the only person to stare quizzically at it.

“I often get students ask if he’s my husband,” Dorian said, startling Cullen. He wiggled his ringed fingers. “I suppose all this jewellery distracts them from the missing crucial ring.”

“Not one for marriage?”

Dorian raised his eyebrow at the question. “To Felix or in general?”

“I’ve gathered by now that your relationship with Felix is a little bit more complex than that.”

Dorian smiled. “We’ve been friends since we were children. His dad was my academic mentor. We have seen too much of each other to love each other in any other way than what we know. Also, I do believe Alexius would have me scalped for seducing his son.”

Cullen laughed a little, as if he could imagine. Dorian could have left it there but this was his way of apologising for his behaviour, both at the bar and the past few days of avoidance. This was his direct answer to direct questions. “And in general? I have no strong feelings against the institution of marriage, if that’s what you’re asking. Of course someone somewhere is having the feminist conversation with their partner about ownership and tradition but it is not me.” When Cullen didn’t say anything, Dorian gave him a hard look. “Oh, don’t tell me you feel about marriage how you do about the church. The gays can marry now, Cullen.”

Cullen just laughed again. “I’m not making a political stand against marriage, no.”

“Phew. I would personally love to see you catch Alistair’s bouquet.”

Cullen ignored him. “Though I wasn’t asking so generally.”

“Oh.” Dorian leant back heavily. “I don’t think catching any bouquets would help me at this point, much to the disappointment of my father. Or more to his relief. I doubt I would have a wedding fit for my old man.”

Cullen frowned. “You don’t have a good relationship with him.”

“Ha! That would be an understatement. We’re not on talking terms.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Worst part was that Cullen did sound sorry.

“You don’t need to be. I did not make it easy for him. Though he deserved as much.”

There was a pause, as there always was when Dorian summoned his father into conversations, light and bitter like a droplet of lime on your tongue. Dorian swallowed it down.

Then, Cullen said, “I’d garner he deserved worse.”

“Oh?”

Cullen held his gaze. “My Pa died some years ago. Even when I was at my worst, he was always in my corner.”

Dorian couldn’t keep the confusion from his tone. “Is this you appealing to my humanity should my father drop dead tomorrow?”

“No.” Cullen shook his head, voice firm. “Respect is earned, not bestowed. Someone should appeal to his humanity.”

Dorian let out another short one note laugh. “Good luck finding it.” He feigned conceding. “Though I doubt he is as lucky as I am to have a friend who would think to remind him that he is missing out on precious time with his beautiful and brilliant son. Those would be your words, wouldn’t they?”

Cullen smiled in that gentle, dangerous way. “Something like that.”

Dorian cleared his throat. “You’d be surprised to hear that he had fancied himself quite the matchmaker. Not that he was a particularly romantic man.”

Cullen paused. “You mentioned once that your parents hadn’t… married for love.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Dorian said, sighing. “Not all arranged marriages are doomed by virtue but I dare say I hate the practice. The culture of them are the direct antithesis of a normal, healthy divorce. Your marriage is bigger than the two of you. That is the problem of it. You are bound to a life you can only perform, never live. It is a terrible fate.”

“And yet you’re not sympathetic towards your parents’ circumstances?” Cullen’s tone wasn’t accusatory. He had the careful curiosity of a man who was trying to learn. Dorian wished he’d made the introductory conversation surrounding his homeland about something more mundane, like food or wine. Instead, he was insisting on laying himself bare.

Still, he answered honestly. He could not do a disservice to himself by doing otherwise. “I don’t believe children should carry their parents’ trauma. I believe, in a world of hurt, that we should at least strive to hurt less where we are able. My parents are people, individuals in their own right, and they still had no right to see me as anything less. I was not born to be a vessel for their pain.”

In his tone, unable to conceal it, sat an accusation, ugly and tangled, that was not amiss to Cullen. He looked at Dorian with those sad eyes.

To make him stop looking that way, Dorian said, too lightly, “What about you? I imagine your parents were as loving to each other as the God you all imagined was to you all.”

Cullen didn’t take offense at his words. “They were happy together. It didn’t mean things were always perfect. I don’t think they would have married if my Ma hadn’t got pregnant with Mia but they didn’t regret it, ultimately.”

“What about your siblings?”

“What about them?”

“Are they registered organ donors?” Dorian rolled his eyes. “Are they married, Cullen?”

Cullen grinned at Dorian’s irritation. “Mia is. Branson and Rosalind aren’t, though I think Branson is looking to ask his partner.”

“Is Branson-”

“Younger. Don’t start.” He sounded tired but his eyes were warm. “Mia has already chewed me out about it.”

Dorian thought about Cullen at the bar, letting his friends tease and nag in equal measures. “Did an older sister prepare you for a friendship with the formidable trio?”

“Nothing could have possibly prepared me for that,” Cullen murmured under his breath.

“Are you close with your siblings?” Dorian asked, realising that he never had. He recognised their names from Cullen’s conversations but with others, customers and his friends, but Dorian had not been able to ask about what he had heard. It felt like admitting that he had collected bits and pieces on the other man. He molded all he knew together in the shape of Cullen guiltily.

“Reasonably.” Cullen shrugged. “I’ve always been lousy at keeping in touch. I love them but they- you know how siblings can be.”

“I don’t,” Dorian said, not harshly. “In case it wasn’t obvious. I was an only child.”

“There were times, as a kid, when I wished I had been. It was unfair and cruel of me.”

“Children can be.” Almost proudly, Dorian admitted, “I was a bastard of a child. Not literally, as we’ve established, but my father had been at his wit’s end moving me from school to school. I took a personal joy in making all my classmates terrified of me.”

“I don’t find that hard to believe,” Cullen said, teasing.

Dorian raised his eyebrows. “Why, because I terrify you now?”

“A little bit.” Dorian couldn’t work out if Cullen was joking or not. He wasn’t sure Cullen knew either. “Weren’t you lonely?”

Dorian thought about it. Shipped boarding school to boarding school. Coming home to a father who wanted another version of him and a mother who didn’t want any of him. Big rooms, long hallways, extravagant dinners with guests who never brought their own children, for better or for worse. “I suppose. But I had shown a distaste for others around me early on, raised by two arrogant sons of bitches. The other children I met were like me, spoilt rotten. I thought myself better than them even as I was them, pampered and poisonous.”

“What changed?”

Dorian scoffed quietly. “Who’s to say anything changed?”

“I don’t think you’re a bad person, Dorian.”

“Well, that makes one of us.” Dorian was joking but he felt the kind of warm and cold all at once that meant they were treading on dangerous territory. “What changed was the realisation that I was not like them, fundamentally. There was no measure of my upbringing that could tame what was central to my being. And yet…” How could he put it into so few words that he had worked hard to not be like his peers, his father? From one extreme to another. “It is dishonest to say the act of being a good person comes naturally to all those who experience hardship. I was not the only child in my homeland who suffered an injustice. It is possible to be dealt a difficult hand and then use it as a weapon. It is the cycle that had entrapped my parents. I did not want it to trap me.”

“Dorian,” Cullen said softly. “You don’t need to speak in riddles.”

“You know what I’m implying.” Dorian waved him away. He had talked about this particular part of his history before, to Bull, to Krem, to students who migrated from near and far who were struggling with the Southern idea of freedom, where who you were was more important than who you loved, for better or for worse. It had been nearly a decade since Dorian had last spoken to his father. He’d had no other choice; he had made peace with it.

And yet speaking to Cullen about it made him feel vulnerable. Perhaps it was the realisation that no matter how many times he killed his father in his mind, he lived in conversation. “I was the gay son of a powerful man who had as many ambitions as he did enemies. I did not make matters any easier.”

“By being gay?”

“By being myself.” Dorian knew he sounded frustrated but he could not help it. He had little time for Southern prejudices. His homeland, for all its faults, was not adequately represented by his home. It was always more complex than simple Southern morals made it out to be. “If I had not been a Pavus, it would not have mattered. Men fuck men, women fuck women. It is no different there from the South really. But I went from frightening my classmates to fucking them and my father had- no, has dreams of rising the ranks of power. He has a reputation to maintain and would not- could not let anyone stand in his way.”

“Not even his son,” Cullen said. It wasn’t a question.

“Not anymore,” Dorian said easily, as easy as breathing. “I believe those were his last words to me. You are no son of mine. Terribly dramatic. You can see where I get it from.”

When Cullen just stared at him, Dorian gave him a sad look. “You don’t need to feel sorry for me, Cullen. I can’t say it’s pleasant to recall but it was a long time ago. Since then, I have accumulated more problems than having very clear daddy issues. The wound doesn’t even bleed anymore.”

“A wound’s still a wound.” Cullen’s hands around his mug twitched. It was easy, too easy, to imagine him reaching across the desk to touch Dorian’s arm. It didn’t need to be anything more than that. Just a touch. “For what it’s worth, I do think it is your father’s loss. His son is both beautiful and brilliant.”

When Cullen smiled, it was lopsided and sincere. Dorian felt soft, pliable. It was a dangerous thing to be, if Dorian’s life had taught him anything. And yet, there was an earnestness in Cullen that the other man had not been truly able to grow out of. It made Dorian feel like he, too, like his students, could be young.

Cullen was right. A wound that didn’t bleed anymore could still hurt. Phantoms haunted his body.

Dorian didn’t reply. The air was awkward. Cullen changed the subject. “Are you heading out soon? I could give you a lift home.”

“Are you sure?” Dorian looked at him unsurely. “You’re not on your way to something important? The jacket really has thrown me off.”

“It’s on the way,” Cullen said and Dorian tried to suppress the disappointment at the news that Cullen had not dressed up specifically to stand at the door of his office.

“Oh? I hope I’m not keeping you.”

“Not at all.” Still, when Dorian started to shuffle his papers to organise the ones he needed to take home to finish, Cullen got to his feet. Dorian retrieved his jacket and bag and came out from behind desk and watched as Cullen picked up the books that had been on the chair before him. “So, you don’t forget.”

Dorian gave him a grateful smile. Cullen smiled back. At the sight and the conversation that lingered, too heavy, in the air around them still, Dorian was overpowered with the desire to push the books out of Cullen’s hands and his shirt into Dorian’s own. As the early evening light filtered in through the window, Dorian imagined kissing Cullen here, pressing him against the desk which Cullen would use for balance, surprised, open-mouthed. And then, kissing him back, hands rising to cradle Dorian’s face, gentler than Dorian ever deserved. Cullen was looking at him, strangely unreadable, and Dorian tried to imagine he was thinking of Dorian’s mouth in the same way, tired of his hunger.

But the likelihood was that Cullen was thinking about the place he needed to be, about his dog probably with Jim, about a life that Dorian talked over like an old habit with his own sad little affairs. Cullen existed outside of him and Dorian could not ruin the efforts Cullen went to to make Dorian part of it. He had been starving this week without Cullen and he was no longer a child, making what he was unable to have everyone else’s problem. He could not kiss his way out of silences.

Growing up was hard.

Dorian said, “Well, let’s get on, then.”

Cullen, books under his arm, followed him out.

They chatted about nothing in particular as Cullen tried to relocate which part of campus he had parked his car. Dorian walked without really looking, recounting the conversations Felix and Alexius were having with him about the other. It took him a moment before Dorian realised that he was talking to himself. Cullen had stopped.

When he turned back, Dorian gaped.

“Dorian,” Cullen said warningly.

“Oh, no,” Dorian bit back. “You are not getting away with this one. You’re a mechanic, you fix cars for a living and this is what you drive around?”

Cullen’s car was a truck. It was a big, ugly, beat-up truck and Cullen stood beside it with his arms crossed and a tired expression. Dorian guessed he was not the only person who had commented on Cullen’s choices. “I told you I wasn’t some car nut.”

“Oh, no, if you were, we would not be having this conversation. Or any, at all.”

“Not a fan of men who like cars?”

“At least men who are into craft beers give me an excuse to get drunk. What do I do with a man who thinks automobiles are a viable hobby? You’re not Batman. If we’re not fucking in it, why should I care?” Dorian waved a hand. “Go paint miniatures.”

Cullen burst out laughing, fishing out his keys to unlock the nightmare he called a car. “I’ll pass along your concerns.” Cullen opened the passenger door for him. “Now, do you want a lift home, Dorian?”

Dorian stepped towards the car warily. “You had some nerve accusing Alistair of driving a death trap when you ride along in this monstrosity. It’s bottle-green.”

Cullen shrugged. “I save money on gas.”

When they were close enough that Dorian could see Cullen fighting his smile, he fixed him with his most withering look. “You only have one pillow on your bed, don’t you?”

Cullen shook his head but he could not hide his smile, handing Dorian’s books back to him. “Get in the car, Dorian.”

Dorian did. As Cullen shed his jacket to toss in the back before circling around to get into the driver’s seat, he bit back his own grin. He had missed Cullen.

This was the second time Cullen drove Dorian home in silence but it was comfortable, the radio on a murmuring volume and Cullen didn’t need to ask Dorian for directions. Dorian watched Cullen, admiring the view of the length of Cullen’s arm as he steered and the lowering sun catching on the edge of his eyelashes. His T-shirt was a snug fit.

Dorian didn’t realise he was speaking until the words were out of his mouth. “You still haven’t said where you’re off to, all dressed up. I’m beginning to sympathise with Lion. I am feeling rather left out.”

“I need to go out of town.”

“What?”

Cullen swore under his breath when someone cut him off. “Yeah, I had a contact who said they had a part I need. For your bike.”

“My-” Dorian shook his head to clear it. “Where do they live?”

“A few hours away.”

“And you’re, what? Going to drive through the night?”

At Dorian’s tone, Cullen glanced over. “Yeah, I guess-”

Now, Dorian wanted to shake Cullen. “You madman! What are you doing wasting time driving me home?”

“It’s no problem,” Cullen said, confused, unable to look away from the road as a car backed out of an upcoming driveway.

“It’s my bike, Cullen,” Dorian said in disbelief. “Why on earth are you planning a night trip to pick up some nuts and bolts?”

Cullen was not offended by much but Dorian’s question made him frown. “Not some nuts and bolts, Dorian. It’s the most important part of the motorbike that’s missing and the one thing I thought I wouldn’t be able to find but a friend turns out to have just dug one up.”

A friend. Dorian refused to overthink it. “I fail to see your point. Get it delivered.”

“I can’t risk it.”

“You trust the postal service so little.”

When Cullen didn’t refute it, Dorian looked at him incredulously. “Cullen. Seriously.”

Cullen’s next words were practically a grumble. “It might not arrive in time.”

Oh. Dorian stared at him for a different reason. He had forgotten, in all that had passed between them, that Cullen had given himself a deadline on fixing the bike. It occurred to Dorian now that, in their absence of each other, Cullen has been working hard.

Dorian pressed his lips together. “Turn the car around, then.”

Cullen squinted at him, as if the sun was making it hard for him to see Dorian. “What?”

“You’re a filthy liar, Cullen,” Dorian snapped. “There’s no way my apartment is on the way so turn your hideous car around and let’s get this show on a proper road. You said it yourself. Time is of the essence.”

Realisation dawned on Cullen. “You don’t need-”

“I’m getting mighty tired of people telling me what I do and don’t need.” When Cullen didn’t look away at Dorian’s bitter tone, he took a deep breath and said, as calmly as he could, “I want to.”

Cullen stared, assessing, and then he nodded, breathed out too and smiled. “Okay.” He indicated at the next road. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

When Cullen had said he had planned to drive through the night, he wasn’t kidding.

They had stopped for gas where Cullen had stocked up on supplies whilst Dorian peered at the random assortment of things that always seemed to be for sale in gas stations.

“Everyone always says airports are the ultimate liminal spaces but I would argue that gas stations are- what is this?” Dorian held up something that was part squeaky, part furry.

Cullen barely looked at it, preoccupied with the selection of candy in front of him. “A toy?”

“For children or dogs?” Dorian’s eyes widened. In a hushed tone, he asked, “For sex?”

Cullen didn’t grace him with a reply and instead, walked away. Dorian followed him to an awful brand name coffee machine, ranting all the while. “I refuse to believe you planned this trip. You put on a shirt without holes and didn’t even get some coffee for the journey. We could have gone to Fade’s for some proper coffee.” He eyed the machine which both looked and sounded like it had had better days. “We could have seen Sera!”

Cullen raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that supposed to be convincing?”

“Oh, she’s not so bad.” He watched, in horror, as Cullen dumped packet of sugar after sugar into his black coffee. “You won’t take milk but you’ll put enough sugar in there to put a Victorian child in a coma. No wonder all your friends worry for your health.”

“The sugar also helps me stay awake.”

“And that Victorian child was Cullen Rutherford. Do you have a middle name?”

Cullen brushed past, close because the station was small and the aisles were packed close. “Are you always this obsessed with names or am I just special?”

“I’m simply fascinated by the Southern custom. So, what is it?” Dorian stroked his chin in mock deep thought. “Marcus? Thomas? God forbid, Edwin?”

Cullen threw a pack of nuts at him. “We need to get a move on.”

“Oh, so now, he wants to speed up.” Still, he followed Cullen to the till, grabbing a pair of sunglasses from the stand on his way. “Is it really that embarrassing? I can promise not to tease you.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Dorian.”

“You’re being unfair.” Dorian pouted. “I don’t even have a middle name to trade you for it.”

As Cullen dug out his wallet, Dorian placed the sunglasses on top of his curls. Cullen didn’t even blink. The cashier looked unsurely between the two of them but Cullen paid for them like a parent who had grown tired of saying no. He grabbed the bag of their purchases to leave. “If I tell you, will you drop it?”

“Scout’s honour, boy scout.”

He had led Dorian towards the exit by sheer closeness. “Stanton.”

“Stanton?” Dorian almost yelled.

Cullen glared at him as he opened the gas station door for them both.

“Sorry, sorry. I’ll drop it.” Still, Dorian pulled a face. “Were you one of those white babies that looked like an old man?”

“Dorian,” Cullen said disapprovingly.

“Stanton,” Dorian said in the same tone.

Cullen just sighed and headed back towards his car. In the glare of the stubborn sun, Cullen lowered the sunglasses to cover his eyes. Even though his middle name was Stanton and he was wearing gas station sunglasses, he looked good. Dorian wasn’t sure if Cullen was looking at him but then, when Dorian glared at him, his lips quirked upwards, only a little smug.

After that, they drove for over an hour with Dorian playing shotgun. Cullen was, to his credit, a relatively calm driver, not easily spooked by Google Maps sending them through country lanes to avoid traffic and never doing more than grumble when other drivers veered dangerously too close. So Dorian did it for him, rolling down the window to toss out colourful expletives at assholes on their commute home. Cullen would tell him to calm down but he would also smile.

They bickered a little about music because Dorian liked the hum of something constant in the background and Cullen liked the radio because he wanted to hear the weather forecast. Dorian tapped on his window at the clear skies and Cullen compromised on a station that played decades old pop music. Dorian rolled the windows down. Cullen sang softly as he drove, playing beats onto the steering wheel with his fingertips, and his voice was rough but lovely. As the sun began to set, he tucked his gas station sunglasses into the front of his shirt.

At a quieter stretch of road that Cullen had turned into as instructed by the polite voice in his phone who also informed them it would go on for several miles, Dorian attempted to mark some of the papers he had stuffed into his work bag. He got through one, albeit shakily, before Cullen lowered the volume in the truck and asked, “How is the grading going?”

“Could be worse.” Dorian shrugged. “First years are always a little rough but there’s potential there, sometimes. It’s always exciting to see those gems and know you can help shape them into something brilliant. It makes the rest of the students merely attempting to coast on by a little bit more bearable.”

“Do you… enjoy it? Being an academic, I mean.”

“Enjoy?” The word felt weird in Dorian’s mouth. “I suppose I do. It’s what I’ve always been good at.”

“But does it make you happy?”

When Dorian looked over at him, Cullen looked self-conscious. It was a bit of a silly question but Dorian humoured him because he understood, ultimately, what Cullen was asking was plainer. Was Dorian happy? “Whilst it is healthy to not think of your work as your life, it used to be. When I had nothing else, I had my studies. They gave me a place to prove my worth, demonstrate that I had something to offer. When it became my job, I had to make myself draw a line so I didn’t work myself to death, for the sake of not only myself but my students. Now, I’m fortunate enough- dare I say, happy to stand in front of classes of impressionable and passionate people to teach them something I care about in hope that they will too and also have a life outside of the lecture theatre. After all, if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.” He winked at Cullen. “And that would be a terrible tragedy, wouldn’t it?”

Cullen didn’t answer but he bit his lip, smiling. Dorian opened his mouth to level the question back at him only to feel the wind pick up dangerously. He turned to wind up his window and swore when it got stuck because of course the mechanic drives a broken car. When he tried to use both his hands, a particularly hard gust of wind sent a few of the pages he had on his lap up, up and out. Dorian yelped and Cullen burst out laughing. Dorian turned to level a suitable accusation at him for letting the papers escape past him (bar the one that had stuck to his chest which Dorian snatched back) but was distracted at the sight of him like it was the first time. Elbow balanced on his open window, hand easy on the wheel and laughter in his eyes. The setting sun glinted off the pale hair on his arms.

And then Dorian’s peripheral vision was black and white and he looked ahead just in time to shout, “Watch the cows!” Cullen swerved harshly to avoid the herd, yelling an apology out the window, both at the mooing cows and at the unimpressed farmer watching them. Now it was Dorian’s turn to laugh and when Cullen looked at him, he wondered if that was how he had looked at Cullen, disgustingly fond.

Softly now, Dorian reprimanded him. “Eyes on the road, Commander.”

Maybe it was the nickname or Dorian pointing out that Cullen was staring but it made Cullen flush, pink like the sunset.

They drove on into the birth of the evening.

*

They drove, stopped at a diner (Cullen insisting that it was because he needed more coffee but he watched Dorian eat a suitable all day fry up for dinner out the corner of his eye) and then drove some more. Cullen flexed his fingers and rolled his shoulders from time to time but overall didn’t complain, even as Dorian wriggled and whined. He was mid complaint when Cullen suddenly veered the car into a path made in some woods. The car’s headlights illuminated greenery that danced, dark shadows in the wind that had followed them north.

“Detour,” Cullen said, as if he could see the question in Dorian’s eyes. His own gaze was focused on driving in very little light.

“It’s dark out,” Dorian said slowly, “and the handsome stranger is driving off the road and into the woods.”

“You think I’m- are we still strangers?” Cullen actually sounded offended.

“I suppose not. Though many have attempted an attack against my life much sooner in our acquaintance.”

“I wonder why.”

Dorian opened his mouth to protest but then the path opened up into an expanse of water.

“A lake. Not at all suspicious or worrying.”

“I’m not going to murder you, Dorian.” Cullen turned the car off the makeshift road to park it, still close to the trees which Dorian peered out at, untrusting.

“That’s exactly what a murderer would say.”

Dorian turned back in time to see Cullen roll his eyes. He killed the engine and stepped out of the car and Dorian followed, more warily, his eyes not used to the dark without streetlights. The moon, tonight, was a sad little sliver, even though there were no clouds or pollution to rival it. Dorian was no lover of nature but he could imagine the lake would have reflected a full moon quite brilliantly.

It was this thought that had him distracted enough to trip slightly as he rounded the hood of the car. Cullen caught him by his elbow, saying a simple, “Careful” close to his ear as if he had not brought the two of them into the woods when it was dark enough to be tempting fate.

Dorian let Cullen steer him by the arm for the second time this evening but grumbled all the same. “A lake in the dark. Ridiculous. If a man in a mask came out and beat me to death with a baseball bat, it would be my fault. If I slip and drown, it would still be my fault.”

“I’ve got you.” Cullen, much to Dorian’s irritation, sounded amused.

Dorian shivered and it was, for the most part, he told himself, because of the chill in the air. “So, is this magical motorbike part of yours in the water?”

When Cullen laughed quietly, Dorian felt it against his back. “Not quite. We’re still another hour or so until we get to Carver’s.” They reached the edge of the water, marked off by a lopsided imitation of a gate, and stopped but Cullen didn’t move away.

Dorian squinted out at the water. The lake was large and barely still, probably home to some creatures Dorian had little interest to name. It was dark enough that Dorian had no way of knowing if, during the day, the water would be more blue or green. It was quiet and Dorian realised, suddenly, that Cullen’s silence was hesitation. When he looked up at him, Dorian was frustrated to find that he couldn’t make out much of Cullen’s face in the dark.

Still, it was enough to prompt Cullen to talk. “This is where I grew up.”

Stupidly, more stupidly than Dorian had said anything in his life, he asked, “In the lake?”

Cullen may have smiled. “Nearby. We lived in a village just east from here.”

“Then why are we-”

“Not anymore,” Cullen interrupted but not harshly. “When Da passed, Ma had to sell the place. None of us really wanted to stay here without him and there were too many other costs to contend with. The funeral, Mia’s family, Rosie’s tuition and... well, what became the shop.”

Dorian felt his eyes adjust just as Cullen put some distance between them, leaning forward with his hands on the gate. Cullen didn’t look at him, his eyebrows furrowing slightly, and it was perhaps the only reason Dorian didn’t warn him against the risk of splinters. When Cullen spoke again, his voice was quiet, like he was speaking o himself. “I used to come here as a kid. When my siblings got too much or my parents. Or just the town.” He paused, the kind of pause that felt like a wince, hearing yourself back. Immediately, he raised a hand, nervous. “I thought – since we were passing by-”

Dorian caught Cullen’s arm before his hand could find its place of habit, moving closer. “What did you do here?”

This time, Cullen didn’t move away. “Sulk, mostly. Skip stones. Sometimes I’d fall asleep and I would wake to the distant sound of Mia calling me and I’d scramble to get out of here so she wouldn’t crash in on it. I had a theory that-”

“That what?” Dorian prompted.

“It’s silly.”

“Most theories sound it, at the beginning.”

Cullen exhaled. “I had a theory it was removed from everything. Like another plane of existence or something. At least, that’s what it felt like. Peaceful, away from the rest of the world.”

Dorian felt like his entire existence was obtrusive. “I shouldn’t interfere with that.”

Cullen laughed softly. “It’s a hopeful daydream of a child, Dorian. You’re not interfering with anything. I wanted to show you this place.”

“Why?” Dorian couldn’t help but ask. “Not that I’m not grateful but-”

“You said you’d never been camping so-”

“Camping?”

Cullen’s smile lifted into a smirk.

“Oh. Oh, no.” Dorian started backing up. “You want to camp here? Outside? Here?”

“That is kind of the point of camping, yes.” Cullen’s tone was mockingly patient as he followed, matching Dorian step for step.

“I thought you wanted to drive through the night!”

“I changed my mind.”

“What about bugs? Wolves? Bears?”

“I’ll protect you.”

“From bears?”

“I grew up here, Dorian.”

Dorian’s back hit a tree. “It’s cold.”

“I’m sure we can find ways to keep you warm.”

There was a moment where Dorian merely gaped and Cullen stared back as if he couldn’t believe he’d said that himself. But then he set his shoulders anyway. “Come on, Dorian. Have you never wanted to sleep under the stars?”

“Never,” Dorian said firmly. “Only white people would make camping a recreational activity. We have AC, functioning toilets and the internet. Whatever do we do? I know! Let’s regress into savagery and just fuck off into the wilderness where there’s creepy crawlies and mud and-”

Cullen watched him with an eyebrow raised and arms crossed over his chest. From where he stood, Dorian was essentially trapped. And hunky barbarian men with insatiable appetites and animalistic passions.

Dorian sighed, resigned. “Just- just tell me you have a tent or something?”

“Come on.” Cullen turned to head back to the truck and Dorian followed him carefully, toeing twigs that felt too big to be without life. When he reached the truck, Cullen had already opened up the back of it, revealing a surprising amount of boxes, tied down securely. In his arms already were a bizarre number of blankets. “For emergencies.”

“For a mechanic, it sure sounds like you’re prepared for your truck kicking it at any possible time. Looking at it, I can see why.” Dorian watched Cullen climb up into the back and begin untying and moving things, most of which looked like tools, in order to make space to lay out layer after layer of blanket. “Is it humane to let this thing out in public?”

Satisfied with how he’d set the blankets out, Cullen moved back to extend his hand to Dorian. “Here.”

To Dorian’s credit, he didn’t argue, merely let Cullen help him up by the forearm. Once they were both stood, Cullen added, “And don’t be mean to my truck.”

“My apologies,” Dorian said dryly, lowering himself hesitantly onto a portion of blankets that had, what looked like, been constructed tactically to have a pillowed side. “Is it a she?”

Cullen paused, on his knees beside Dorian, and then said mildly, “I’ve never thought about it but probably not, if you’re so willing to sleep with it.”

Dorian kicked him gently and Cullen caught his ankle. The joke felt intimate. “Fiend.”

Cullen smiled. Dorian tugged his ankle out of Cullen’s grip and shifted to get comfortable, or at least as much as one could on some blankets laid out in the back of a truck. “I can’t believe you talked me into this.”

“Is it that terrible?” Cullen sat across from him, his back against the truck.

“Well, it’s no five-star hotel,” Dorian said as he arched, putting his hands behind his neck to look up at the stars, “but it does have an impressive view, I’ll give you that.”

Dorian wasn’t lying. He had been so focused on the slice of the moon that he hadn’t really paid attention to the stars surrounding it. He was a city boy, through and through, with little reason or desire to venture into the countryside but he wasn’t blind. Here, the dark was darker and the light was lighter. The deep blue velvet expanse of sky was dotted with stars that died visible to the naked eye. It almost made Dorian feel humbled, to be reminded that he was so small and insignificant, so against everything he was taught as a child.

It took him a moment to realise Cullen was simply sat staring at him. He lifted himself onto his elbows to wave the man over. “Get over here. Aren’t you supposed to teach me all the constellations or some other feel-good rubbish to make me appreciate nature?”

“I don’t know any constellations.”

“Neither do I.” Dorian nudged him again with his foot. “Let’s try guessing.”

Something in Dorian’s tone must have convinced him because awkwardly, Cullen got to all fours to crawl to his side. When he laid down next to Dorian, he maintained a noticeable distance.

For a not-straight men, Cullen sure acted like a very straight man. Dorian sighed and shuffled closer. “You said you’d keep me warm.”

“It’s not that cold,” Cullen said, even as he was putting his arm over Dorian. Dorian’s delight was short-lived when he realised Cullen was feeling around for something on the other side of him.

He mumbled, “Says the man who runs hot-blooded. I get cold on a night.”

Cullen didn’t respond, simply pulling something suspiciously furry over Dorian’s body. Dorian froze under it. “God, what is that?”

“A throw.”

“Is it real… animal?”

“Christ, no.” Dorian relaxed a little and simply enjoyed Cullen fussing to wrap the throw around him. Cullen had a surprising amount of Mother Hen attributes. “Better?”

“Getting there.”

At that, Cullen looked at him in that unreadable way. Then, slowly, he put his arm around Dorian again, only this time he didn’t retrieve another strange furry blanket but instead pulled Dorian close. Dorian let out a small noise of surprise but didn’t resist. He let himself be pressed against the warmth of Cullen’s neck. He was so close he could hear, feel Cullen swallow. “Now?”

Dorian hummed. “Almost. How many more methods of warming me up do you know?”

“Dorian.” Cullen’s tone was scolding.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” Dorian laughed. “But yes, this is better. Thank you.”

Cullen felt warm. Dorian wondered if he was blushing. “You’re welcome.”

For a little while, they just laid there. Dorian was no longer cold and he tried to focus on the sounds of the nature around them, an owl hooting somewhere, the delicate wind making miniscule waves across the water and shaking the leaves of trees and most notably, silence, away from car horns and drunk men. But all Dorian could hear was Cullen’s breathing and his own, preoccupied with the way their chests had moved out of time until Cullen had waited, holding, and breathed out when Dorian did so they were in rhythm. It meant that, now, all Dorian could focus on was how their chests were flush together and it had been a while since Dorian had laid with anyone like this. He felt, suddenly, embarrassed, like an adolescent who had yet to be kissed. Vulnerable.

Too loudly, he said, “Now, how about those stars?”

Cullen didn’t jump but did still and their chests fell out of sync. It felt clumsy, as loud as Dorian’s voice. Cullen didn’t comment on it. “Okay, what do you see?”

Dorian leant back to look up but Cullen didn’t retract his arm. They looked up at the sky and Dorian named whatever constellations he could think of, hailing random clusters of stars as bulls and twins based on what little he knew of horoscopes. Cullen, evidently tired from driving for hours on end, pointed out stars like they were shapes in clouds lazily. His voice, quiet and calming, made Dorian’s own eyelids feel heavy. Sleepily, Dorian must have said something silly (maybe about Cullen’s voice being recorded for navigation purposes) and Cullen laughed but Dorian felt more than heard it. The sound warmed him and the heat of Cullen’s body soothed him.

Dorian could have fallen asleep for anywhere between seconds and hours but he was startled awake with the kind of obtrusive wetness on his face that felt like Lion had been stood over him with his jaw loose and his tongue hanging. He didn’t have any time to entertain the thought (fantasy?) of it being Cullen because beside him, Cullen, too, awoke almost violently, just as the rain went from suspiciously large droplets to a downpour.

“Grab that tarp!” Cullen shouted, already moving. He threw an armful of blankets at Dorian as he scrambled to tie his loose ends to the back of the truck once again. Dorian swore profusely as the water ran down his face but tried to help, stuffing the blankets where Cullen had kept them (though less concerned with maintaining any resemblance of order) and locating the tarp. By the time they secured it and got into the truck, they were both soaked to the skin.

Cullen hurried to start the car and blast the heat as Dorian searched the compartments, trying to locate tissues only to find a spanner. They were silent, the loud kind of silent that was dangerous, at mercy to the rain beating against the windows and the radio that started up with the car engine and Dorian’s teeth that chattered.

And, then, as he drove them away from the lake, Cullen said, “See, this is why I wanted to check the forecast.”

Dorian exploded. “Be one with nature, he said! It’ll be fun, he said!”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Cullen yelled back.

“Up your-”

Cullen swerved roughly, out onto the road they had come, and Dorian was thrown against him. In an almost comical fashion, the rain outside seemed to ease, just enough for Dorian to hear, quite clearly, Cullen’s smug, “What was that?”

With as much dignity as a soaking wet man could muster, Dorian pushed himself off, determined even as his hands slipped over wet skin. Cullen’s shirt was plastered to him. A stray curl had fallen onto his forehead. Dorian considered, a bit madly, taking the spanner out of the glove compartment and lobbying it at Cullen’s head. Instead, he said, “You smell like a wet dog.”

Cullen licked a droplet off his lip. He wasn’t looking at Dorian when he said, “You’re still wearing the throw.”

Dorian shrugged the wet fur off and, as the car warmed up, his teeth stopped chattering but the sunglasses balanced precariously on the dash rattled with movement.

They hit the road again.

Chapter Text

Cullen had driven them to the nearest Bed & Breakfast which was considerably further than Dorian’s wet trousers liked and it was a testimony to how uncomfortable Dorian had felt, water dripping into the back of his collar, that he had simply sighed at the sight of what looked like a haunted little shack posing as a hospitable establishment and followed Cullen into it. The rain had not let out fully as they raced from the car park to the door and they were both shivering miserably as they entered into a dimly lit but wide hallway that posed as a reception area. A woman with white hair and a knowing smile greeted them, introduced herself as Flemeth and didn’t laugh at how pathetic they looked, soaking her carpet. Cullen asked if she had a washing machine and a room and she found them a lost and found box for them to root around in. Dorian accepted the key and the information, up the stairs and first on the right, breakfast from 7. They hurriedly picked their shirts and Cullen promised to bring their wet clothes down as soon as they changed out of them.

Now, they were temporarily halted by the matter at hand.

“Of course,” Dorian said, out loud to no one in particular, “there’s only one bed.”

Dorian had not read a single Varric Tethras book but he imagined that this was the kind of scenario that would happen in one of those Hightown novels but with considerably more demons and goblins. Given that the room was as poorly lit as the rest of the house with peeling floral wallpaper and dark wood furniture, Dorian was not ready to cross off anything more sinister crawling out of the faded mauve carpet.

Cullen eyed the bed warily as if he was having similar thoughts. “I can go ask for another room. I can pay for this one too. Since it was my fault.”

“So, you admit it.” But Cullen wasn’t biting on the joke. Dorian tried not to feel hurt. “Please, Cullen. I am hardly the worst bedfellow you could ask for. You can ask about another room or we could get ourselves out of these clothes and shower and go to bed.” He paused then added, “We only have to do one of those things together.”

Cullen cracked a smile. He was tired, that much Dorian could see, and suddenly, Dorian felt childish for his petulant feelings. He had driven without a single complaint and shown Dorian a place, a part of him that had once been precious and secret. No matter how exhausted Dorian felt, Cullen was probably feeling far worse – and he didn’t have Dorian’s habit to voice every single discomfort until someone fixed it, even just to shut him up.

Dorian wondered if he was even capable of being the person who did the caring. Hesitantly, he reached for one of the folded towels on the bed and handed it to Cullen. He saw Cullen’s shoulders relax and then he took it, cold fingertips brushing Dorian’s. “Okay,” he said, gentle, not surrendering but accepting.

Dorian watched as Cullen wiped his face and hair and then lower, his shirt stuck to his skin, rising at the waist as he lifted his arms. Dorian picked up the other towel to bury his face in it, his work trousers already too tight.

When he dropped the towel to undress, Dorian found Cullen peering around, as if suddenly able to assess the rest of the room now the bed wasn’t the focal point.

Dorian began unbuttoning his shirt. “A bit quant, isn’t it?”

Cullen hummed, looking away a touch too quickly to be casual. Dorian rolled his eyes. “By quant,” he carried on, “I mean, the theme for tonight continues to be the threat of murder. There is definitely something eerie about our host. I would not be surprised if she had hexed the entire place.”

At that, Cullen looked over his shoulder at him as if to reprimand him for talking ill of the woman but Dorian’s shirt was off his shoulders and Cullen turned his head back forward so sharply, it looked like it hurt. Good. Dorian was almost offended.

So naturally, he decided to test the limits, letting his shirt wrap around him, neither fully on nor off, as he began to audibly remove his belt and then unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers. He talked in a deliciously mild tone all the while. “Do you think there’s any complimentary shampoo and soap? In retrospect, I should have let you take me home. I could have brought an overnight bag.”

“I’ll look.” Cullen almost ran to the bathroom, as if glad for an excuse to do something that would mean looking at anything but Dorian. Now, Dorian was offended, following him to lean against the doorway of the en suite as Cullen found some tiny bottles, labelled accordingly. They look almost comical in Cullen’s large hands. “This should be enough for the two of us.”

“You’re going to bathe? I thought Southerners loved to roll around in the mud.”

Cullen put the little bottles back by the sink. He looked at Dorian in the mirror instead of directly. It seemed to give him more confidence. “Don’t say it like you wouldn’t enjoy watching.”

“You got me there.” Dorian nodded towards the shower. “You should check the water pressure too.”

“If this is your way of getting me wet then I’m at liberty to point out that I’m already there.”

“Believe me, Cullen, if my goal was to get you wet, you would know.”

Cullen looked away. Weeks of friendship and Dorian, still, did not know where the line was that they had drawn.

Dorian waved a dismissive hand at him to clear the awkward air between them. “Anyway, I call dibs on the shower. The Southern climate will never agree with me. And you need to get those clothes off. You’ll catch a chill, Southern or otherwise.” When Cullen simply stared at him, the sight of Dorian leaning against the door frame of the bathroom, shirt around his forearms, arms crossed, and work pants unbuttoned dangerously, Dorian felt smug. “Well, go on then. Before I get a chill.”

To Cullen’s credit, he left with a quiet reminder for Dorian to toss out his wet clothes so he could take them down to be washed. Dorian undressed and stuck his arm comically through the gap of the door to do as Cullen said in return for his forgotten towel.

When Dorian showered, he showered quickly, his dick surprisingly undemanding, even as he could hear Cullen speaking on the other side of the door (on the phone, most likely to Jim, his neighbour who agreed to dogsit Lion with an enthusiasm that, as Cullen had relayed the information to Dorian, confirmed Josephine’s suspicions of the man’s affections for Cullen.) Now, when he thought of Cullen’s hands, all Dorian could think of was how cold they were. The heat of the shower did not make Dorian heady but dizzy. Dorian didn’t want to use up all the hot water.

Wrapped securely in his towel, Dorian returned to find Cullen sat on the bed, staring down at his phone. He had changed out of his wet clothes too and they were nowhere in sight, most likely in Flemeth's washing machine which Dorian struggled to envision. The shirt Cullen had grabbed from the lost and found was mercifully loose, a faded grey that didn’t look too different from the rest of his wardrobe, if just a tad bigger. At the sight of Dorian, he stood and the hem of the borrowed shirt caught slightly in the waistband of his boxers, revealing them. They were not as merciless. Dorian could see the outline of Cullen’s cock.

He adjusted his towel and let Cullen pass him into the bathroom. “All yours.”

Alone in the room, Dorian tried not to strain his ears over the muffled sound of the shower running and instead, dried himself and got dressed, squeezing into his own lost and found shirt which was a too small T-shirt that he had a sneaking suspicion was either cropped for a woman or made for a teenage boy. He fished around his bag for his phone and sat gingerly down on the bed, deceptively soft. He had some texts from Felix that suggested in their excessive amount of smiley faces that he hoped Dorian was busy tonight. Dorian looked around at the plum coloured room as he contemplated how exactly to tell Felix where he was when he wasn’t sure himself. Somewhere, in the house, people were talking. Dorian wondered if they had booked this place (and if Flemeth had catfished her establishment online) or if they were, like Cullen and himself, victims of circumstance. Maybe their car broke down and maybe they were too polite to ask for separate beds or too broke to afford two rooms. Maybe they were secretly in love.

It was a foolish thought. He didn’t need to read a Tethras bestseller to give him ideas.

He texted Felix a brief overview of the current situation and tossed his phone aside only for it to, instantaneously, light up with a call. When he put the phone to his ear, sweet, gentle Felix was almost yelling. “Dorian, what the hell?”

“Shh, don’t shout so loud! Think of your poor heart,” Dorian reprimanded, hurrying out of the room and the potential earshot of Cullen. “And I can explain.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I…” I’m on a totally platonic overnight trip with my hot mechanic friend who I will be sharing a bed with in a completely friendly way. He stood in front of the door and then dropped his forehead to it with an audible thunk. “I don’t know, Felix. He said he was going to drive through the night to pick up the last part he needs for my bike and I- I didn’t think. And then he showed me a place he used to hide out as a kid and we got rained on and now we’re in a Bed & Breakfast with one bed and all of our clothes are wet. I think I’m hallucinating.”

“Dorian.” Felix wasn’t angry or disappointed – of course, he wasn’t. He was worried. “Are you okay?”

Dorian had to think about it. He was tired and confused and a little bit aroused. For all his smart comments, he knew they were safe, safer here than they had been at Cullen’s childhood lake or on the road at this time. But Felix was not asking literally and for that, Dorian could not find an answer. Was he okay? It was hard to say. Somehow, every time he was near Cullen, he found himself doing something very, very stupid. He was not sure how he would last the night.

Instead of answering, he asked, “Felix, why did you tell him I was working late?”

“You know why. You can’t avoid him.”

“I’m an adult,” Dorian said, aware of how childish he sounded as soon as the words left his mouth. “I can do whatever I please.”

“Okay but you don’t even want to avoid him,” Felix said plainly. “If you did, you wouldn’t be there.”

“It started raining and this was the nearest place we could-”

“With him, Dorian. You wouldn’t be with him at all. You could have finished your marking. You could have just gone home.” A soft, awful pause. “I used to know a Dorian who would have done that.”

That Dorian, he wanted to say, had something to go home to. Instead, Dorian said nothing. His tongue felt heavy. Felix knew him too well. He added, not unkindly, “Cullen asked after you. He came to see you.”

Dorian felt helpless. “He’s fixing my bike.”

“This is his job. It’s not yours.” Again, Felix asked, “So, why are you there with him?”

It wasn’t that Dorian didn’t have an answer, not really, but what use was it saying it out loud to a quiet hallway where Dorian was stood in a too small shirt and his boxers whilst the man whose company he could neither avoid nor indulge in was showering with just two doors between them? Dorian wished he’d hit his head harder.

Felix spoke into the silence, “I know I said a lot of things about this bike, Dorian, but it isn’t about that anymore. You know it isn’t. You can’t keep telling yourself it is just because you’re scared to be with someone again.” It was harsh even though Felix spoke carefully. “You can move on too.”

Dorian closed his eyes. “The bike was meant to be moving on.”

“The bike is a bike.” He remembered, distantly, Bull saying something similar. “What are you doing?”

Again Dorian refused Felix an answer, instead telling him he’ll let him know when he was back which Felix allowed graciously. He hung up and let himself back into the room, only to stop, as if he’d forgotten where he was.

Cullen’s back was to the door and he was naked, in the process of wiping himself down. Dorian got a flash of the back of him, the length of his shoulders and the curve of his backside, before Cullen turned at his entrance, towel protecting his modesty but little else. Cullen was well built with good arms, the kind of a labourer, though he had a soft middle where all the sweet treats obviously went. The hair on his chest and navel were darkened by water. He was still wearing the chain and now Dorian could see what was hanging off it, a coin. Cullen’s hair was unruly with whatever product he used now washed out. His face was flushed and even if Cullen liked his water to run hot, Dorian knew it wasn’t because of his shower. He stammered half words that did not form a sentence.

Dorian raised a hand. “Stop,” he said and he sounded tired. He closed the door behind him. “We’re grown men, Cullen. What’s an eyeful of cock and balls between friends?”

Cullen blinked then turned away to laugh and say, “Okay.” If he sounded strained, Dorian tried not to think about it. Cullen continued to dry himself, not hurrying but not stalling. He was making a conscious effort, it seemed, to act normally, even if this situation was decidedly not. Dorian, despite himself, was grateful.

He could feel Cullen’s eyes flit to him as he dug through his work bag for his phone charger. “Your shirt is… small.”

“I think it might be for a large child,” Dorian said mournfully, pausing his question to pluck at it.

“You can take it off.”

“At least buy me dinner first,” Dorian said without missing a beat but he was distracted, finding his charger finally. He located the nearest socket and attempted to reach between the slim gap of the bedside table and the bed itself to plug his phone in to charge which took a considerable amount of leaning.

When he stood up and looked at Cullen, Cullen has his boxers on but his back to Dorian again. His bare shoulders were still pink. Maybe Cullen did like his showers hot. “I will confess, I usually am not one for pyjamas. But I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. Or overwhelmed. I am, after all, quite handsome.”

He didn’t need to see Cullen to know he was rolling his eyes. He was rewarded with a glance over his shoulder and a dry, “What’s some bare chest between friends?”

Friends. Dorian smiled, even though he could have frowned. He turned away to peel off his ridiculous shirt and pull back the sheets of the bed. “Right or left?”

“Oh, I was gonna take the floor.”

Now, Dorian frowned. “Nonsense, there’s plenty of room.” When Cullen didn’t move, Dorian fixed him with a disbelieving look. “I’ve seen your bare arse, Cullen. I think we’re past the point of politeness. Now, right or left?”

Maybe Dorian looked worse off than he thought, hair drying naturally and eyeliner washed out into dark circles under his eyes. Cullen didn’t argue. “I don’t mind.”

“Well, I prefer the right side.” Dorian got into bed. “Remind me to ask the strange lady who owns this place about the nearest store so I can pick up mouthwash in the morning.”

When Cullen moved back into Dorian’s comfortable line of sight, he was wearing the grey shirt again. Dorian squinted at him. “Now, I hope you’re not being shy on my account.”

Cullen didn’t respond, only raised his hand to the back of his neck. Dorian had seen this before, countless times, an embarrassment that was often uncomfortable and sometimes snappy. Usually, Dorian let it slide but now he sat up on his elbows to stare at the other man who was stood awkwardly at his side of the bed. “You do realise you’re a handsome man, Cullen. This is just an objective fact.”

Cullen didn’t look convinced. “I’m not… how I used to be.”

Dorian snorted. “And what’s that, a skinny twink who could down an iced coffee for every meal without shitting the bed at night? You have a stomach, I no longer shave my asshole religiously. The joys of your thirties.” He pulled the covers back to invite him in. “Now, get into bed, would you? It’s freezing in here.”

It was hard to tell if Cullen appreciated Dorian’s matter-of-fact approach because he didn’t respond but he did slide the shirt back off and into the bed next to Dorian. Like he had on the truck, he kept to his side, as much as he could in a regular sized double bed. This time, Dorian didn’t close the distance.

“Lights off?”

“Before you do,” Cullen said, voice catching until he cleared his throat, “I should warn you that I, uh… sometimes, I don’t sleep great.”

“Insomniac?”

“That, too, sometimes. But, uh, nightmares mostly.”

“Oh.” Dorian wanted to reach out and touch him but he could only ask, “Would you like me to wake you?”

At this, Cullen looked surprised as if he had expected Dorian to say something else. “No, it’s okay. Hopefully, I don’t wake you. It’s just, sometimes…”

“Sometimes?”

“I can lash out in my sleep. Physically. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Without thinking, Dorian said, “Believe me, I’ve endured worse in bed.” Cullen looked away and Dorian felt foolish, as he always did when Cullen avoided his eyes. Dorian wished he was able to uncross lines, sometimes. “Ah. Apologies. I shouldn’t joke-”

“You shouldn’t have had to.”

“What?” Dorian said, hearing but not understanding.

Still, Cullen cleared his throat. “You shouldn’t have had to. Endure worse.”

“No one should, I suppose. But let’s not make this about me.” Dorian smiled at his own pitiful attempt at humour. “For once.”

“I just wanted to warn you in case I wake you. You don’t need to do anything. It should just... pass.” Cullen sounded tired in a way that had nothing to do with their trip. Dorian wondered how long he had been dealing with this problem but could safely guess it had been years.

“Please, Cullen, I’m staying in a too soft bed in a most likely haunted ancestral home in the middle of God knows where. If I’m woken by anything, it’s the absurdity of the situation. I don’t want you suffering when I’m close by to stop it.” He fixed Cullen with the sternest look he could muster, usually reserved for the peskiest of his students and Felix when he was being careless with his health. “So, if you wake me up, I’ll wake you too and then we will both be crabby and ill rested in the morning together.”

Cullen smiled weakly but he nodded. When Dorian went to turn off the lamp, Cullen spoke suddenly, “You don’t have to turn the light off yet- unless you’re tired. I just mean… there’s no hurry.”

It was a gentle invitation. Dorian took it. “No, I suppose not.” He leant back, shuffling to get comfortable. “What shall we call this, then? An adult sleepover? Or does that mean something different?” He gave Cullen a sidelong glance. “Though if you want to take off your underwear and have a naked pillow fight, I would not stop you.”

Cullen rolled his eyes in answer. Dorian turned to his side so he could look at him more easily. “Okay, no naked pillow fights. I can think of other things. I keep make up on hand so I could give you a makeover.”

“I just showered so I’ll pass,” Cullen said, in a voice that didn’t sound like he would have done anything otherwise.

“You’re no fun.” Dorian pretended to think about it. “Okay, let’s talk about boys.”

“Dorian.”

“If you say no to my third suggestion, I’m going to start thinking you don’t like me.”

Cullen sighed but said, “What do you want me to say about boys?”

“I believe the purpose of talking about boys at a sleepover is to encourage secret sharing. If you’ve let a man finger you near a dumpster, now would be the time to own up.”

When Cullen said nothing but moved his gaze away, Dorian sat up. “You have? Cullen!”

Cullen grumbled, “It wasn’t a dumpster.”

“I mean, in that case, I’ve been fingered by a man not by a dumpster too. We can start a club.”

Cullen shifted about, clearly uncomfortable. “It was when I was drunk and it was in an alley. I did a lot of stupid things when drunk.”

Something about Cullen’s tone made Dorian pause. He lowered himself back down to his side. “You don’t drink much anymore?”

“Not at all.” Cullen wasn’t looking at him. Dorian waited for him to speak. “I’m teetotal, actually.”

The information was surprising, even though it shouldn’t have been. Dorian remembered Cullen’s commitment to not drinking at Haven. “Good God, I’m an idiot. I insisted we go to a bar.”

Cullen frowned as if confused, and then shook his head. “I’m a grown man, Dorian, and I’ve been sober for a few years now. I can handle myself. It’s not like you put a gun to my head and a keg to my mouth.”

“Well... I can't argue with that.” After a pause, Dorian asked, “So, a few years?”

“Yeah, I was in… bad shape. It’s not really interesting. I came from one of those tiny villages where there was nothing to do but go to church or sit on a hill and get pissed. I did both a lot. I left the village for university and I guess I realised it wasn’t the town but, well, me. There was something in my head that was all… fractured. I was pouring alcohol into the gaps like it would cement.” That much was familiar to Dorian. “Of course, it didn’t.”

“What happened?”

“What always happens?” Cullen said, eyes on the ceiling. “Things get worse to the point that even I couldn’t pretend I was just being a dumb kid. I wasn’t a kid anymore. I was good at my studies so my degree wasn’t a complete waste of time but jobs after that were… tough. My dependency on it got worse. I told myself I couldn’t be an addict because I couldn’t afford to give it up, it got me through the day, I was stronger with it, I was a worse person to be around without it. Turns out that’s what addiction does. I didn’t know who I was without it but I was scared to meet him because if he was better, it meant I had to do the work to be him.”

Dorian wanted to touch Cullen and this time, he didn’t stop himself. He reached out and pressed his fingertips to Cullen’s arm. He thought of what the other man had said to him earlier in his office. “I think you’re a good person.”

“I’m better.” He rolled to his side too and it brought him just a touch closer to Dorian. “Cassandra was the one who got me to snap out of it. Her and the others pushed me to go to rehab. I started seeing a therapist that wasn’t afraid to bust my balls.”

“Bull,” Dorian realised.

“I was volatile and bitter. I think they gave me Bull because they knew I couldn’t hurt him.” When Cullen laughed, it was a self-consciously sad sound. “And then… well, I got clean. Da passed away so I went home for a while. There, I helped my brother fix the farm, ready to sell. It reminded me that I was good at things, with my hands more than my head. When Ma gave me my cut, I realised that the other people in my life had more faith in me than I did in myself. She didn’t think I was going to use it to drink myself to death. She trusted me. So I bought the shop and adopted a pup.” Cullen offered him a small smile. “And I met you.”

Dorian felt his throat tighten. Still, he spoke through it. “You met me.”

“It’s been a few years and the shop is doing alright but Bull always sends customers my way. That’s the reason he sent you to me.”

“Not the only reason.” Almost instinctively, Dorian reached out, thumb hoovering over the scar on Cullen’s lip. “Did you get this when-”

“Yeah. It was the breaking point for everyone, I think.” Cullen tilted his head, leaning into the touch so Dorian was cupping his face. Dorian could feel his stubble under his palm and his own heartbeat in his thumb. “Cassandra came into the hospital and told me I had to change, that I didn’t need to give a damn about myself but they did and I had to care about them enough to want to be better.”

“She’s a good friend.”

“More than I deserve.”

“It doesn’t sound that way to me.”

At the lull, Dorian heard Felix’s questions in his head and retracted his hand. Cullen raised his own and their fingers tangled like an accident between them. It wasn’t. Cullen held on.

Dorian spoke so he had something to do. “Is- is that what the nightmares are about?”

“Sometimes.” Cullen was looking down at their hands. Dorian wondered if, like him, Cullen was fascinated by the contrast of their skin, their size, or if he was simply giving himself something to do too. “Sometimes they’re just about losing what I have now.” He huffed out a laugh. “Usually Lion.”

“Like he would let you lose him.” Dorian squeezed his fingers. “I’m sure he’s running through the countryside as we speak, terrifying chickens in his wake, Josephine hot on his tail terrorising the farmers with her driving.”

“You’re probably right.” Cullen bit his lip. “Was that a juicy enough secret for you?”

“Well, it was no intimate details on you getting finger fucked in an alley,” Dorian said, only teasing.

Cullen’s lip slipped from under his teeth into a smile. “Now, you.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Have I been fingered in an alley?”

“No, I meant- well.” Curiosity got the better of Cullen. “Have you?”

“Not exactly. I was more inclined to blowjobs.”

Cullen hesitated. “Giving or receiving?”

“In general, I’m not picky. But I was usually giving.” Dorian winced at the memories, some clearer than he would have liked. “Sometimes, sober.”

When Cullen simply waited, it was Dorian’s turn to roll his eyes. “Oh, no, you’re not getting a sob story out of me. I’ve already exhausted my secrets with you. Raised by a loveless marriage, scorned by my homophobic father, now you want me to talk about how I used foolish casual sex as a coping mechanism to deal with my own fractured sense of self?” As if sensing that Dorian was about to pull his hand away, Cullen’s thumb brushed over Dorian’s knuckles with impossible gentleness. It held Dorian harder than any measure of grip. “It wouldn’t always be true. The reality was that, aside from needing an excuse to embarrass my parents and my terrible taste in men, I also just really enjoyed sex. Maybe too much sometimes but I suppose I have that kind of personality. Whether it was work or sex or even what little friendships I continue to entertain, I believed that the things I gave my time to deserve my full attention, from sucking cock to my PhD thesis.”

“You said enjoyed. Past tense.”

“Is that what you got from- oh, for Heaven’s sake. Do I read as though I have sworn off sex to you?” Dorian sighed and rolled onto his back. “I’m just old. At some point, you realise blowing someone in an alley or being fingered by the trash is not how you want to spend your 30s. Your back hurts. You want a bed. You might even want candles and roses and dinner first.”

“You’re a romantic?”

Dorian looked over at him. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“No,” Cullen said slowly. “But it’s hard to tell.”

“Hard to tell what?”

“What’s a joke with you and what isn’t.” Cullen paused. “Sometimes.”

“I suppose I deserve that.” If he could have shrugged, he would have. He turned to face Cullen again. “Felix has reprimanded me often for my humour. He says I use it to keep people at arm’s length.”

They both looked down at their joint hands between them.

“To answer your question,” Dorian continued, “against my better judgement, I am. I always have been, even when it seemed impossible. And then…”

“Then?” Cullen prompted, just as Dorian had prompted him.

“I had it, for a while. Candles, roses, dinner, the lot.”

“You were in love?” Cullen, somehow, didn’t sound disbelieving. It was more faith than people usually gave Dorian about the matter.

“As in love as you can be, at nineteen. He was the son of one of my father’s political opponents.” Dorian’s ghosts were never dead. His father’s lurked but Rilienus was spoken into existence, as if, even in Dorian’s imagination, he proved his worth in polite society, only coming when invited and never cursing. The ghost of him looked haunted as if Dorian had broken his heart to death, as if Dorian had been the one to break his heart at all. He stood at the end of the bed now, skin golden, eyes green, and looked down at Dorian and Cullen with their hands together. He did not disapprove like Halward Pavus. He simply stared sadly, reduced to the silence that he had gone home to. Dorian wondered if he would prefer it if the ghost screamed.

“He was like you.” The apparition flickered at Cullen’s voice.

“Precisely. I had met men before him, sucked them off in back alleys for the hell of it. But I had never met a peer who I felt a familiarity and even a sense of solidarity with. He was clever and dangerous. I had been warned to be careful around him.”

“And you weren’t.”

“Not exactly. He was told the same of me. We were both convinced the other had been sent to seduce and sabotage. We were our father’s sons.” The words came out easier than he had thought they would. It had been a while since he had talked about this part of his old life. “We were fools, for each other and in our own right.”

“And then what happened?”

“What could happen? I left and he didn’t follow. But I didn’t ask. Would it surprise you to hear that I’m not always good at asking for what I want?” To distract himself from the intensity of Cullen’s gaze, Dorian started to play with the chain around Cullen’s neck. “It didn’t end immediately. Perhaps it should have but I think that’s what you Southerners don’t understand about running away. You don’t leave once. You leave again and again. If you’re lucky, there’ll be a last time. He would come to see me. Foolishly, I would let him, thinking every time I could convince him to stay.”

“He didn’t,” Cullen said, not a question, and the image of Rilienus with his golden skin faded into the yellow light of the room.

“We were both cowards. I wouldn’t ask him to stay, he wouldn’t let himself. And then one day, there was a last time. For him.” Dorian didn’t say that though some time had passed since the last, it did not always feel so long ago, the heartbreak kept fresh by every new development in the news about his home that Dorian could not look away from, like watching a car crash. But it had been a while, between Bull and the bike and Cullen and Felix, that Dorian had felt his usual itch to scratch himself bloody.

Cullen seemed to realise he was asking the wrong questions. “Do you still love him?”

“I ached for him. I don’t anymore.”

“You don’t?” Now, Cullen touched the edge of his mouth, the frown that deepened there, as if he could see the pain etched into folds that were beginning to reveal Dorian’s age.

“I wish I could have given him some of the courage I had to leave what we knew behind,” Dorian said honestly. “That isn’t to say I believe we would be together still. I’m not sure we could have, here, where all that is familiar hurts to touch. But I love him enough still to wish he had not felt a duty to tradition at the cost of his own happiness.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“No, I suppose it isn’t. But what is romance without a bit of tragedy?” Dorian smiled and felt Cullen’s thumb move with the motion. “Or else, I just have rotten luck.”

Cullen moved his hand back but only to wrap around Dorian’s again where it was tracing the pattern of the coin, smooth as if Cullen often rubbed his thumb on it too. Cullen spoke now like he was telling a bedtime story, a folk tale. “When Bran was little, he got really invested in trinkets, just odd bits and bobs he’d find and decide were lucky. He carried his lucky coin for years before giving it to me the day before I went to high school. He was very young but I think he could sense just how nervous I had been for the change. I’ve held onto it ever since because I promised him I would.” Cullen breathed a laugh, remembering. “Of course, he barely remembered it when I showed him I still had it when we both were back at the farm. But it was his idea to put a chain on it so I wouldn’t lose it. I could have said that after this many years, I didn’t think that was likely but even after all this time, it felt wrong to say no to him, like it would curse me. Superstitions rub off but I hope luck does too, in that case.”

Dorian uncurled his fingers to look at the design. Though smoothed considerably, Dorian could make out a carving of a face. The eyes were closed and they wore what looked like a crown, surrounded by what could have as easily been hair as it could have been fire. Dorian traced his thumb over the design more slowly now. It was intricate, lovely and loved. “Did it work? Bring you luck, I mean?”

“Maybe. Eventually.” Cullen smiled. And I met you, he had said. “Maybe if you hold on for long enough, the luck will rub off on you too. No more tragedies.”

Dorian had written about luck and probability for a lot of his adult life. Theoretically, he could not entirely justify its existence and yet he curled his fingers back around the coin, hopeful much like he imagined Cullen’s little brother had been with his talisman gift for his big but still young brother. He wanted to inhabit that innocence, the belief that there were simple solutions to complex problems. With Cullen’s heart beating against his wrist, Dorian wanted to believe in believing.

They fell asleep like this, tangled.

No nightmares, no ghosts. They slept through the night.

Chapter Text

Dorian woke in the easy sort of way that told him that, though he could not remember what he had dreamt of, he had slept peacefully. The bed under him was soft and indulgent, terrible in the long term but he had sunk into it now, surrounded and content.

Surrounded. The thought made him realise that he was warm and that confused him because Dorian never felt warm, not this far South. And then the warmth shifted. A body.

Somewhere, during the night, they had moved, turning, curling around each other like commas. Dorian could feel Cullen, his breathing soft and steady against Dorian’s neck and his hardness familiar and unfamiliar against Dorian’s ass. It had been a while since Dorian had found himself in this particular position but it wasn’t new.

Except instead of doing something about it, pressing into it or turning and taking it into his hand, Dorian simply laid there because this was Cullen. He had held Dorian’s fingers around his coin and lucky or not, both of them had slept through the night. Cullen hadn’t woken him with nightmares. Dorian could feel the gentle rise and fall of Cullen’s chest against his back too. He didn’t want to disturb that.

And as much as he was an expert at entertaining fantasies, Dorian was not a child. Bodies were mysterious things. Whether Cullen was dreaming a little too intensely about fixing Dorian’s motorbike or his body had called and responded to another which just happened to be Dorian’s by virtue of proximity, it didn’t mean anything. Or rather, it meant less than the way Cullen had said and I met you, soft and safe. Bodies could betray all manners of feelings but the art of speaking was where Dorian excelled. Even the most brazen lie held the capacity for truth because it had to know its antithesis. What was unsaid in a conversation was the most truthful thing a man could reveal about himself. He didn’t need to move an inch to expose his entire being.

Not that speaking with Cullen was like dazzling his father’s friends and enemies. But Dorian was a grown man. He had no interest in embarrassing the other man about something natural. Dorian would not chase a sleeping desire.

So, he let himself drift between the pull of sleep and the demands of consciousness. He could have slept and he could have been awake but he only really came to when he felt Cullen wake as he had, comfortably and then realising, stilling, listening. Dorian maintained his steady breathing, having plenty of practice at pretending to sleep. After a moment, he felt Cullen relax but pull away, taking his warmth with him. The bed shifted as Cullen sat up and Dorian felt, even with his eyes closed, Cullen looking at him. Dorian was used to being watched in bed, thrilled himself in it, but this was different, vulnerable and intimate without Cullen realising it. It took all Dorian’s power to lay there, unable to control how Cullen saw him. He was probably positioned awkwardly, his hair was a mess and when had he last shaved? To allow Cullen to stare openly cost Dorian more control than he was used to giving. When Cullen got out of the bed and left the room, Dorian only breathed out when he heard the door click shut behind him.

It gave Dorian the opportunity to wake with the illusion of naturality. By the time Cullen returned to the bedroom, carrying their folded clothes, Dorian was performing rubbing his eyes and reaching for his phone, bedhead rearranged to something more mussed than messy and sheets artfully circling his waist. Cullen stood at the doorway, pausing there, as if he had not expected Dorian to be awake.

“Oh, there you are,” Dorian observed as he checked his texts. “I was beginning to think even my friends are cursed to run the morning after.”

Cullen opened his mouth then closed it. If any hardness remained, it was covered by the length of his borrowed shirt which he must have retrieved for decency’s sake before he left the room. He had eyebags from years of sleeplessness but not from last night. He looked fresh and a touch flushed and his hair, light, curly and framing his head, made him look young.

He raised a hand to the back of his neck, digging into the hair there, and Dorian wondered if this was how Cullen had looked at him when he had been pretending to sleep. Cullen seemed unsure what to do when eyes lingered on him, now more so than ever.

So, Dorian spoke to fill the silence. “Are those our clothes? Do they smell like old woman detergent?”

Like a man sleepwalking, Dorian’s words seemed to shake Cullen into reality. He tossed Dorian’s clothes towards him with a simple, “See for yourself,” and Dorian yelped when his shirt hit his face. He heard Cullen laugh and he lifted a sleeve to see a warm grin. The shirt smelled like a gentle detergent, fresh and homely.

“I’ve smelled worse,” Dorian admitted. He watched as Cullen got into his clothes and pretended he was staring beyond him, at the strange little room they had found themselves in. “Somehow, this place looks more haunted in daylight.”

Cullen, his back to Dorian as he buttoned up his jeans, said, “Were you never told as a child that if you have nothing nice to say to say nothing at all?”

“Were you not listening to me during our deep meaningful conversations, Cullen? Do you think I was the kind of child who was taught to be nice?” Dorian was only half kidding. “Besides, I never said I wasn’t grateful that we paid real money to stay in what can only be described as a haunted shack and woke up with all our parts intact. I just don’t want to die here.”

“Well, get dressed then,” Cullen said, now unfortunately fully clothed. “Flemeth said there’s a town nearby. We can get some mouthwash from there.”

Dorian felt stupidly touched that Cullen had remembered. He did as instructed, putting on his clean clothes as Cullen went into the bathroom, leaving the door open like an invitation. Dorian retrieved some essentials from his bag and followed, finding Cullen glaring into the mirror and patting at his hair. Dorian smiled and bumped their hips. “Don’t hog the whole mirror. Believe it or not, it takes work to get this pretty.”

Cullen opened his mouth and then was distracted by Dorian placing his things on the counter. “You carry all that in your bag? And you said my car was overprepared for disaster.”

“This is prepared?” Dorian eyed him disbelievingly as he dotted his SPF moisturiser on his face. “It’s a pencil and some sunscreen, Cullen. I wish I had come prepared. I would have loved to exfoliate your face.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Cullen said unsurely. He watched, almost transfixed, as Dorian lined his eyes. “I’ll just-” He gestured to get past. “Don’t want to bump you.”

“I have a steady hand.” Still, Dorian put the pencil down and Cullen squeezed by him.

“You could have the steadiest hand in the world but that’s still a sharp point near your eye,” Cullen said sternly and something about his tone made Dorian laugh and Cullen frowned. Still, he went back into the room, door barely closing behind him.

Dorian focused on his hair which, all things considered, wasn’t too hard to contain with the help of a small comb and a travel sized tin of hair gel he kept on hand for emergencies (this counted as one.) When he was satisfied, he gathered his things to return to his bag, finding Cullen fiddling with the bed, all made. He kept lifting a hand to run through his hair and down to rub at the back of his neck. At the sight, Dorian kept a hold of the hair gel.

“Here,” Dorian said, catching the raised arm. “Stand still.”

Cullen blinked, confused, but stilled nonetheless, watching as Dorian lifted his hands to lower Cullen’s head so he had better access to his hair. He started to dab careful amounts of the hair gel into Cullen’s hair, murmuring as he worked, “I’m not sure what kind of stuff you use normally to tame this head of curls, Goldilocks, but maybe this will help. Not that you looked bad before, mind, but you were making it stand in all directions by fiddling with it so much. There.”

Dorian stepped back to inspect his handiwork and felt pleased. Cullen’s hair looked almost like it normally did. “You can see for yourself but it’s more than passable.”

Cullen raised a hand, as if to touch it, but only let his hand hover. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Suit yourself.” Dorian dropped the tin into his bag and made sure to double check he had everything. “Though you don’t think that’s more faith than I deserve?”

He was joking, almost absentmindedly, but Cullen’s response was too serious. “No. Not at all.”

Still, Dorian smiled at him. Something had changed, small but significant. They had made no mention of the conversations that took place the night before, said or unsaid, but there was something in Cullen’s sureness that made Dorian feel almost shy. It would have made more sense to Dorian had they simply fucked. Dorian had never had a morning after like this. Gentle and complicated.

“Well,” Dorian said because he needed to say something, anything, “that makes the two of us. I think I’ve done a marvellous job with limited supplies. Now, breakfast.”

They grabbed their things, including their barely used borrowed shirts and went downstairs. Dorian took Cullen’s shirt and pushed him gently towards the smell of coffee and toast and Cullen didn’t argue, only blushing when his stomach rumbled loudly.

Dorian found Flemeth reading at her makeshift counter which Dorian could make out much better in the daylight and without the distraction of rain soaking him to his core. On her desk, she had a framed picture of herself from when her hair wasn’t white and a young girl with a fierce gaze, her daughter presumably. Dorian wondered how old the girl was, then and now. He looked at present Flemeth again, really looked at her, and felt right in his convictions. There was something ageless and immortal about her, neither young nor old really, even as her white hair and crow’s feet signified the passing of time. She did not seem youthful but there was something more rooted in her being, as if she was simply not done seeing what she needed to see from the world.

When she felt Dorian’s presence, she raised his eyes from her book. “I see you're awake. I hope the night wasn’t too cold.” When Dorian blinked, she added, “Your boyfriend did ask for more blankets. He said you get quite cold on a night but I did not have any spare, I’m sorry.”

He was so distracted by the word boyfriend that Dorian didn’t think to correct her, barely remembering his manners at all. “Ah, no need to apologise. We managed just fine.”

Her smile was so subtle, Dorian wasn’t sure it was a smile at all. “I’m sure you did.”

Dorian did not know what to say to that so he opted to just return the lost and found shirts and give her a tip with plenty to spare for her hospitality since Cullen had covered the room cost. Then, he ventured into the dining room.

He found Cullen stood with an empty plate, indecision stalling him between two types of croissants. Dorian had thought Cullen hadn’t seen him arrive but when Dorian went to pour himself a coffee, Cullen passed him a cup. “Already poured you one.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Dorian took it. “Pick the pain au chocolat.”

When Cullen looked at him, surprised by the suggestion (given Dorian was endlessly ribbing him for his sugar intake), Dorian simply shrugged. “The regular ones look a little limp.”

Cullen heeded his suggestion and they sat down to eat. The coffee Cullen had poured for Dorian was too sweet but Dorian drank it all anyway.

*

It took them, between checking out and doing a detour to acquire mouthwash, over an hour to arrive to their destination. By that point, the sun was high in the sky, so much so that Dorian had to shield his eyes from its rare appearance as he got out of the car.

They were in front of a building which was more a manor than a house really. All Southern architecture was miserable in Dorian’s eyes but it was clearly a handsome house, made of pale stone and covered in greenery, as if left to desolation. But then Dorian saw a scattering of red peonies planted out front and in the near distance, the sound of chatter and music. Someone had made home here.

He looked over at Cullen who was frowning. “You don’t have the wrong address, do you? After all the adventures we’ve had, no less.”

Cullen shook his head. “I used to live here.”

“Here?”

“In this town. For a while, for a job.” They walked up to the door and Cullen knocked. Dorian smoothed down his shirt and then, noticing Cullen’s jacket’s slightly wonky collar, fixed that.

“Well, who do we have here?”

They turned to find two women making their way up the path. The one who spoke, with a small smile and a quirk of her eyebrow, was the kind of beautiful that was more familiar to Dorian, foreign as he was, though not from as far North as Dorian. Her skin was dark and her eyes lined with kohl. Her dark hair was held back from her face with a patterned bandana and she wore a wealth of gold jewellery that jangled when she moved her arms, a plastic bag full of what Dorian could only assume were cans hanging from her wrist. Under her mouth (lips pronounced with a dark lipstick), she sported a gold stud that caught the light. When she walked, her hips swung. Her dress was tight, white and opened up by ties at the chest, revealing a generous amount of skin but her arrangement of necklaces made a collar around her neck. She was so beautiful, it made her dangerous, though not to Dorian. When Dorian lifted his eyes from her neck, the woman’s smile widened.

The other woman behind her was walking more carefully, focused on the tray she carried. She was as pale as her companion was dark, wiry with pointed elbows visible from under the short sleeves of her summer dress, a cute little black number covered in polka dots, a cardigan tied around her waist. Her hair, dark and short, was parted and tucked behind ears that had an almost elfish quality, prominent and pointed. When she looked up at them, her eyes were big and glassy and so, so green. Dorian had never seen such delicate features.

“I believe that’s Cullen,” the paler woman said, in a helpful tone. Her voice was light, like her steps.

“Oh, kitten, that much I gathered,” the other said fondly. She, then, addressed Cullen. “Didn’t realise you were invited too and you bought a plus one. Varric will have a field day.”

“There’s a party?” Dorian deciphered from the limited context clues he had gathered. He fixed Cullen with an offended look. “You should have said. I’m not dressed at all for the occasion.”

Cullen barely looked at him. He was still staring at the duo helplessly, as if ensnared in some sort of trap. Dorian would have, based on just how stunning the first woman was, assumed it was the nervousness that Cullen often possessed around people who looked like they could eat him for breakfast, of which she was firmly categorised, but Cullen wasn’t focused on one over the other. He glanced between them. It made Dorian more wary of the smaller woman’s innocent smile.

Still, he could not allow them to stand in silence. “But where are my manners? My companion lacks enough for the both of us.” He stretched out his hand. “Dorian Pavus. I presume Cullen hadn’t intended to interrupt a gathering.”

As the woman with the tray tried to figure out how to balance it in order to extend her hand back, the other took Dorian’s. “Isabela. This is Merrill- love, it’s okay. Don’t drop the mac and cheese.”

“You’re not interrupting anything- or, well, you are but I’m sure Hawke will have enough burgers for everyone,” Merrill said brightly.

Cullen paled. When he spoke, he sounded choked. “Hawke is here?”

“Well, you are at the Hawke house, sugar.” Isabela squeezed past them, separating them, to ring the bell with a firm press. “Open up, Hawkes! We brought goodies.” She looked first at Cullen then Dorian. “They’re gonna eat you both right up.”

Before either of them could reply, the door swung open by a breathless young woman with wild, dark hair and bright brown eyes. Her cheeks were flushed.

Dorian was beginning to wonder if there was something in the water to make all the women around these parts so beautiful. Maybe it was why Cullen had left. He always seemed to be at the mercy, one way or another, of beautiful women.

This one blinked at them all. Isabela simply said, “Finally,” kissed her on the cheek in passing and went inside, Merrill following with her own cheery greeting. Inside, Dorian heard Isabela doing a sing-song announcement of handsome company.

The woman at the door recovered rather quickly. She smiled at Cullen. “Well, I see you got here safe.”

“Sorry, Bethany,” Cullen said, sounding more like himself, albeit guilty. “The storm got us and then-”

“It’s fine,” Bethany interrupted easily. There was something about Bethany that made her feel young, like she was born to be a little sister. She wore washed out, short dungarees with a white bardot top underneath, and wasn’t wearing shoes, as if she had forgotten them in her haste, but didn’t hesitate to step out onto the concrete to embrace Cullen. “This way Garrett wouldn’t have had to blackmail you into staying the night.”

“Carver didn’t mention Hawke was back in town,” Cullen said, a slight accusation.

Bethany rolled her eyes. “Because Garrett never leaves, these days. He’s been driving Carver up the wall.” Suddenly, she seemed to notice Dorian. “God, I’m a terrible hostess. You must be Dorian. I’m Bethany. It’s nice to meet you.”

She didn’t say it out of politeness. There was something genuine in her honesty, straightforward. Dorian extended his hand and she took it. “And you. Apologies if we’re interrupting anything.”

“Not at all.” Bethany opened the door properly to let them in. “Come on in, the both of you.”

They followed her through the house (large but made less so in its state of clutter) as she told them, “Garrett has been going through bouts of mania which Carver is convinced is a midlife crisis.”

This meant nothing to Dorian but Cullen rolled his eyes. “He’s thirty-four years old.”

Bethany snorted. “Does Garrett look like the kind of man who plans to live past fifty? Once it hurts to bend at the knees, I think he plans to start doing heroin.”

Cullen didn’t argue with her. She spoke on. “Anyway, this weekend, he organised a BBQ and threatened to send videos of himself crying and eating alone if no one arrived.”

“Convincing,” Cullen commented. Bethany grinned. Dorian felt like he was missing the punchline and the punchline was the person that connected them.

“Still, it’s not a bad idea. Everyone is so busy. It’s nice to get together sometimes. Even Aveline found time off work.”

They were led through a patio and out into a garden. Outside, a long table was set up and filled with trays of food. Pockets of people were chatting and eating. Bethany looked around at everyone with her hands on her hips, eyes narrowed. “Carver still isn’t ready? What on earth is he doing up there?” She doubled back to shout, “Carv! Get your square butt down already! Cullen is here!”

At that, every person in the garden looked over. If the music playing could have paused itself, Dorian imagined it would have. From where she stood on the other side of the table, Isabela winked at Dorian.

“As I live and breathe, Cullen?” This came from across the deck. The man at the BBQ abandoned it at the sight of them. Immediately, Dorian could see the resemblance to Bethany. The same dark eyes and dark hair (venturing on the longer side) and the same strong facial features, though his jawline was obscured by a full beard.

He was also wearing the ugliest Hawaiian shirt Dorian had ever seen, tiny shorts that had seen better days and sliders with socks, revealing dark hair on his arms, legs and chest which he wore like a proud armour. Even in an outfit so appalling, Dorian could not ignore the fact that this man was big in all the ways Dorian normally liked and he smiled like he knew he could get away with murder. He wandered towards them, armed with a flipping spatula. Anything could look like a weapon in this man’s hands which was so ridiculous, it became unfair. His Hawaiian shirt was hot pink.

“Garrett, the burgers!” Bethany yelled, rushing past them. She snatched his spatula on her way. “Give me that.”

Garrett barely noticed. As he came to a stop in front of them, Dorian noted that he was able to stand toe to toe with Cullen and then some. Cullen seemed overwhelmed by his presence, though he made an effort to stand up straighter. When Garrett smiled, it had a bite. “Hi, Cullen. Did you do something new with your hair?”

“Hawke.” Dorian was close enough to see a flush on Cullen’s cheeks. Ah.

Then Garrett’s gaze moved past Cullen to Dorian. His grin widened. “And who’s this? Carver didn’t mention you were bringing a friend.”

The implication of friend wasn’t lost to anyone but Cullen only groaned, rubbing at his own face as if he had a headache already, and said, “Carver also didn’t mention you would be home.”

Garrett’s expression fell but his eyes maintained their twinkle. “You’re not happy to see me?”

Cullen just sighed. “I’m here for work, Hawke.”

Garrett acted like Cullen hadn’t even spoken. He moved to extend a hand to Dorian. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Garrett Hawke.”

Dorian took his hand, trying not to stare as it as it dwarfed his own. “Dorian Pavus.”

“Glad to see Cullen has more than Cassandra in his life.”

Dorian recalled Cassandra at the bar, saying someone called Hawke had called Cullen a work in progress. “Hey, now, he also has his dog and Lion is delightful company.”

Something about what Dorian said made Garrett pause. His grin had subdued into a smile and he looked at Dorian in a way that made Dorian feel like he had nowhere to hide. This was, he was starting to realise, the explanation for Cullen’s nervousness around the man. He was cleverer than he looked.

Before anyone else could say anything, Bethany started yelling bloody murder, at Garrett to flip his own burgers and Carver to hurry the hell up. Garrett didn’t even blink but another person burst through the patio doors, shouting back, “I’m coming, I’m coming!”

Garrett raised his eyebrows. “That’s a first.”

Carver gave him a sour look as he stopped beside them, fixing the pale blue button up shirt he wore unbuttoned that had been flapping behind him in his haste. “Gross. Don’t you have guests to entertain, Garrett?”

“That’s what I’m doing!” Garrett said, gesturing at Cullen and Dorian as if they were proof. Neither Cullen nor Dorian confirmed or denied his claim, though Cullen looked relieved at Carver’s arrival.

Dorian studied who he could only assume to be the third and final Hawke sibling. Unlike the other two, Carver had bright blue eyes, ice, not fire, brought out by his shirt, but the same angular face. Unlike Garrett, however, he was clean-shaven and his dark hair was neat in the kind of way that suggested he spent a significant amount of time on it. His clothes, likewise, were a far more normal white T-shirt under the button up and a pair of jeans and he filled it all nicely. Though Garrett was taller, Carver’s bulk was more pronounced, as if he worked out for it religiously. It wasn’t hard to imagine. Under normal circumstances, Dorian would have enjoyed to.

And where Garrett grinned, Carver scowled. Dorian had never seen an older brother quite like Garrett Hawke.

Instead of responding to Garrett, Carver just gave Cullen a sympathetic look. “Sorry, Cullen. If it makes you feel any better, Garrett planned this before knowing you’d be visiting.”

“Garrett is right here, you know,” his brother quipped. “And I’ll have you know I planned this all specially for Cullen’s arrival. I had even considered rose petals but no one would agree to be my flower girls so instead, he gets a fully grown man in socks and sliders frying him lunch. How could he possibly resist?” He gave Dorian a wink. “Hope you don’t mind.”

Dorian just blinked back at him. He had never been more out of depth in a conversation in his life.

Carver was looking around the garden desperately. “Is Fenris not here yet? No one else can handle you, Garrett.”

“Fenris can’t handle me,” Garrett said proudly. “I am an untamed man.”

“You’re a child,” Carver snapped. He gave his brother a push, not maliciously but with some force. “Now go, before Bethany manages to burn our lunch.”

“I can hear you – and I’d like to see you do any better, Carv!” Bethany yelled but Garrett seemed to be brought back to reality at the reminder of his food. He wiggled his fingers at Dorian in a little wave as he retreated. If Dorian was staring at Garrett’s ass while he turned and walked away, it was in a complete state of bafflement. His shorts were so ugly.

He turned back to find Cullen and Carver giving each other hearty, masculine hugs, patting each other on the back as Cullen apologised for the wait.

Carver rolled his eyes. “Garrett’s been camped out since yesterday afternoon but don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you.”

Just like his sister and brother before him, Carver noticed Dorian later. They all possessed a tendency to focus intensely, as if consumed entirely by the person in front of them. Dorian was not sure how to feel about his shifting visibility, not when Garrett had looked at him like he knew something Dorian didn’t but Dorian should want to know.

“And you have company,” Carver observed. “Here I thought Isabela was seeing things. Or just plain lying. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Ah, no.” Cullen looked sheepish. “Carver, meet Dorian. Dorian, Carver. It’s his bike.”

Carver raised his eyebrows at that as they shook hands. Unlike his brother, Carver seemed relatively harmless. “Some rarity you have there.”

“So I’ve heard.” He didn't miss the questioning look Carver gave Cullen. “Cullen was ready to do something stupid for this part.”

“I mean, he’s here,” Carver said wryly, looking past them at where Garrett was singing as he flipped burgers. “If you want stupid, he’s already done it.”

Cullen shrugged despairingly and Dorian felt, in that sudden, overwhelming way, a fondness he could barely explain. Cullen had come here for him.

Though it was too soon to see if he would have fared the venture better alone. After all, it was his wish to make Dorian experience the great outdoors that had led to their delay. But whenever Dorian met Cullen’s eyes, he saw nothing but an expression of solidarity, as if Cullen, too, felt like an outsider around these people. If he harboured any ill feelings at Dorian for his presence on the journey being the only reason why Cullen had arrived late enough to a party hosted by a man who he had some sort of history with, all for a part of a bike Dorian did not know how to ride, Cullen didn’t show it. Instead, he stuck close, always touching without realising, even if Dorian did. Whatever it meant, it meant something.

And that was going to drive Dorian, if not literally then figuratively, off the ends of the earth in return.

“Anyway,” Carver said, interrupting Dorian’s thoughts, “I can take you to it.”

“Jesus, Carver, you’re a terrible host,” Bethany said as she joined them once more. “At least, let them eat first.”

“It’s okay,” Cullen said, smiling at the siblings. “It would put my mind at ease to see it’s the right thing in the flesh. We can go check it out.” He gave Dorian a look, unreadable. Dorian hated when that happened. As an afterthought, Cullen added, “Try not to scare Dorian too much.”

“Oh, we’ll take plenty good care of him,” Isabela called from the earshot which made Carver jump. Everyone pretended not to notice.

Cullen gave Dorian’s bicep of all things a squeeze as he left with Carver. Dorian tried not to watch after him like an abandoned pup, though he was unsure of whether he was more nervous for Cullen or himself. When he turned back to look at Bethany, she was smiling at him in a way he couldn’t quite decipher and he decided he was more nervous for himself. He was used to charming parties of people but he wasn’t sure how to navigate a family of friends.

Still, he let Bethany lead him over to Isabella in the name of introductions. The man Isabella was speaking to was short, with sandy hair tied back and a button up shirt that was so unbuttoned, it barely qualified as a shirt, revealing a scandalous amount of chest hair. When the man introduced himself as Varric Tethtras, Dorian raised his eyebrows.

“Let me guess,” Varric said easily, in a deep voice that Dorian imagined was a hit at his book readings, “you were expecting me to be taller.”

“Less hairy actually,” Dorian replied in a mild tone.

Varric laughed. “I like you, Sparkler.” There it was, the nickname, as promised. Dorian wondered if it was an insult or a compliment. “So, how did someone like you pass the test of the Seeker?”

“Someone like- test- the Seeker?” Dorian was aware in a vague sort of way that Seekers were a part of Varric’s stories.

“Cassandra Pentaghast,” Bethany translated. “She’s arguably Varric’s biggest fan.” When Varric looked pleased with himself, she added, “She also would throttle him in a heartbeat.”

“Hey, now,” Varric said. “There were worse things I could have called her. I would say she’s damned lucky that the first thing I noticed was the tattoo. I even offered to sign it.”

Dorian remembered the ink he had observed on Cassandra, a sun and an eye. He made an educated guess that it had something to do with Varric’s books.

“It was all he could see,” Isabela told Dorian with a laugh, “because believe it or not, that arm was about to crush Varric’s windpipe.”

“See, worse names,” Varric said proudly. “Now, where were we?”

“Be careful with what you tell him,” Isabela warned. “You might find yourself in one of his books.”

“Hey, now. I was only loosely inspired by you, Rivaini. Daisy, over there, however…” Varric nodded towards where Merrill was stood at the table, inspecting two spoons with a fervent focus. “Future scholars will thank me for immortalising her brilliance.”

Dorian would have assumed it to be an insult had both Isabela and Varric not looked at Merrill with only warmth and love. Dorian was right, then, in his much earlier observation, that there was more to Merrill that met the eye. They were all, it seemed, characters. It was no wonder Varric took a pleasure in writing them into his stories.

“So, how did you manage to win over our precious Seeker’s heart?”

Varric’s question caught Dorian’s attention once more. He tried not to betray his confusion at how they were still somehow talking about Cassandra of all people as he asked, “Her heart?”

“Well, she remains Cullen’s fiercest protector. Like a grumpy mother hen.” Varric had, unknowingly, offered an explanation. Dorian remembered meeting Cassandra, her hard gaze only softening in the name of romance. Dorian was not the one to melt her heart, even if he had been capable of it. Varric looked at him, from head to toe. “You must have made some kind of impression.”

“Why,” Dorian said slowly, “do I feel like you’re insulting me, Mr. Tethtras?”

“Oh, please, no Mr. Tethtras. That would be my brother.” Varric waved a hand. “Varric is fine. And it was just an observation on the company Curly keeps.”

“So, his dog.”

Varric laughed again. “That’s not a nice thing to say about the Seeker.”

“I fear I have not spent much time with Cassandra,” Dorian finally answered. “She was a little rough around the edges but whilst she had ample opportunities to strangle me, she didn’t. I don’t know if that says much about me or her. More her, I think, if she has a habit of it. I was most certainly on my best behaviour.”

“I bet you were,” Isabela said and she had the uncanny ability to make anything sound suggestive. Dorian felt like he was being outsmarted in the only game he knew.

“I was, I confess, more wary of Leliana,” Dorian added and noticed how they all looked interested in this new information. “And Josephine but only when I shared a car with her. I don’t believe her almost killing us all was a targeted affront against me personally, however.”

“Oh, Ruffles,” Varric said wistfully. “I miss her.”

“That can’t be. Leliana is nothing but a sweetheart,” Isabela said at the same time.

Dorian looked at her disbelievingly. “Have you met her recently? I have never seen a woman so terrifying.”

“It’s been a good while since she’s been in the neighbourhood but we had fun.” Her tone of voice was no less wistful than Varric’s but not at all in the same way. It was easy to work out the root of Isabela’s fond memories of Leliana when Isabela smiled, looking so satisfied or rather, sated. “I could never forget a face so pretty.”

“Well, I can’t fault that logic,” Dorian said, to say something at all. “I would pretend I am not as easily distracted as such but that would be a lie.”

Varric snorted. “A fan of pretty faces and you chose Curly’s? No offence to the man but I would call him a lot of things but pretty is not one of them.”

Dorian didn’t need to look offended on Cullen's behalf. Isabela tutted for him. “Now, now, Varric. Cullen is pretty enough, in a tortured, malnourished kind of way. I would feed him soup.”

Varric raised an eyebrow. “Sure, that’ll finish him off.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve come leaps and bounds in my cooking. Merrill’s been helping.”

“Ha! Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“You say this like you won’t be the first to tuck into her mac and cheese.”

“I wouldn’t call that cooking, Rivaini. It’s closer to witchcraft.”

Dorian was only able to watch them bicker because he had realised, as he processed the conversation that had passed, that the crucial information he had been missing all this time was that everyone was under the impression that he and Cullen were together. The moment had passed, the conversation now a debate on whether Merrill was a better cook or baker, but Dorian felt uncomfortable, hot at the nape of his neck. He wanted to speak out, correct them, not because the idea of him and Cullen was so offensive but because he hadn’t earlier when Flemeth had referred to Cullen as his boyfriend. He felt guilty, like he was nurturing a fantasy he shouldn’t, even though he was.

But it was one thing to not correct a stranger. It was another to let Cullen’s friends continue to wiggle their eyebrows at him as if he was in on the joke. Most of all, Dorian didn’t want Cullen to think he was, in the name of trust or whatever preserved a friendship.

Just as he was about to say something, Cullen and Carver returned. Carver broke away with Bethany to ask something about the food but Varric and Isabella moved only to allow Cullen into the small circle they had made, letting him take his place beside Dorian as if it was the most natural thing in the world. They watched with a similar fascination like they would dissect their findings together later. Isabela, Dorian guessed, was no less a writer than Varric was, in her own way.

Dorian tore his eyes away from them when Cullen touched his arm again. His gaze was concerned and his voice was quiet as he asked, “Everything okay?”

Dorian put him at ease with the admission that, “Varric gave me the nickname Sparkler.”

Cullen’s expression shifted to amusement, eyebrows raised and lips tilting upwards at the corners. “And how do you feel about that?”

“I’ve been called worse,” Dorian confessed. “Is the jewellery that distracting?”

Cullen’s eyes wandered over him, lingering at his earrings and his rings, but stopping once again at his eyes. “You can be.”

Normally, Dorian would preen at what was often exasperation that he took as a compliment but Cullen’s voice was not tired, not in the way it had been when he talked with Garrett or anyone else here. Instead, Dorian was aware of the eyes on them and Cullen’s on him and Dorian realised he didn’t know what he’d be denying about them, not when Cullen looked at him and talked to him like this.

So, uncharacteristically, he said nothing. Garrett shouted that they better plate up and more people arrived and he and Cullen ate together, elbows always touching.

*

They didn’t leave until the afternoon and they didn’t arrive back outside Dorian’s apartment block until early evening, now with a small hunk of metal that Cullen had secured to the back of his truck with an anxiousness that Dorian was hard pressed to believe it deserved. Bethany had very kindly packed them extra food and some cans of soft drinks so they could snack along the way so Cullen insisted on driving past every diner on the highway. Dorian hadn’t argued with him, exhausted from a rare sunny day in the South in a way that would make his homeland’s people ashamed.

Though it was more the intensity of the company than the juxtaposition of the yellow sun with the grey sky that had worn Dorian to his bones. By the time the party had cracked open some beers (Varric had announced that it was five o’clock somewhere), Dorian had been ready to go home which was so unlike him that, when he had opted to stay on the soft drinks with Cullen, Cullen had asked him quite seriously if he was feeling okay.

And he was, really. They were all friendly people and Dorian had been fascinated in particular with a quiet white-haired, dark-skinned man who had a deceptively deep voice in an accent that sounded like home (though Dorian never got to speak with Fenris who, he quickly learnt, seemed to be most of Garrett’s impulse control and spent most of the gathering drinking heavily but staying close to Garrett, who in return levelled most of his flirting on Fenris, much to Cullen’s relief.) And it wasn’t as though Dorian had not been his usual, charming self. But he was always aware of Cullen, near always by his side, cracking open sodas for him before he even had to ask. It took all of Dorian’s strength to not pull Cullen into the empty house and ask him, like a teenager with a foolish crush on a flirty friend, what are we?

Of course, Dorian didn’t but it meant that the journey back was long and quiet. Uncomfortable precisely because they were too comfortable with each other. They watched each other without saying a word, catching each other and still, saying nothing. When the afternoon had passed in gentle teasing at the expense of Cullen because of Dorian, Cullen never responded. What was unsaid only frustrated Dorian when no words were spoken. He had nothing to work with but how Cullen draped his jacket over Dorian when Dorian fell asleep where he sat in the passenger seat. When Dorian woke, the truck pulling up in front of his home, he was clutching the soft material in his hands like a child might hold a blanket. It had never occurred to him, in the morning, what it would feel like to really wake up with the knowledge that Cullen had seen him sleep, open and unassuming.

When Dorian got out of the car, legs shaky from their limited service stops, Cullen followed. Dorian didn’t ask him to come inside, not this time, walking towards the entrance to the block and fumbling with his keys in a sleepy sort of way, only knowing Cullen was with him when he’d steadied Dorian’s hands for him. Dorian found the right key but his hands still shook when he let them in. They went upstairs.

“Home sweet home,” Dorian said as he opened the door into his dark apartment. He turned on the light and slipped out of his shoes and socks. Cullen immediately followed suit, taking off his boots. For some reason, Dorian found himself staring at Cullen’s socks, as if he hasn’t seen the man more or less naked, and was met with the realisation that, though he had expected to see a hole in Cullen’s socks, they were intact. It was a silly thing to note but Dorian felt disarmed completely by the thought that he, all at once, knew Cullen and didn’t at all.

Dorian dropped his bag and keys on the table as he passed it towards the kitchen. “Do you want a drink? Tea, coffee, juice, sparkling water? I know it’s late but if I don’t have a coffee right this instant, I fear I might do something stupid like go to sleep at a reasonable time.” Dorian peered into his fridge. “I also have a block of halloumi and half a bell pepper. How do you feel about takeout?”

“I’ll take a tea,” Cullen said and Dorian went to fill the kettle. He followed Dorian as he had up to his apartment and was gently plucking a takeout menu from under a fridge magnet without disturbing the few outdated letters and notes Dorian had put on there. “How’s this place for dinner?”

“The menu is not purely decorative.” Dorian clicked the kettle on before ambling over, the kitchen tiles cold against his bare feet. “I’ll take the veggie spring rolls and the big spicy noodles.” Dorian was leaning in to point out his choices and was close enough that he had to look up to see Cullen raise his eyebrows at him. “Don’t look at me like that – that’s what they’re called! And pick whatever you like. My treat.”

When Cullen pulled out his phone, Dorian glared at him. “Cullen. You’ve paid for gas, a B&B room and the emotional labour of socialising with the Hawkes. This is my home. I’ll cover dinner.”

There must have been something besides from sheer grumpiness in Dorian’s tone because Cullen didn’t argue, only retreating to perch on the arm of the sofa. “Do you have cash? I can call and order.”

Dorian retrieved his wallet from his bag and tossed it at Cullen who managed to catch it by quickly pressing his phone between his ear and the menu between the crook of his elbow and his side. Dorian had to look away from Cullen’s smug expression at the save or else he would have just stared hopelessly. He, instead, busied himself with finding a mug suitable for Cullen, opting for a generic university memorabilia one over the kind with a topless man on it that would reveal his junk when you put hot water in it.

When he turned to lean back against the counter, Cullen was relaying their choices down the phone carefully yet clumsily, so afraid of butchering the pronunciation that he tied his tongue in knots. His eyebrows even furrowed in concentration. Dorian was glad when the kettle finished boiling because it gave him something to do other than just look.

He focused on not burning himself as he made Cullen his tea, putting more sugar than he ever had in any cup, and then made himself a coffee. He even rooted around for some biscuits for Cullen. He only turned to look at the other man when he heard Cullen say goodbye, shaking his head at Cullen’s embarrassed smile that revealed that he knew he had made a dog’s dinner out of the few words he needed to say. Almost without thinking, Dorian said, “It’s a good thing you’re so pretty, Rutherford,” and it came out too soft to be safe.

To his surprise, Cullen didn’t frown like he usually did. Instead, his embarrassed flush darkened. Dorian picked up Cullen’s cup and Cullen moved to accept the tea with a thank you. He didn’t wait, only blowing on it once before taking a sip.

“Jesus,” Dorian said, over the steam rising from the rim of his own mug. “You’ll burn your tongue.”

“It’s fine,” Cullen insisted, even as he winced. He took another sip as if to prove his point.

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Sweet enough?”

“It’s perfect,” Cullen said. “Thank you.”

Dorian loathed that he felt warmed by Cullen’s words. He cradled his own cup protectively and blamed the heat from it. “It’s just a teabag and some hot water. My mother would be horrified that you call it tea at all.”

“Is it so different there?”

Dorian shrugged. “Isn’t everything?”

Cullen looked around casually, in no hurry as he had been in Dorian’s office. Dorian studied him, how much calmer he appeared now. It made him say instead of ask, “So, Garrett Hawke.”

Cullen winced again and it had nothing to do with his tea. He put down his cup. “He’s just… like that.”

“Whilst I’m in no position to judge and am most definitely inclined to agree, I do believe he has a soft spot for you.”

“There’s nothing soft about it,” Cullen said under his breath. Even the mention of Garrett put Cullen on edge. Dorian almost regretted bringing it up.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Dorian said softly. “I’m just surprised you would brave seeing him just to fix my ridiculous motorbike.”

“It’s not-” Cullen cut himself off, shaking his head. “Hawke isn’t a bad person. The opposite really. He’s just… a lot to handle. When I worked there, I saw a lot of him and he saw a lot of me. Too much, even.”

“Did you ever…” Dorian trailed off but Cullen going pink was answer enough.

“Like I said, I made some stupid decisions when drunk.”

Dorian tried not to grin. “Were alleys involved?”

“Dorian.” Cullen said his name in a way that was disapproving but not uncomfortable.

“Well, he’s a handsome man, I’ll give you that,” Dorian said. “They enjoyed having you there.”

For some reason, this only made Cullen blush some more. “It’s a long way to go for a party.”

Dorian shrugged. “Still, it’s good to keep in contact with people, even when they’ve seen your asshole. Hawke and Bull would get along swimmingly, I imagine.”

“Were you with Bull for long?”

“On and off, for a little while.” Dorian smiled, remembering their affairs. Bull had been the first man Dorian had truly enjoyed in the South and he wasn’t even Southern, dark-skinned and loud-mouthed. “But neither of us were interested in anything serious – or rather, anything committed. Bull did enjoy picking my brains every time he talked to me. I would tell him to leave it at his day job.”

“And you’re still such good friends?” Cullen asked curiously, retrieving his cup.

Bull was easy to talk about. “We were never lovers in that we were never in love. Friends with benefits at our age feels trite to say but we fucked until we became good enough friends that we knew ending our arrangement wouldn’t stop us from seeing each other. I imagine if we’d kept going as an excuse to see one another, things would have gotten complicated, as these things to do. But we nipped it in the bud and Bull got to keep giving me free therapy without bringing his dick into things. All for the best.”

“He speaks highly of you.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “As he should. Though I can’t imagine what he said to you made much of a difference when, upon meeting me, I did nothing but cause physical and emotional damage to your being.”

Cullen laughed, lifting his other hand to his nose at the memory. “No harm done. I was just in a bit of a daze for the rest of the night. It all happened so fast.”

“These things do, I suppose,” Dorian said and it made Cullen still. He was looking at Dorian in the kind of way Dorian couldn’t interpret. His eyes could have been saying anything. Dorian wanted them- him to say and what are these things? But Dorian didn’t know what he would answer. They kept ending up back here, a standoff where neither of them drew the first weapon.

Dorian’s intercom buzzed.

“Already?” Dorian said but Cullen was already moving, too quickly, as if snapped out of a reverie. The sight made Dorian swallow, frustrated. It seemed that, though the day had given Dorian opportunity after opportunity to ask what was becoming of them, he still couldn’t, leaving it to Cullen only for the conversation to go up like a smoking gun. It hurt as if he had been hit.

Dorian watched as Cullen counted the money he had taken from Dorian’s wallet and headed towards the intercom. It was petty but Dorian didn’t offer assistance as Cullen squinted at the buttons. He was taking long enough that whichever delivery driver was down there got impatient and buzzed again.

“Don’t forget my keys,” Dorian suddenly said, only just remembering himself. He went to retrieve them when Cullen finally figured out the button to respond and asked who it was into the mic.

There was a long pause and then a voice, quiet and tinny, responded. Dorian couldn’t hear it but moving closer made no difference because by the time he got to Cullen with his keys in hand and a quip on his lips, Cullen had turned towards him and spoke before he could.

“There’s someone asking to see you,” Cullen said. “He says his name is Rilienus.”

Chapter Text

Cullen didn’t leave.

That was what Dorian found strangest. Not that Rilienus was here with brown skin that paled his surroundings in its glow and hands clutching a cream envelope like his life depended on it. Not that the passing of time had changed him, his hair longer, the lines of his face more pronounced. It was that Rilienus was stood in his flat, like he had done before many, many times, except not at all because Dorian wasn’t alone. Because Cullen had no intention of leaving.

Dorian didn’t offer him an explanation. He simply let Rilienus up and in, like another man had not answered his intercom. There was another time when Dorian would open the door in very little, letting Rilienus press his face into Dorian’s neck and sink into the nearest surface, into him. Rilienus was a giving man but Dorian had let him take.

Now, they didn’t even stand close enough to touch. Dorian stood across from him in the living room and they stared at each other as Cullen nursed his tea that could only be lukewarm by this point. He was trying not to watch them from where he stood in the open kitchen and failing, having nowhere else to look like they were a television show. Or a car crash.

Rilienus was well dressed. Of course, he was. He wore dark slacks and a black turtleneck and his black boots were polished to reflect the light. His dark brown hair, always long, was now tied back, neat. His face had always looked sculpted but even the perfect lines of his cheekbones and jaw could not distract Dorian from how he had lost weight, not in a way that made him slimmer necessarily but haggard.

Still, no amount of circles around his eyes could change them. Green like the overflow of plants in his mother’s greenhouse. Green like envy. Rilienus did not look the same but he looked at Dorian as he always had, like a child who had learnt for the first time that the sun would blind him. Delirious, curious and then overwhelmed.

And he didn’t speak first. Some things never changed.

“Well,” Dorian said into the silence because he had to. “You’re here. Get on with it.”

“Dorian.” He even said Dorian’s name in the same way, as if it was synonymous with be reasonable. Rilienus opened his mouth to say something else and then seemed to remember Cullen, who had finished his drink and was leant back on the counter with his arms crossed, was still here. His shirt fitted comfortably around where it covered his biceps. Where it didn’t, it was hard to notice anything else except perhaps his steady, unwavering gaze.

Dorian found himself irritated and he couldn’t say who at.

He watched as Rilienus physically shook himself from Cullen’s stare and extended the hand that held the envelope. Dorian took it. His name was written on the front. Dorian. No mention of his family name or address. An envelope that never intended to be sent. The writing wasn’t in neat, paid cursive but a hurried slant of ink. If Dorian had seen it in his mailbox, he would have recognised the hand without needing to blink.

Dorian held it for a moment, experiencing the weight of it and imagined cutting himself on it, a pathetic little slit that would hurt more than it was worth. He didn’t need to open it to know what it was but he would, like pinching yourself even though you knew your mind could never conjure a nightmare worse than reality. With the keys still in his hands, he took one to swipe it across the top, unnecessarily. What it revealed was nothing Dorian hadn’t seen before, finely drawn flowers and swirls, only now it had Rilienus’ name on it.

He looked up at Rilienus and said, “Who’s your wedding planner? Fire them. It can only get worse from here.”

“Dorian,” he said again. Be reasonable, be serious.

“Rilienus,” Dorian replied in the same tone. It used to be his way of saying make me. Now, Rilienus looked at him like they were speaking different languages. Dorian wondered if his voice has changed, if the South had twisted his syllables or loosened his vowels. It had changed so much else because what other reason could Rilienus look at Dorian like he was looking at stranger?

Again, Rilienus looked over at Cullen. Cullen looked back at Rilienus, unmoveable. They were, Dorian realised, close in height but he had no interest in them getting close enough for Dorian to see who was taller.

Maybe what was bothering Dorian about this whole situation, aside from its absurdity, was how they kept looking at each other like Dorian was not there. He had seen Cullen’s stubborn edge at the bar but this was different. Protective. Stupid. Rilienus could not look away from it, determined to understand it. Him and Dorian both. They still had that much in common, a need to possess every answer in the universe. It made them unsatisfied people.

But Dorian was not interested in being ignored. He went to snap his fingers at Rilienus like he was a dog, rude and unkind, but was saved by the intercom buzzing again. They all stilled. This time, the delivery driver announced that they were outside with the food. Dorian felt like eternities had passed since Cullen had ordered it.

Cullen gave Rilienus another look, a warning, before wandering towards the intercom to answer the driver, saying he would be down in just a second. Dorian expected to hear the door close behind him but Cullen reappeared, coming over to Dorian which Dorian could only watch, puzzled. He caught Dorian’s hand, the one not holding the wedding invite which fell limply to his side at the new touch. His other hand still held the keys between his fingers like a desperate weapon. Cullen pried Dorian’s fingers from the keys and Dorian would have let him leave, in the same petty way he had let him puzzle over the intercom, but his touch was so gentle, guiding, just as he had been outside, that Dorian couldn’t. He stopped Cullen by the wrist with a sigh. “Wait.”

Lifting the hand Cullen held the keys, Dorian pointed at each key as he spoke, “This one’s for my apartment door, this one buzzes you in once you’re in the foyer and if you, by some freak chance manage to not do the simple task of grabbing the delivery bag with the ridiculous expanse of your shoulders in the way of the door, this one is for the entrance.”

Cullen smiled like it was just the two of them. “I’m sure I could have figured it out myself, Dorian.”

“There are at least four keys on there that don’t belong to me,” Dorian said and had they been alone, had they just finished their tea and were bickering about who would go down to retrieve the takeaway (Dorian knew his own apartment block but Cullen had been the one to order), he would have added some story about the mysterious keys, yelling about each conquest after Cullen who would race out of the door, more concerned about making the delivery driver wait outside. But Dorian’s coffee had gone cold and he was tired and they were not alone. So he just said, “Try not to get lost,” lamely.

“I’ll be back soon,” Cullen said, voice pitched low. Rilienus was hearing every word.

Again, Dorian found himself trying not to huff in irritation. He wanted to say he wasn’t unsafe here. Rilienus was a lot of things to him but the last was a threat. The danger laid only where Dorian made a bed in it. But something in Cullen’s eyes, searching Dorian’s face, said that he knew Dorian was always one restless night away from laying with danger again.

Dorian looked away, shooing Cullen towards the door. Cullen went, walking past his jacket draped over a chair and Dorian watched him leave. He wondered about what he would do if Cullen simply did not come back.

When the door clicked shut behind Cullen, Rilienus spoke, “If I had known you were seeing someone, I would have offered you a plus one.”

Dorian looked at him abruptly. It wasn’t that he had forgotten Rilienus was there but it was his first acknowledgement of Cullen’s presence, only after Cullen had left. It meant only Dorian was there to defend him and Dorian wasn’t sure if it the responsibility was meant for him.

“Don’t be obtuse,” Dorian snapped, tossing the wedding invite on his coffee table to put further distance between them, as if Cullen leaving had broken a spell. “You just saw me explain how my apartment keys work. If I was sleeping with him, he would have at least a rudimentary knowledge.”

Rilienus watched him pace. This, at least, must have felt familiar to him. “Were you planning to tonight? Sleep with him, that is.”

Dorian turned on his heels to face Rilienus and said, through his teeth, “You don’t get to ask that.”

“I don’t?” Rilienus took a step towards him and when Dorian didn’t back away, he took another. “I came all this way-”

“And did I ask you to?”

“No,” Rilienus said. “No, you’ve never asked anything of me, Dorian.”

There it was. The betrayal, the hurt, the resentment. Cullen had said it wasn’t Dorian’s fault but he didn’t know what it meant to make yourself a pariah. There was only so much you could carry of your homeland across your mortal shoulders. You had to leave people behind. They are not always as forgiving.

“Rilienus,” Dorian said, trying to keep his voice measured and feeling it waver anyway, “you’re getting married. What did you expect when you came here?”

Rilienus acted as if he hadn’t spoken. He jerked his chin towards the door. “Who is he?”

Dorian thought of the Hawkes and the assumptions. He thought of Cullen pressed against him, barely avoiding Isabela’s drunken hands demanding a comparison of chest hair between the men, and when Dorian had laughed, assuring without thinking that Cullen had plenty but nothing could compare to Hawke’s and certainly not Varric’s, Isabela whistled and Cullen blushed but he was looking at Dorian. Dorian could have said what’s some bare chest between friends? but he didn’t. He couldn’t in good faith say Cullen was his friend.

So instead, he said, “He’s my mechanic.”

At this, Rilienus seemed offput. “Your car is broken?”

As always, Dorian said, “Something like that.”

“So, what? You’re essentially paying a man to fuck you now?”

“Cruelty doesn’t suit you, Rilienus.” And it was true. Rilienus’ voice was weak, no real venom. Time had weakened him, made him submissive to its wills. If Rilienus had been crueller, even a touch more, he would not have sentenced himself to the life that he had. He would have left, like Dorian had done before him. He was clever and brilliant but he was dedicated to his father in a way that Dorian’s own had only dreamed his son to be. But that was Halward Pavus’ greatest mistake because he had raised his son in his own image, proud and stubborn. To make a son so dedicated, Rilienus’ father had not taught Rilienus to be selfish, not enough. It was why Dorian could leave and Rilienus had to stay.

But it would be, ultimately, Rilienus’ downfall, to be so giving in a land that took everything from them, to be vulnerable in a place where every child was handed knives in the name of cutthroat ruthlessness parading as fairness. Rilienus had bare his own neck now.

Dorian looked at the Rilienus that stood across him, handsome features weighed down with more than time, and the wedding invitation and he wondered if Rilienus hadn’t already given his life.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Dorian said slowly. “What did you expect to happen when you came to hand deliver an invitation for your wedding to a woman you could never love?”

“You’re right. Cruelty has always suited you better.”

Dorian closed his eyes so he would not scream. He wanted to shout that cruelty did not come naturally. He was raised in it, hardened by it. All he had known was cruelty, even when he had thought he was being loved. Because cruelty was not born entirely from selfishness but self-preservation. Cruelty had been the only way he was able to survive. He would not apologise for it. He had not held the knife to the soft skin of Rilienus’ neck. When Dorian had kissed it, it was loving in the only way Dorian knew. “You left for good. You shouldn’t have turned back.”

“I’m not turning back,” Rilienus said and he could have been trying to convince either of them.

“Then what possible reason could there be for you to return to your former lover’s home?” Dorian gestured around them. “What do you want from me, Rilienus? To wish you congratulations? To apologise for not stopping you? I am not your father. I had no interest in controlling you.”

Rilienus flinched as if Dorian had hit him. Even now, his father haunted them, just as Dorian’s had. Dorian should have known that the precious little thing they had nurtured was destined only for death. It could not last when Dorian was killing his father and Rilienus could not bear even the thought of burying his own.

Still, almost desperately, Rilienus said, “If you had asked, I-”

“Don’t,” Dorian interrupted, anger clipping the words hard. “Don’t say it.”

“You’re afraid, even now, then.”

Something snapped in Dorian.

“Did I have to ask?” Dorian asked and with every word, every single thing he had wished he had been given the good grace to say at the time, not now, not years later, Dorian’s voice rose to the ceiling. “I was the one who gave up everything. I left the only home I had ever known. I disgraced myself and my family name beyond measure. I forged the path. I did the hard work and I didn’t ask it of you, only starved myself to trail breadcrumbs behind me so you could follow. And, every time you lied to your parents like a teenage boy, I opened my door and my bed to you. Every time, without fail, without judgement. I let other lovers burn out. I had burned all other bridges but not yours. Instead, I gave years to you. I let you in.” Dorian was breathing heavily. More quietly, more brokenly, Dorian said, “Why did I need to ask you to stay?”

Rilienus was staring at Dorian like he didn’t even know him. “You’re a coward.”

It hurt but it was true. Dorian straightened his shoulders, like his father had taught him to. “So are you. It appears we’re at a stalemate.”

Rilienus looked at him, not sadly, and that made Dorian still. They were cowards, both of them. The realisation made Dorian shake with an emotion he could not describe. Rilienus looked at him with the only answer to Dorian’s question of why the man had, engaged to be married, come so far South. There was nothing familiar here for Rilienus except Dorian himself and the familiar was safe.

“No.” Dorian was shaking his head. “No, Rilienus-”

“Do you think my father hasn’t kept mistresses? Or my mother? You think of me as naïve.”

“I think you have nerve. You left. You got engaged. You’re getting married.” Rilienus was close, too close. Dorian could have touched him easily. It took him all his power not to, if only to shake him so they would both tremble under the weight of what was asked of them and what they asked of each other. “What did you think would happen? That you would come back and I would let you in again? You left me on my knees, did you expect me to stay on the ground? It’s been five years.” When he spoke next, he wanted to sound angry still but he just sounded sad. “There was a time when I let you fuck me and leave but not now, not when you have a wife to go home to. I will not be your father. I will not be mine.”

The ghost of Rilienus could not compare to the anguish of the real one. “Do you think I want this? I would have stayed.”

“But you didn’t. You can keep as many lovers as you please, Rilienus. I will not be one of them.”

The firmness in Dorian’s tone made Rilienus lean back. Dorian was not as young as he had been, he knew this, and he knew Rilienus was seeing it too, eyes flickering over Dorian’s face. Whatever he was looking for, Rilienus could no longer find it in Dorian. Stupidly, he asked, “Is it him?”

Dorian laughed. He couldn’t help it. It wasn’t a kind sound. “I’ve known him for a month but I’ve been alone for years now. Do not insult me by assuming I would only turn you away if I had laid my affections elsewhere. I am not the men I love. I would be damned if I was.”

They looked at each other. Rilienus had nothing else to offer. He was empty handed, stood awkwardly, alone, so far from home. Dorian did not need to offer him anything in return but he gave him the truth. “When I heard of your engagement, it had made me realise that I had not really considered the possibility, even after so many years, that I had not left something stagnant and unmoveable. The world does not stop spinning. The lives of those I left behind would not fall apart without me. They would simply go on.” Gently, more gently than he had ever said anything to anyone, “And I have gone on too.”

“Is it easier,” Rilienus spoke quietly, “to love them? The men here?”

Suddenly, Dorian realised that Cullen had yet to return. Maybe he had entertained a fantasy to life. Maybe Cullen had gotten into his ridiculous truck and gone home to his dog and his life that was blissfully quiet without Dorian, leaving only a soft, warm jacket for Dorian as a parting gift.

“They can still leave,” Dorian answered honestly. “It is no more in their blood than in yours or mine.”

As if sensing the turn in conversation, Dorian’s door opened and Cullen returned, struggling with the takeaway bags and keys. When he saw Dorian and Rilienus turn to look at him from where they were staring at each other, Cullen flushed and said, “Sorry. I mixed up the keys.”

It could have as easily been a lie as it could have been the truth. Dorian and Rilienus had been experts at the language of their shared world but Cullen was not a politician, a reporter, a family friend with a nasty streak. He was just a man trying not to make a lot of noise, aware that all eyes were on him. Dorian wondered what Rilienus saw. Cullen was a handsome man in a uniquely Southern way, pale skin, light hair, a straight nose and an awkward disposition, not welcoming of attention. The men back home were prettier, prouder. The North would eat Cullen alive.

Rilienus’ eyes, so green, so sharp, were glassy like jewels. Dorian was suddenly terrified that he would cry. He watched Rilienus watch Cullen clatter about the kitchen to retrieve cutlery and plates. One, two, pause, then three.

Rilienus spoke, then. “I see I have interrupted you at dinner. I’ll take my leave.”

Cullen raised his head slowly, as if unsure if he was being addressed at all. “There’s plenty to spare. I can-”

“Cullen,” Dorian said, quiet and tired. Cullen looked at him and then nodded and stepped back, away from the counter of food he had begun to set up, things still half in bags and boxes.

“I can see myself out.” He didn’t need Dorian’s keys if he did not plan to return. Still, for no one’s benefit, he added, “I remember as much.” Like twisting the knife. It was the only time when Rilienus gripped the hilt, when he was hurting Dorian. “The invitation is always open.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Dorian said, “Mine isn’t, Rilienus. Take care.”

At that, Rilienus simply nodded, turned and left. As easy as that.

The door closed and Dorian moved to sit down on the sofa, heavily, like he was carrying so much more than his own body. He put his head into his hands, rubbing at his temples. Five years was a long time and Dorian had made peace with it. He had not asked for an opportunity for closure because there was none. A single conversation could not erase the hurt that had happened and would continue to. He could not close his heart, not completely, from Rilienus, because it would mean becoming a stranger to what he had loved most about his home. Even though Dorian had left, even though he now turned the only man he had ever loved away, it was all a part of him. He could only keep moving. And yet he was still now.

He didn’t hear Cullen move closer, only heard him say Dorian’s name as he put his hands over Dorian’s for the third time since they arrived home. Again, he was gentle, so gentle it made Dorian wish it would hurt to touch him so there was a consequence for Cullen’s closeness. Dorian did not want to be seen, did not want Cullen to witness this. He wanted to be alone because that’s how he had dealt with this before, drinking and fucking himself to death. He wanted it without judgement, even though he knew he was too old for that now, even though he was old enough now that he would judge himself. Even though it hadn’t worked because he had lived and he was here. He had not lied to Cullen when he had said leaving was constant. Dorian wondered how many times he would have to leave again. He had thought he had come far enough from home that it would not matter and yet, it still found him, in a wedding invite in a cream envelope with his name on it.

When Dorian let Cullen peel his hands away from his face, he felt a cruel victory in Cullen’s surprise that Dorian’s eyes were hard, not soft.

Still, Cullen asked, “Are you alright?”

Dorian scoffed. “You could take an educated guess. I know Southerners are not always the brightest but I’m sure you’re more than capable of that.”

The harshness of Dorian’s voice took Cullen aback. His hands around Dorian’s slackened but he did not let go. “Rilienus is…?”

“I told you about him.” Dorian gave Cullen a moment to remember what they had left unspoken, the conversations that had passed between them in bed that meant nothing and everything all at once. Then, Dorian said, “He came to hand deliver his wedding invite.”

Said wedding invite was on the coffee table beside Cullen. Cullen didn’t look at it. “Oh.”

“Oh, indeed.”

Cullen was squatted in front of him but he was eye level so there was nowhere else for Dorian to look. It should have been a ridiculous sight, Cullen speaking carefully whilst sat, in part, on the coffee table that could never fully handle the weight of a grown man. “Is it… like other weddings where you’re from?”

“You can say the word, Cullen,” Dorian said bitterly. “Arranged. Yes. A political union. To a woman who my father would have seen me married to if he could have. If I could put that man in a grave, he would turn in it on principle.”

“Did you know?”

Dorian spoke brightly, too bright not to be pained. “I had bought the motorcycle in celebration of his engagement.”

This information seemed to remind Cullen why he was here at all. The bike always maintained a distance between them. Cullen leaned back. “Where were you going to ride it to?”

“I was going to crash the wedding on it.” It was a stupid question; it warranted a stupid response. “No. Everyone keeps asking me this question. What do you do with a bike? I was going to learn a new skill. I was going to give myself something to do other than think about how the fate I had escaped was one Rilienus had left me for.”

“You said you’re not in love with him anymore.”

It wasn’t an accusation but it made Dorian bristle further. “You don’t understand.”

“I’m trying to.”

“Why?” Dorian wasn’t asking what Cullen thought he was. He pressed Cullen into standing so he could too, moving away from him, moving. That’s all he could do.

Cullen frowned, looking after him. “Why does anyone try to understand things? To help, Dorian.”

“Help?” Dorian laughed and his laugh was the same one he gave Rilienus, short and cruel. It made him sound like his father. “Your lives here are so much simpler. You are only responsible for yourselves. You don’t carry the weight of representing a land, a people bigger than anything you could possibly hope to be. You are not bound to your family, for better or worse. You can celebrate yourselves as individuals. So tell me, Cullen, how you could understand what it means to know you left for nothing, that no one followed you, that you inspired no one? At the cost of being the master of my own fate, I had left all I knew how to be and it changed nothing. I am a product of a homeland that can make brilliant and beautiful things but I cannot defend it, from you or anyone. It is rotten in as many ways and to make a case for it, I must constantly apologise, even though it has hurt no one more than it has hurt those who love it. No one is more rotten than me.”

Again Dorian stood with another man across from him but too much between them. His chest felt heavy, his breathing hard, but it was a different kind of hurt. Rilienus had looked at Dorian like he didn’t know him but Cullen couldn’t. Dorian’s pain was so foreign and he did not want to perform it for a man he couldn’t even call a friend. Yet, he said, “There is no lake for me to return to. The rivers have run dry and the land parched. There, the sun shines every day and all it does is burn all it illuminates.”

“So this isn’t about Rilienus,” Cullen said finally.

Dorian applauded him. “He finally catches on. Bravo.” When Cullen’s eyes flickered with hurt, Dorian turned his head away. “No, it isn’t, not entirely. I had hoped, foolishly, that I could inspire a revolution, a new generation of sons and daughters liberated. But instead, I left and I am lonely. I don’t ache for him. I don’t even ache for what could have been. I ache for home and yet I no longer know where that is.”

Cullen was looking at him with sad, sad eyes. “Could it never be here?”

“You don’t understand,” Dorian said again. “I shouldn’t have to choose. The unfairness of it renders me a child. I did not ask to be born to wage a war against my homeland. I had only wanted a home.”

“People move.” Dorian rolled his eyes but Cullen was determined. “No, Dorian, listen, I know I won’t ever understand what you’re struggling with but-”

“There is no ‘but.’ Why must there always be a ‘but?’”

“-home is a concept, not an object. You can find it in cities or in buildings. Even, in people.”

“Ha! Even worse!”

Cullen didn’t look at Dorian like he was a stranger. This was the problem, Dorian was finding. He could not translate the way Cullen saw him, not in any way that made sense. “You’re tired, Dorian, and Rilienus hurt you. But your dinner is getting cold. Maybe after you eat and have a shower, we can-”

“What?” Dorian said harshly. “We can make a list of pros and cons about investing in property here or there? No, I’m being silly. We’ll just talk sweet nothings until we fall asleep in each other’s arms. Am I right to assume you planned to stay the night?”

Dorian was trying to be hurtful. It was working. Cullen’s shoulders had stiffened, the corners of his mouth turning downwards. But his golden eyes could not look at Dorian coldly. “Was he home to you?”

Dorian closed his own. “Why ask me this?”

“You said you didn’t ask him to stay. I want to know. Did you ask him to leave instead?”

Dorian turned to move away, even though he had nowhere to go, even though he had thought he was done running. When Cullen touched him, fingers at his elbow, Dorian snatched his arm back for the first time today. “Don’t.”

“Dorian. You can’t ask me to leave too.”

“Why not?” The question was venomous. At his core, Dorian was filled with poison. “What can you do? You’re my mechanic. You can fix my bike. You can’t fix my life.”

“I’m your mechanic?” Cullen asked and he sounded wounded. It was enough to make Dorian snap again. Years of finely tuning himself to sound palatable and controlled and in one evening, string after string had been plucked to the point of breaking. It made a terrible sound.

“I don’t know!” Dorian said, throwing his hands in the air. “I don’t know what the fuck we are, Cullen, and you’re not going to demand this conversation out of me after the only man I have ever loved popped in to drop off an invitation to his wedding. You had your chance at your lake and in that bed and in your Goddamn ugly truck and you didn’t say anything then so why now?”

Cullen swallowed. “You said you were not very good at asking for what you want. Has that changed?”

Everything you say can be used against you, Dorian heard in his father’s voice. You’re a coward, Rilienus had said. Ghosts lived on. He was their ghosts too. “I want you to leave.”

Cullen left.

Chapter Text

When Maevaris Tilani stepped out of arrivals, everyone looked at her. It was impossible not to. She was the kind of beautiful that people didn’t believe still existed, like a black and white movie come to life. She acted it, wearing a big floppy black hat atop her head, almost concealing her short white-blonde curls. Her dark sunglasses took up most of her face. Her pale blue pantsuit with big black buttons was tailored and her black heels clicked against the floor of the airports with purpose. She gripped the handle of a suitcase too big for a weekend away elegantly, surrounded by others bustling and struggling. Her long nails were painted the same blue.

When she stopped in front of Dorian, she removed her sunglasses to reveal eyes as clear as the sea and as precious as the jewels on her ears. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” she said, as she always did.

“I hope it never ceases to floor you,” Dorian replied, removing her hat so he could embrace her properly. “How was your journey?”

“As it always is. The flight attendants were nice to look at but the complimentary meal was atrocious.” She patted his chest and took her hat back from him. “How do you bear it?”

“Oh, I don’t eat it.” Out of habit, he took hold of her suitcase and she did not stop him. They headed out of the airport.

“Well, make sure you’re eating something.” She had pushed her sunglasses atop her head and held her hat under her arm to retrieve her phone, most likely to check her ever-demanding emails, but spared him a sideways glance with the closest thing to concern she was capable of expressing. “You’re not in your usual spirits, darling. I can see as much.”

His relationship with Mae was different to anything he had with anyone else. He had heard of her through the grapevine, of course, the offensive daughter of an inoffensive man. He had paid little attention, however, more concerned with his own fate in the way young people could not help. He had not believed their lives to be so connected, by virtue of the power in their hands, to shake and to change.

When Dorian had began retreating from the world of politics, Mae had elbowed in. She was clever and charismatic but more than that, she had skin thicker than anyone really believed, distracted by the uncharacteristic paleness of her, a sight rare so far North. She did not look like home as Dorian knew it, dark and warm. Mae was made of ice. Cold but refreshing. Before Dorian had left for the final time, securing funding for further study as far as possible from his parents, Mae had contacted him with an offer of change and possibility.

Dorian had taken his chances elsewhere but it had been a powerful gesture. Their friendship, over the years, had remained the only tie to home that didn’t hurt to pull close.

Now, Dorian put a hand on Mae’s back to guide her towards his car. “I’m overworked. If I had known I would be celebrating every birthday drowning in marking, I would have stayed in the womb longer. It would not be the worst thing I subjected my mother to.”

Mae raised her eyebrows but didn’t bother him for a more honest answer. Instead, she asked, “Dinner?”

“If I have to drive you to your hotel, I can’t drink,” Dorian despaired.

“All the better. I’d rather you were sober when you explain this motorcycle business to me.”

Dorian swore. “Felix told you. That traitor.”

“Oh, almost immediately,” Mae said without missing a beat as they reached his car. “I was rather hoping you would bring the infamous vehicle to pick me up today.”

“It’s infamous for a reason.” Dorian opened her door for her and only murmured, “God knows if it’s even fixed,” when there was a closed door between them.

Dorian hadn’t heard from Cullen since he had left Dorian’s apartment on the weekend and that much Dorian had expected, even if it wounded him in a way he had no right to feel. But it was the day before Dorian’s birthday and the self-imposed deadline Cullen had given himself. When Dorian didn’t hear from the man, he had to wonder if there was even still a deadline at all. If Dorian hadn’t needed to leave work in good time to pick Mae up from the airport, maybe he would have, foolishly, hopefully, lingered in his office, as if the man would materialise at his door once again. It was not the first time he had found himself avoiding Cullen but it was proving the first time that Cullen would simply let him.

“You didn’t think of the logistics. Where would we put your luggage?” Dorian said as he opened the boot of his car to put Mae’s suitcase away. He dramatized his grunt of effort. “And what on earth do you have in here, Mae? It feels like it’s full of rocks.”

“Only the best from the sandy beaches at our coast for you, darling.” She blew him a kiss from where she sat at the passenger seat.

He closed the back with a shake of his head and got into the driver’s seat before answering her with a dry question. “Are you sure they’re not the rocks that I was pelted with as I left?”

“Please, Dorian, we all know you’re worth at least a box of rotten tomatoes.” She turned in her seat to look at him squarely. “Now, don’t change the subject.”

“Mae.” The near constant headache Dorian had sported for the past week made her short name sound clipped.

Dorian had not been lying. He was tired. The weekend had put him behind in his marking and Vivienne had been so pleased to see Dorian in his office every night making up for it up until she realised he had stopped shaving and it made her ask without asking if everything was okay. He had simply said he was considering growing out a beard and Vivienne had looked so horrified at the prospect, Dorian was almost offended enough to earnestly attempt the venture in spite. When he shaved this morning, he did so more for Mae’s benefit than Vivienne’s.

Though his boss’ concern was not misplaced. He knew he was using work as a welcome distraction.

When Cullen had left, Dorian had cleared up the cold takeaway from his counter, taken a shower and gone straight to bed. He has slept fitfully, haunted by ghosts he couldn’t kill, at least not alone. He spent the lonely last day of his weekend doing chores, cleaning his bare apartment and filling his pitiful cupboards, doing anything to avoid getting into his car and driving to the repair shop and-

And what? The voice in Dorian’s head sounded like Bull and no one wanted to hear a therapist’s voice in their head, not when the therapist was technically just your friend. Dorian knew, in retrospect, he should apologise. He had acted brashly turning Cullen away for reasons beyond their control as if Cullen could, in a single evening, understand the turmoil of a lifetime. Dorian frowned, remembering. He had been fragile but dangerous, like a wounded animal. It didn’t hurt Cullen to touch him but, in the moments following Rilienus departure, as jarring as his arrival, it hurt Dorian. Is it easier to love them? The men here?

It was no wonder Dorian had a headache, what with all these men yelling in his head all the time.

Whatever it was in Dorian’s voice, it convinced Mae not now. She sat back. “How well stocked is your kitchen currently? Maybe it will best serve us both to have a taste from home.”

Dorian started the car and began their journey back. “You don’t need to do that, Mae. We’ve both had a long week.”

“Are you saying this more for my benefit or yours?” She spoke mildly but it made Dorian wince. Mae never missed. “Your kitchen is either bursting at the seams or a sorry affair. You know I’ve always been good at working with very little but let us be practical.”

The request to cook would surprise anyone who didn’t know her as Dorian did so it surprised many. The daughter of a wealthy and doting father, Mae was not in the business of asking for much in that it was hers before her mouth could finish forming the request. Yet cooking, of all things, was something Dorian had learnt Mae not only enjoyed but excelled at (though that, at least, did not surprise Dorian for anyone could see Mae was driven in all she sought out to achieve.)

It was not public knowledge, though it did not need to be, but Dorian garnered that it was a hobby Mae treasured for it spoke a language of its own. She was an ambitious and ruthless woman which left little room for placating feelings but when she cooked, as she had for Dorian and Felix a number of times over the course of the last decade they had considered her a friend, Dorian saw something gentle and loving in every bite. A taste from home, indeed.

He conceded. “There should be enough for you to rustle up something.”

“Wonderful.” Mae smiled without teeth. It was never unkind. That was another thing people didn’t know about Mae. In her business, he supposed, they didn’t need to know that either.

The drive back to Dorian’s place wasn’t long. As soon as Mae stepped foot into his apartment, she propped up her suitcase in the hallway and removed her heels, exercising her ankles. Dorian knew that not many saw this side of her, quietly vulnerable, and smiled when she wasn’t looking. He knew she probably saw it anyway. He took off his own shoes and followed her into the kitchen where she was inspecting its contents with a pensive expression.

“You’re not going to send me out for something obscure even by my standards, are you?” Dorian asked warily as she peered into his fridge.

She answered him by throwing things his way. He caught them deftly but, arms full of produce, he had to wave a leek as a white flag as she rolled a ridiculously large onion between her palms. “Don’t throw it or you will pay for damages.”

Mae rolled her eyes at him but set the onion on the counter and proceeded to search his cupboards for tools that Dorian could only guess and find first which made her glower at him. Part of her enjoyment of cooking, he imagined, was being left at peace.

Still, she didn’t shoo him away. She retrieved a knife and pointed it at the onion. “You can handle that. I believe it’ll be a useful task for you.”

He gave the overly large onion a dubious look. “Because I need to have a good cry?”

“Because,” she said dryly, “you’re alike. You, too, are a man of many layers.”

“You flatter me.”

“You should shed the useless outer one,” she said dismissively. Then she brandished a knife at him, not unthreateningly. “Chop.”

“Well, who am I to say no to a beautiful woman?” he said, though he took the knife from her all the same, for both their sakes.

“Don’t patronise me, Dorian. You’ve been saying no to beautiful women all your life. I would hardly be the first.” She replaced the knife with a frying pan. “Now, get to work.”

“As you wish.” Dorian rolled his eyes but he took the vegetables Mae had selected to the sink to wash. She uncorked a bottle of wine and poured them both a glass, placing his in welcome reach, before removing her blazer and rolling up her sleeves. She meant business.

This was a familiar experience for them. Dorian’s kitchen was small but they would manage, dancing around each other the way two people often did when they knew each other a great deal. In the oddest of ways, Mae’s visits always cemented the fact that they worked together efficiently. Dorian was more prone to dallying and distracting himself than his counterpart but she kept him in line. It was a reminder that, had Dorian accepted her offer, they would have worked well together. Dorian imagined how different his life would have been had he done just that. He would have been wearing tailored suits and big sunglasses too.

Dorian wondered if he would have been happier that way.

He was brought out of his thoughts when Mae, peering at his spice rack, commented, “Not a bad selection for a Southern kitchen.”

Dorian tried not to peel the onion too aggressively. “Do not insult me, Maevaris. It’s my kitchen. There’s nothing Southern about it.”

“Ah.” It was a wasted effort. Mae noticed, putting down the ridiculous amount of spices she had managed to expertly grab between her fingers. “That’s what it is, then.”

“What?”

“Rilienus paid you a visit, didn’t he?”

Dorian stopped chopping, lest he hurt himself. He looked up at her. “You knew?”

When Mae spoke, it was pragmatic. “His engagement has been a long time coming but its news urged conversations on whether he would succeed his father’s seat. As a result, our paths have crossed with increasing frequency over the last few years.” She added, “He did not dare ask of your health from me. He knew I would have had his balls.”

Dorian smiled. She said it as she said everything: honestly. Her loyalty was an honour.

“Before his engagement was officially announced, there was, of course, news of it. A conversation passed at a dinner party.” She shrugged but it was more of an exercise of her shoulders than an indication of her feelings. “He did not say it in so many words but his behaviour suggested he was about to do something very, very stupid, concerning you. It would not be the first time.”

Dorian stared down at the halved onion. He wondered if Mae had, in the only way she knew, given him the task as an act of kindness. This way he would have a less embarrassing reason should he have broke down crying. Yet his eyes remained dry. It was, after all, only half an onion. It stung but that was all.

Mae spoke on. “I warned him otherwise. It’s been too many years, he had made his bed, it would do more harm than good-”

“As if it could do any good at all,” Dorian said, unable to keep the taste of bitterness from his mouth. “You didn’t think to warn me? Call me up, ask me how I’m faring with the academic year and oh, by the way, Dorian, you’ll want to know your closeted ex-boyfriend will be in the neighbourhood. And he’s getting married! To a woman, no less.”

“You knew that much,” Mae said, not allowing him to guilt her.

“Felix told you that too?” Dorian moved a stray stand of hair from his forehead with his forearm. “Remind me to never tell him anything ever again. That man is a lousy secret keeper.”

Mae poured a generous amount of oil into a pan. “Well, you have to admit, buying a motorcycle in response to the news of said closeted ex-boyfriend’s engagement to a woman is concerning behaviour. Felix was a bit at a loss on what to do.”

“He’s seen me at worse.”

“He’s seen you at what is manageable, albeit volatile.” Dorian remembered the bottom of a glass and the beds of strangers. She took the knife, lax in his hand, to scrape the onion he had chopped onto a plate before depositing the content into the hot pan. It sizzled where there was silence. “He didn’t know what to do about you being wholly irresponsible.”

Dorian took the knife from her again and held it firm. “It’s just a bike.”

Now, when Mae shrugged, she said, “Perhaps.”

“No, Mae, I can’t stress this enough to all of you who demand answers for it. It is a vehicle, broken, yes, but nothing more, nothing less. I bought it from Bull and like most things I get from Bull, they are not fit for work.” Dorian made an effort to chop carefully, despite his words being spoken through gritted teeth. It wasn’t Bull’s head he wanted on the board, after all. “I was feeling stubborn and refused to abandon the bastard thing, not after wasting so much time defending the mere concept of it. So I sent it off to a mechanic. It has been more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Because of the motorcycle itself or the man fixing it?”

Dorian sighed. “Has Felix left anything for me to tell you myself?”

“Don’t lay any blame on our gentle friend,” Mae chastised. “You often leave him little choice. It’s not as though you called me either.”

They weren’t accusing each other of anything. They knew that this was their relationship. They were adults in lines of work that demanded a lot of them, often the best of them. They were exhausted and more frequently busy. And yet every year, Mae cleared her schedule and flew out to spend the weekend with Dorian in honour of his birth, even as age made the day nothing more than an excuse to drink himself silly. Their friendship was quiet, distant but ultimately, dedicated.

Still, it was the principle of the matter. It always was, with people like them.

“You’re a busy woman.” Dorian moved the chopped vegetables aside with his knife to slam the flat side on a bulb of garlic with more force than necessary. He wondered how cooking could be therapeutic for anyone. All it meant for him was putting more sharp objects in his hands than deemed safe by anyone’s standards. “And why would I waste your time with a little crush I had developed on my mechanic, of all people? You must hear how ridiculous that sounds.”

“Is it a little crush?” Mae’s words were not gentle. It was a straightforward question from a straightforward woman. Mae never babied him. She knew how to manipulate and persuade but that had never been the basis of their friendship, rare where they were from. They relished the blunt honesty they reserved for each other, even when it meant taking a hard hit in the form of a question.

“It’s been just over a month,” Dorian insisted, again. “So if you’re asking me if I’m in love with the man I’m paying a stupid amount of money to tinker with my bike – and no, that is not a euphemism – then the answer would be no which is not nearly as exciting as all this fuss would suggest, is it?”

Then, as if to answer his own question, Dorian grabbed his glass of wine and downed it.

Mae raised her eyebrows at him. “Rilienus visited you and you turned him away-”

“Of my own volition. Do you all believe in me so little?”

“-and that was all you, darling, that much development in your character I can believe but you are stood here, cooking with me on the eve of your birthday of all days – not that you would have ever needed an excuse to drink yourself into a stupor. There is something I’m missing from all this that dear Felix has yet to inform me and you’re not confessing.” She levelled him with a look that had made grown men grovel. “So, what is it, Pavus?”

This was the problem with Maevaris. She was efficient and it meant saying out loud the very things he had been avoiding. Felix gave practical advice, Mae gave practical solutions.

Dorian didn’t answer for a moment, finishing his chopping and handing her the board. Then he moved around her to wash his hands. After drying them, he poured more wine into his empty glass.

Dorian could not lie to her. He was not interested in playing anymore games. He told her of all she had missed as she continued cooking. He nursed his glass of wine much more slowly this time, letting each sip steady him. Mae didn’t look at him, only pausing at the parts that she needed to process or tilting her head in acknowledgement when Dorian felt the string of the story waver. He told her of his awkward first meeting with Cullen and their poorly-timed conflict in Haven and their weekend spent in his ugly truck and a too soft bed. He told her of him, his bashful manner, his quiet humour and of course, the physicality of him which made Mae make a face that said of course, of course he looks like that. He told her briefly of his friends like sisters and his friends he was hesitant to call friends at all and how they had stood at this very spot when Dorian had thought Cullen could no longer possibly call Dorian a friend too. Then Rilienus appeared and Cullen would disappear. By the time Dorian recounted the conversations, first with his ex-lover and then his strange new friend, Mae had put the lid on the pot of rice and retrieved her wine glass too. She merely looked at him as he finished lamely with, “I haven’t heard from him since.”

“Do you want to?” It reminded Dorian of what Felix had asked when Dorian had found himself sharing a bed with Cullen. Dorian could have easily avoided the situation if he had wanted to. He had a tendency to bring upon himself disaster.

“Well,” Dorian said, “he does have my motorcycle.”

Mae rolled her eyes. “Oh, so now it’s about the bike.”

“Were you even listening to me? It’s always been about the bike.”

“You lost me, my dear, when you described Cullen’s eyes for the third- or was it the fourth time? But I digress.” She picked up the wooden spoon and pointed it at him. “You are a fool. You practically kicked him out of your apartment and now you mourn his absence.”

Dorian pulled a face. This much he knew himself to be at fault for. He had, after all, had all week to think about it. “So, I acted dramatically.”

Mae rolled her eyes as she tested her own cooking. She added more salt and then said, plainly, “Dorian, you are not just a coward. You are also a hypocrite.”

This surprised more than hurt Dorian. “Now, you’ve lost me, Maevaris.”

“What else do you call a man who insisted to his lost love that actions speak louder than words for then, after handholding and stargazing and every possible secret shared in the sacred space of a bed- a bed, to hold his new beau’s silence against him.” You said you were not very good at asking for what you want. Has that changed? Mae looked at him disbelievingly. “For a man who never shuts up, you have made a terrible habit of never speaking up where it matters.”

“He’s not my new beau.” It was a pathetic little comeback. “He is not Rilienus-”

“He doesn’t need to be.”

“A month, Maevaris,” Dorian repeated irritably. “I am not a lovesick teenager. I simply would have enjoyed his company more intimately, that is all. In a bed.” He paused and added, “Fucking, in case that part wasn’t obvious.”

“Oh, come on, Dorian.” Mae laughed, a beautiful sound, even if it was at Dorian’s expense. “He was in a bed. Not yours but that has never stopped you before. You are no stranger to sex. It is relationships that have always sent you running to the hills.”

For lack of a better thing to say, Dorian grumbled, “There are not as many hills here. It is a miserably flat land.”

Mae ignored him. “All your understandably complicated feelings for our homeland aside, Rilienus’ engagement has meant you can no longer use the illusion of his return as a reason to avoid relationships because when he did return, you turned him away. And now, it is not Rilienus you talk to me about but your new mechanic friend who you had ample opportunity to fuck but instead, you held his hand and sang him to sleep. And when the smokescreen of Rilienus gone, you decided that, rather than dealing with your feelings like an adult, you would force Cullen away.”

“I wanted to be alone.” It sounded lousy, even to his own ears.

“You could have simply told him as much. But you were scared of a man who said he would not leave you, recognising what it is that you fundamentally fear, even in the earliest of days, and so you tried to scare him away in return.”

“Tried?” Dorian repeated. “What makes you think I haven’t succeeded?”

“Get your head out of your arse, Dorian.” She checked on the rice, exasperated. “The only man second to your stupidity is Cullen himself. You told him your daddy issues and he still avoided making the first move. He’s probably hitting his pasty little head against a car bonnet as we speak.”

“You don’t know him.” It was a weak argument. Dorian had not been on top form tonight.

Mae took pity on him. “No but I know you.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that.” He exhaled loudly. “So, where does that leave me? I dare say, I have not even a single leg to stand on.”

“You let a man sweep you off your feet. You should have expected as much,” Mae said and glared back at him. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. You are a drama queen, Dorian, often to your own detriment, one way or another. Even if this little mechanic of yours grows tired of your excessive vanity and endless prattling-”

“You say the kindest things, my dear Maevaris.”

“-it does not have to be some grand heartbreak.” She busied herself refilling her glass. “You said it yourself, you’ve only known the man a month. And even you must recognise that it would make little sense for your life to only be tragedy after tragedy. There must be something substantial in between all this misery, lest we grow numb to all the pain.”

“Yes, instead, I can only hope that my next romantic pursuit will be a heartfelt comedy instead,” Dorian said and if he had meant to sound mocking, it only came out genuinely hopeful.

“At your grown age?” Mae raised an eyebrow and her glass. “I want front row seats. I have not had a good laugh in so long.”

Dorian laughed now, a hoarse sound that suggested neither had he. Mae smiled, satisfied with it and the work she had done. “Now, if you could find me a single set of proper cutlery in this drawer of yours, I would be eternally grateful. From the state of it, I can only presume you’ve let yourself go, Dorian. Why else would one man need so many soup spoons?”

For the rest of the evening, they talked no more of Dorian’s beaus, old or new. Mae had done what she did best. She came, she changed the course of nature and she sat back to enjoy it. Dorian would not rob her of this victory, however small.

*

Age made them soft. They ate dinner and lit scented candles to finish a bottle of wine and talk about everything they had missed in a year. They washed up with the same rhythm with which they had cooked but quieter, the wine making them the sweet kind of sleepy, content to enjoy each other’s quiet company which was rare but lovely. Dorian washed the wine glasses too, having been reminded by Mae that he did not want to wake up a year older hungover. Dorian was tired enough that he agreed. The evening came to a natural close.

Dorian had walked Mae out to her taxi, placing her suitcase in the back himself and leaning down to let her kiss his cheek goodbye.

“Every year is an achievement,” she said to him. “You have a few hours left of being thirty-one, darling. Try to enjoy it, in peace, if not dignity.”

He leant back to fix her with a smile. “You expect too much of me.”

She patted his chest, retrieved her hat from the crook of his elbow, and got into the car, promising to let him know when she got back to her hotel. He waved her off then returned to his apartment. He relished the sight of it, still orderly from his manic clean at the end of the weekend but now accompanied with the gentle scent of jasmine and clean sheets. Mae made a difference but did not disturb.

He felt better than he had all week. Not good, not now that he was alone, but better.

Dorian, in an attempt to take Mae’s advice, began his age-old ritual of self-care. He washed his hair and filled a bath with an embarrassing amount of bubbles for an adult. He regretted not bringing a glass of wine up but carried the candles to the bathroom and then brushed his teeth for good measure. When he lowered himself into the bath, his joints clicked, as they did more and more every year. Aging was not glamourous but, based on his tiny, warped reflection of himself in the tap of his bath, he didn’t really consider it ugly either. Time was only natural. And if nothing else, Dorian prided himself in looking beautiful, even when he was feeling like shit.

He was thinking quite intensely about Vivienne’s comments on his facial hair when he saw his phone, balanced precariously on the edge of his bath, light up. He grabbed the nearest towel to dry his hands and by the time he reached for it, the screen had blackened. A message. Dorian pressed the power button to see Mae had reached her hotel room and wished him a good night.

He placed his phone back on the edge of the bath and leant back with a sigh, only for his phone to flash once more before his eyelids could close fully. He swore, sitting up with the intention of turning it off. He knew that it would not be Mae because it was very unlike her to double text and figured he was most likely receiving a ‘late’ birthday message from Bull who always got the days mixed up. Dorian was convinced that Bull had done it once or twice and then decided to make the joke every year, beating the horse to death. It was silly but it did make Dorian’s mouth curl upwards, against his better judgement.

He stopped smiling when he saw his most recent notification.

[Cullen Rutherford, 10:56] Your motorcycle is fixed.

Dorian almost dropped his phone in the bath.

Later, he would not be able to explain his thought process. Dorian, himself, was unsure whether there had even been any actual thinking involved. He had blown out the candles and rose from his relaxing bath with his shoulders to his ears. A quick rinse under the hot spray of his shower did little to help. He forwent his carefully laid out comfortable loungewear in favour of the nearest clean clothes he could get his hands on. He dried his hair out of necessity rather than vanity, almost forgot his jacket and staggered out of his apartment like it wasn’t his own. He would not admit – at least not for a while – that he had squinted out into the dark street in hope for a familiar glint of metal, a familiar face, only to find himself disappointed at its emptiness. He had entertained stupider thoughts than expecting his broken bike to be parked out front with a bow on top, tried and tested by the man who brought it back to life and brought it to him, accepting an apology Dorian had yet to say out loud. He was not deserving of this much, this he knew. And yet.

Dorian ordered his second taxi of the night.

When he got into the car, the driver said, “You sure you put in the right place? There’s no way it’ll be open at this time of night.”

Dorian hadn’t considered the possibility but, even with the taxi still parked outside his apartment block, it was too late for him to turn back. He nodded an affirmative and the driver gave him a dubious look but started driving. Dorian’s leg could not stay still.

When they arrived, they both peered out the window and Dorian smiled when he saw the sliver of light under the garage door. He stepped out of the car to find he could hear noises on the other side, a sign of life.

Dorian tipped the driver generously and then, as a drunken afterthought, said, “It’s my birthday in half an hour.”

The driver called out a happy birthday out the window as he drove off. Dorian didn’t watch him, focused instead on how the sound of machinery in the garage had stopped, as if hearing his arrival. The street was, otherwise, quiet. Cullen’s truck, now Dorian could recognise it, was parked nearby.

Dorian confirmed his presence by calling out, “Yes, it is I! Dorian Pavus! Could you open the garage door a sliver so I can roll under it? Fair warning, if I lie on the floor, I might not get up. I’m like a baby after a bath.”

There was a muffled, “Hang on!” and Dorian jumped, though it could have been with the chill in the air. He was sobering with every passing second and tapped his foot to keep moving, the late-night wind running cold fingers through his hair. He had expected the noise of the garage door opening, mechanic and searing, but instead, a regular door a little way beside it jerked open and Cullen gestured him in. “Christ, Dorian. Get in here.”

Dorian did not need to be told twice. He squeezed into the slim passageway, watching as Cullen closed the door behind him and locked it. There was very little light and a glance upwards showed a cord without a bulb. Dorian imagined that Cullen did not use this way often – or, at least, not in the dark. It was a tight space, to the point that there was no way for them to even breathe without brushing against each other. When Cullen turned, his nose could have easily bumped Dorian’s face. Dorian didn’t step back.

“Dorian,” Cullen said again. “What are you doing here?”

It was the million-dollar question. Dorian blinked in the darkness. “You have my bike,” he answered and it was a statement, not an answer.

When Cullen breathed out, Dorian could feel the heat of it. “Could it not wait until morning?”

This made Dorian bristle. “Oh, my apologies, do you sleep in the garage now?” Less petulantly, he pointed out, “You’re working late.”

“Not unheard of.” Cullen crossed his arms over his chest, defensive. Dorian could feel them against his front. He could have easily stepped back. He should have. He didn’t. If Dorian felt compelled to have their first conversation after several days of silence in the dark, Cullen did not do anything to stop him. “Shouldn’t you be out partying?”

“Partying?” Dorian repeated disbelievingly. He laughed, despite himself. “Cullen, my good man, I am turning thirty-two. I would not constitute my usual plan of sitting in Haven and drinking as many bottles as Cabot would be willing to sell me as partying.”

“Still. You’re drunk.” Cullen shifted, uncomfortable. Dorian didn’t need to see him. He could feel it.

And it made Dorian feel guilty. He reached out to touch Cullen’s arm. “A few glasses of wine with dinner, nothing more. Can we go into the light? You are not allowed to judge the state of me as I arrived here in quite the rush but I would like to see you. Please.”

Cullen did not answer in words, only took a step, bumping into Dorian, urging him to move back. If Dorian did so slowly, he blamed it on the drink and not on how he enjoyed the clumsy way their offbeat steps knocked their bodies together. Cullen was pressed against him when he opened another door.

Light illuminated them, only bright comparatively, but Cullen did not give Dorian the time to see him, moving into the garage. Dorian blinked, dazed, but followed, only stopping when he saw Cullen round his own motorcycle and lean back against the nearest work surface, wiping his hands on a small cloth that had been draped over the handlebars.

Dorian got a good look now. Not at the bike but at him. Cullen wore his coveralls which always suggested a long day at work. His sleeves were rolled up and his neck unbuttoned as if, at some point during the day, he had removed the top half to wrap around his waist as Dorian had seen him do before. Cullen was a creature of habit in his own ways. With the front unbuttoned so low, the white vest Cullen wore underneath was visible, thin and practical. The chained coin rested comfortably atop it, having slipped out at some point during the day. It glinted in the light. Cullen’s hands, where they were not hidden by the cloth, were grease-stained in a way Dorian had gotten used to not seeing. They fidgeted. His face was handsome and tired, more so than usual. Affected. It was hard for Dorian not to hope.

“No Lion?” Dorian asked. He wasn’t speaking for the sake of it, even though Cullen’s silence disarmed him. It was strange to be in the garage without the dog trotting up to greet him and sniff at his pockets, giving him something to do that wasn’t watch Cullen. He found, a tad pathetically, that he missed the lovable creature.

Though it may have had something to do with how, at least then, someone would have been happy to see him.

Cullen shook his head. “I knew I’d be working late.”

“To fix my bike?” Dorian asked and Cullen stared at him for a moment, as if confused by his question.

“I said I would have it fixed by your birthday,” Cullen said slowly, unsurely, as if Dorian had forgotten.

Dorian hadn’t but he nodded anyway. They had both been working through the week, then. He moved closer, eyeing the bike warily as if it were a living thing. “So, all done?”

Cullen nodded. He was looking at Dorian the same way.

Dorian supposed he deserved that. He set a careful hand on the motorcycle’s seat and snatched it back when he felt warmth. His voice was too high when he asked, “You rode it?”

“To test if it worked,” Cullen said, unable to conceal the incredulous tone, even as his face coloured.

“Without me?” Dorian said, holding a hand to his heart. “I’m hurt. On almost my birthday too. You could have at least let me watch.”

Dorian was still operating thoughtlessly, it seemed, because it was only when the words were out of his mouth that he registered that it was entirely the wrong thing to say. Cullen’s blush, though still high in his cheeks, did not deepen. He looked away and Dorian could see his jaw was set. The stubble there was darker than normal. Dorian wondered if Cullen had been forgetting to shave too.

Again, Dorian found he really missed Lion. He was not sure Cullen would appreciate Dorian licking his hand in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“I will say, it looks no different fixed than broken but I’ll take your word for it.” When Cullen still said nothing, Dorian tried to not let his irritation show. “So, what had been your grand plan? Summon here and then, what? Let me ride off into the night on it?”

“I didn’t summon you,” Cullen said, almost a grumble. “I wasn’t expecting you to come immediately. I didn’t think you would…”

Dorian watched Cullen’s mouth as the words trailed off. “I would what?”

Cullen’s eyes were bright. “Come. At all.”

Dorian forced himself not to have the kneejerk response of I always come and simply looked at Cullen. Having barely known Dorian at all, he had given himself a ridiculous deadline on a bike he was not even truly convinced was fixable and then, even after Dorian had sent the man away, Cullen continued to work on it until the last minute. He didn’t sleep well and had a tendency to overwork, Dorian knew as much, but this exhaustion was different. It was the kind of tired that sleep didn’t fix.

But it was not uncurable. The problem, Dorian had found, was that he was not sure he believed himself capable of healing. Perhaps himself but never others. He was far more used to making a mess than cleaning it up.

“I didn’t know if you would finish it,” Dorian said, instead.

“I gave my word.” As if it was as simple as that. This was why Dorian had turned him away. Dorian was not used to simplicity.

“Well, I suppose I am paying you. But should I tip you for your efforts?” Dorian said and he wasn’t trying to be deliberately hurtful. He didn’t know what else to say. “Do mechanics take tips?”

“I owed a favour,” Cullen said, clearing his throat. “To Bull.”

Weakly, like a child after the tantrum exhausted them, Dorian said, “It’s my bike.”

“Then, take it.” Something glinted in Cullen’s eyes. They both knew Dorian could not be taking the motorcycle anywhere. Dorian didn’t even know where he would take himself, slightly drunk and stubborn. He had demanded a plan of Cullen when he himself had moved like the undead. Now that Dorian was here, he didn’t know what to do. All the confidence that carried him though his everyday, mundane or otherwise, deflated like a pin in a balloon. He could not go through life like this, not when he had forgone the kind of existence where he had only needed to apologise for one thing.

Now, it was the only thing that mattered.

Dorian was thinking of taking something else entirely. Cullen was watching him, wringing the cloth in his hands, twisting and tightening. Distantly, Dorian remembered a small fact about Cullen. Knots. I was good at tying knots. I’ve always been good with my hands.

Dorian’s mouth ran dry. He cleared his throat. “You were meant to teach me how to ride.” He added, unnecessarily, “the bike.”

He wasn’t fooling either of them. Cullen put down the cloth and then walked over to where he stood at the motorcycle. Fixed or not, it posed a barrier between them. Cullen’s hands rested on it, close enough to touch Dorian’s but they didn’t.

“You told me to leave,” Cullen reminded him.

Like he could forget. “I know.”

There was a long, painful pause. Cullen spoke into the quiet. “I’m not like you, Dorian. I’m not interested in reading between the lines or trying to decipher what is a joke and what isn’t. I’m happy to be your friend.”

Dorian swallowed. “Are you?”

“Yes,” Cullen said firmly, “if that’s all you want.”

Dorian stared down at where his own hands rested, skin smooth and scrubbed clean whilst Cullen’s hands were stained and calloused. If Dorian spread even just his little finger, their hands would touch. It was almost unbearable, to be within touching distance and feel like oceans separated them. Almost. Dorian had lived this before but Rilienus had never felt further from him than when he was in his bed.

It was what frightened Dorian about closeness. He could not control the distance, not unless he was alone. And he was not sure he could bear it, to let another man be close and faraway all at once.

Yet what choice did he have? When Cullen said nothing, it was not silence but an offering. A hand outstretched. Dorian was a falling man; he could only take it.

And he wanted to. He looked at Cullen’s hands and the broadness of his shoulders and his frowning mouth but his patient eyes and Dorian wanted to take it all, even if it proved too much to bear. He had not lied in the only bed they shared; he had endured worse.

Dorian let the sides of their smallest fingers touch, just a little, and he said, “I owe you an apology.”

He could feel Cullen looking at him but Dorian focused on their hands and how Cullen did not move but his body relaxed, just a little. Though it made barely a difference, Cullen’s thumb was pressed against Dorian’s little finger. Cullen’s hands were cold, they always were, but the touch warmed Dorian.

He spoke on. “I acted unfairly towards you that night and I am not proud of it. I was feeling… vulnerable.”

“I wouldn’t have taken advantage of you,” Cullen said quietly.

Dorian looked up at him then. Even with the motorcycle between them, they were close. “That is precisely the problem,” he said. “I wish you had.”

They stared at each other. When Cullen swallowed, Dorian’s eyes followed the movement down his throat. Meeting the closed eyes of the coin seemed easier than those of the man the necklace belonged to. Dorian said, “I’m sorry.”

“For what part?”

“I don’t know.” Dorian’s voice was light and high, like glass breaking. He closed his eyes. “All of it, perhaps. I’ve been a terrible friend, if you could even call me that.”

He felt Cullen’s hands on him then, fingers at his wrists where his pulse jumped. “Dorian. That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Cullen’s hands moved up his arms gently. When Dorian opened his eyes, he was leaning in, leaning on the bike with hard hands. Where Cullen breathed out, Dorian breathed in and he still sounded breathless and desperate when he said, “Would a friend want you as I do?”

Something broke, then. Not anything physical, not the bike that Cullen had spent over a month fixing, and not even Dorian’s voice. But whatever foolish resolve they held in regard for each other shattered. Cullen bent his head and pressed his mouth to Dorian’s.

Dorian had imagined kissing Cullen, in desire and in longing, hard and gentle, but his imagination could only entertain one or the other. He could not have predicted that it would be both at once, all at once, Cullen’s mouth soft as his lips opened against Dorian’s and his hands hard as he used Dorian’s shirt to pull him closer. Dorian’s legs knocked into the motorcycle, jarring them both, and Cullen missed Dorian’s mouth to kiss his cheek, his jaw, swearing like Dorian had never heard before, even at the worst drivers on the road. When Cullen pulled him around the bike, Dorian fell into him, laughing, and when Cullen caught Dorian’s mouth again, he was smiling too, rueful and sweet.

And then Cullen kissed him again and again and Dorian couldn’t laugh, he could barely breathe, his hands struggling to find purchase, fisting into Cullen’s clothes and tangling in the chain around his neck. Dorian had imagined this too, the singular focus, the relentless intensity, but it was another thing entirely to live it, Cullen’s hand at the back of his neck and his thumb against Dorian’s jaw, holding him to every kiss. What had broken, it felt, was any resemblance of control Dorian thought he’d possessed, be it over Cullen or in himself. He hadn’t realised they were moving until his back hit a hard surface and something clattered to the floor.

At the sound, Cullen leant back and Dorian was embarrassed to find himself following like a creature parched with thirst. Cullen turned his head and Dorian opened his eyes at the resistance in time to watch Cullen bend down to scoop up the fallen object. He hooked the keys through a single finger and looked up at Dorian from where he sat in a squat, always a dangerous position made lethal when Cullen’s mouth was wet and his face was flushed. “These are yours.”

Dorian swallowed. No fantasy compared.

Dorian reached out to grasp what had interrupted them but Cullen caught his hand as he got to his feet again. The keys were trapped between their palms. Dorian was trapped against Cullen. He could feel just how acutely Cullen was affected by desire, even as Cullen lifted their hands to press his lips to Dorian’s knuckles. Warmth pooled low in Dorian’s stomach and light danced high within it. Hard and gentle.

“Is this part of my payment?” he asked mildly, as though his chest did not heave with the effort to speak at all.

“Dorian,” Cullen said, in the tone he always did to reprimand him, low and heavy.

Dorian pushed his tongue against the inside of his cheek as he grinned, pulling his hand away from Cullen’s to slide the keys firmly out of reach. “Oh, do say my name again. It sounds delightful in these circumstances.”

Cullen’s eyes were following the movement in his mouth. “Or I could kiss you again?”

“To shut me up?” Dorian said hopefully, already leaning in.

Cullen met his eyes then. “No. Because I want to kiss you.”

Dorian could only stare back, helpless in the face of Cullen’s honesty. Though the man was flushed, he was not embarrassed. His gaze was steady. His hands, at Dorian’s waist, held firm.

Dorian lifted his own to Cullen’s chest, thumb grazing the coin. It gave him the strength to ask, “Is it really that simple?”

“It could be,” Cullen said, just as softly. “If you want it to be.”

Dorian closed his eyes and Cullen pressed a kiss to his jaw, his cheek, the edge of his mouth, too gentle to be anything but maddening. Dorian turned his head to answer him and if Dorian had said yes, it was lost against Cullen’s lips.

But Dorian wouldn’t let Cullen kiss him softly. He opened his mouth and tasted Cullen, wet and sweet. He would no longer be pliant but demanding. One of his hands slid down Cullen’s front, catching at the buttons along the way. There were so many ways for Dorian to say yes, he sought for only the same from Cullen.

When Dorian’s palm pressed against his hardness, Cullen made a noise that was caught between a gasp and a groan. Between kisses, Dorian spoke, “Have you ever fucked in here before? Does car oil make a sufficient lubricant?”

“Christ, Dorian,” Cullen said and Dorian didn’t know if it was at his words or the squeeze of his hand. Cullen’s own covered it, stilling him. “I’m not going to fuck you here.”

Dorian pulled back, blinking. Cullen was smiling at him in that boyish way, awkward but earnest. “I don’t want to hurt your back. Or knees.”

Dorian felt lightheaded about it all, delirious with affection and tender like his mouth, kissed hard enough to hurt. When he could only stare at Cullen, the other man gently removed his hand and stepped back. Dorian said his name in a way he would be embarrassed to remember but Cullen remained firm, even as amusement favoured his smile to one side.

“You said ‘here,’” Dorian said finally, helplessly.

Cullen licked his lips. Dorian had to stop himself from leaning in again. “My place isn’t far.”

Dorian straightened from where he had stood with his elbows leaning heavily on the counter. Cullen could not take his eyes off him. Dorian watched his hands, always steady, now tremble, as if it took Cullen significant effort to not touch Dorian again. It was a fragile resemblance of control. It pleased Dorian to not be alone. His own breath shook with desire.

He sighed to mask it. “Fine.” He looked down to smooth out his shirt, only to realise that he had picked up a white one in his blind hurry earlier and he now paid the price. He fingered at the dark spots where Cullen had dragged his fingers and noted, almost mournfully, “You’ve stained my shirt.”

When he looked up, Cullen’s eyes said he could have done so much worse. When Dorian smiled, Cullen’s mouth said he planned to.

Cullen covered Dorian’s motorcycle with a sheet and they left the garage.

Chapter Text

Dorian had thought of himself out of practice with seductions as of late but not that much.

Cullen hadn’t lied when he said his place wasn’t far, his apartment block a short drive away which would pass in silence, radio so low it was only a hum. They didn’t speak, as though they were holding their breath. Dorian didn’t realise he was bouncing his leg up and down again until Cullen’s hand reached out to settle on his thigh. Dorian stared at it, wordlessly, and then at Cullen who didn’t take his eyes off the road. His hand was warm or maybe all of him was. When Dorian realised he didn’t have to avert his gaze, he could simply keep looking at Cullen if he desired it, he found himself unable to look anywhere else. Cullen didn’t stop him but every time they passed under a streetlamp, they brought to light the colour in Cullen’s cheeks. The journey was quiet and heated.

It was also unlike anything Dorian had ever experienced. Dorian had never been one to sit patient in the passenger seat with a man he knew was thinking of fucking him- or even a man who wasn’t. And even if there was little talking involved, it wasn’t as though Dorian wasn’t good at finding other ways to cause a disturbance, lips brushing against ears until his back was pushed against walls, cars, the floor. He was simply not very good at keeping quiet, be it in the sheets or out of them, and he had never wanted to, not even when it had come at a cost. Dorian liked to enjoy those in his company and have them enjoy his and he would hardly constitute it as a crime.

But sat beside Cullen, Dorian couldn’t speak. His tongue was heavy in his mouth and he could think of nothing else but how it had felt against Cullen’s. Cullen hadn’t kissed him to quieten him but they both didn’t say a word. Dorian was used to drunken stumbling into the nearest illusion of privacy, clumsy hands and a quick release. He had once made his bed in the kind of lovemaking that was sporadic, passionate but distant like the miles between them, even when Rilienus had pressed into him with not even a breath between them to spare.

Dorian was not prepared for whatever this was, slow and taut, like Cullen was pulling him in, from the garage into his ugly truck to his apartment block, up the stairs and outside his apartment. Dorian was bouncing on his heels by the time they arrived. The journey to Cullen’s home was short; it felt like an eternity.

And then Cullen, in the process of digging out his keys, said, “Hang on.”

Dorian blinked at him, though it was his ears he was sure had deceived him. When Cullen smiled apologetically and gestured for him to follow, Dorian did, his body moving out of its own accord, even as his feet dragged across the floor. It was a dangerous position to be in, at the will of another man before his head had even touched a pillow.

Cullen walked away but not far. Dorian came to stand behind him as he knocked on the door next to his own. Dorian distantly considered the possibility that this was it, the catch, that behind the door stood a secret family or some kind of sex room that tested even Dorian’s limits. He was, after all, not as young and willing as he had once been.

What was actually behind the door was far less sinister. A young man, clad in pyjamas, opened the door warily, squinting until he saw Cullen and straightened in an almost comical fashion. Before he could even speak, something bounded past him, big and dark and drooling at the mouth. Dorian barely kept his footing, steadied only by Cullen’s hand at his elbow as Lion jumped onto him, barking an arrangement of accusations and stories of what could have only been a lonely two weeks without Dorian. Between answering in the appropriate oohs and aahs and gently pushing the big dog’s head away to stop from being licked to death, Dorian couldn’t help but laugh. Lion was happy to see him.

“Easy, boy,” Cullen ordered, even as he smiled himself, hand running over Lion’s ears in a move that had Lion sitting back, panting but otherwise quietening. “I’m excited too but we don’t want to wake up everyone in the block.”

Dorian spared Cullen a sideways glance, unable to help himself when he said, “We don’t? Well, there go my plans for the night.”

From where Dorian stood, he could see Cullen’s ears were pink. Dorian considered, maddeningly, kissing them.

Cullen didn’t answer him, clearing his throat to address the young man at the door. “Sorry if I got you out of bed, Jim. I got… held up.”

Dorian raised his eyebrows. Cullen didn’t look at him. Jim did as most people did: suspiciously. But he was clearly eating out of Cullen’s palms because he just smiled shyly at Cullen and mumbled, “It’s okay. We were just watching TV actually.”

Dorian tried not to grin because he really did think it was sweet how Jim was obviously nervous and hopeful around Cullen. Cullen neither encouraged nor discouraged it, simply nodding in a way that left little room for further conversation. Dorian’s heart almost broke for the young man.

“Thanks again, Jim. I promise I won’t make a habit of it,” Cullen said, extending his hand to shake Jim’s. His expression was serious and sincere. It was amusing to watch it levelled at another man.

Jim shuffled, coy and embarrassed. “Don’t worry about it, Mr Rutherford. It’s no trouble at all.”

Dorian was smiling until Lion butted his leg and looked up at him with an expression that somehow said you look like that too. Dorian glared down at the dog because he could not protest out loud I do not!

Cullen said goodnight to Jim and Dorian said nothing until Cullen led them into his own apartment and locked the door behind him. Only then did Dorian say, “I don’t know if anyone has had the good graces to draw your attention to the matter but I do believe your neighbour is nurturing all manners of feeling for you, Mr Rutherford.”

“Don’t you start,” Cullen said, rolling his eyes. He removed his jacket to hang up and then took Dorian’s from him. Their fingers brushed. “He’s a good kid.”

“I did not suggest otherwise,” Dorian said, raising his palms. “He just looks utterly besotted. I’ve seen nothing like it.”

“No?” Cullen looked at him with a small smile. You look like that too.

Dorian had no way of defending himself. Lion circled his legs. Cullen didn’t expect an answer, kicking off his boots and calling Lion to follow him into the kitchen. Dorian had to shake himself before he could follow too.

Cullen’s apartment was not much smaller than his own. It was in darker tones than Dorian’s airy, minimalist space. If it was less cluttered than the repair shop, it was only because Cullen seemed to spend less time in it. What they had in common was the littering of paperwork across every surface and a surprising amount of books, weighing down a bookcase and then some, left in piles in the oddest of places. Most notably, Cullen’s fireplace was covered in framed photos which Dorian was not close enough to inspect but he could assume they featured Cullen’s family and maybe friends. Otherwise, it was the home of a man who was married to his work – and certainly not married in any other sense.

Dorian watched Cullen fill up Lion’s food bowl. When Cullen bent down and his coveralls tightened around his thighs as they always did, Dorian looked away before he remembered he didn’t need to and then he looked and looked.

Cullen got to his feet and wandered over to the sink to wash his hands until the water ran clear.

“Do you want a drink?” Cullen asked when he closed the tap. Dorian shook his head as he came to stand beside Cullen. Cullen’s lips turned upwards. “Neither do I.”

“Ah. Not thirsty?”

Cullen shook his head with a quiet laugh, drying his hands. “You’re not getting me to answer that.”

“No?” Dorian said just as Cullen had. Cullen leant back on the counter, holding it with a hand on either side of him. Dorian moved to stand in front of him. When Cullen tilted his head to meet Dorian’s eyes, there was something in them caught between desire and delight, as if there was some simple joy in seeing Dorian stood in his kitchen. Dorian considered covering Cullen’s hands with his own and blowing him there and then. Maybe Cullen would let him.

But then Cullen spared a glance towards Lion who was devouring his meal too loudly to ignore and gave Dorian a self-conscious smile. “I think if you don’t want to spend the night entertaining an energetic and stubborn dog, we better get a move on.”

Dorian tsked. “Now, Cullen, that’s no way to talk about yourself.”

“Ha, ha.” Cullen rolled his eyes but straightened to full height. When Cullen reached for him, Dorian had expected to be pulled in for a kiss, suitably ravaged, but he was being pushed oh-so gently out of the kitchen. “Nothing to say on my living quarters? I was sure you’d have some strong words on at least the colour scheme.”

“So you’ve thought about it?” Dorian said as he allowed himself to be backed through the living room, Cullen’s fingers brushing his forearms with the lightest touches, down to his fingertips. “Why, Cullen, I had no idea you cared.”

A wry smile. “I thought we established that was the problem.”

They moved like they had in the dark of the garage only now Dorian could see Cullen clearly and he had sobered and they didn’t bump into each other but danced, Cullen’s hands holding Dorian’s. It was not perfect as these things rarely were. There were obstacles of life. Dorian’s thigh caught on the edge of the sofa and he cursed.

“I have some thoughts on your furniture,” Dorian said.

Cullen was trying not to smile as he rubbed a healing hand over the hurt. “Really?”

“Yes. Get rid of it.”

Cullen laughed and Dorian glared until Cullen’s arm curled around his waist, pulling him closer, and Dorian’s hands found purchase on Cullen’s shoulders. They moved slower now, swaying through the hallway. Dorian’s hand cupped the back of Cullen’s neck and Cullen’s eyes closed at the touch like something sacred. When Dorian’s back met a door, it fell away until Dorian was falling too, forever and for no time at all. He landed on a bed.

Cullen stood at the end of it, between Dorian’s legs, looking down at him. The light from the hallway came through the open door, illuminating the right side of Cullen’s face and casting shadows on the left. Dorian realised, suddenly, that Cullen’s smile favoured the side of his mouth where the scar cut through.

“Even the bed?” Cullen asked.

Dorian leant up from his elbows and Cullen bent down and they kissed for the first time since leaving the garage, Dorian’s fingers curled into Cullen’s collar. Dorian had intended to meet Cullen with the force of the desire that thrummed through him but found himself shaking, only able to open his mouth against Cullen’s. Cullen held his face and kissed him slow and deep, the kind of kiss that was a promise. It was the kind of kiss that Dorian had risked his life for.

When Cullen stopped to breathe, forehead against Dorian’s, Dorian didn’t want to open his eyes. But then Cullen reached out to flick on the lamp at his bedside table and whatever ghosts lurked in the dark went up in smoke. Dorian exhaled but the fire in him did not go out. He felt hot all over.

Cullen moved back to close the door. Dorian could feel and not feel his mouth all at once. It felt strange to speak, like it was not his voice at all. “Not a fan of fucking in the dark?”

“Are you?” Cullen watched Dorian slide back on the bed, reclining to lean on his arms with the illusion of casualness.

Dorian looked around the room. Much like the rest of his apartment, it was lived-in, worn like the blanket on his bed, but quiet. Cullen cut a lonely figure but he did not, Dorian was finding, like being alone. He looked at Dorian now with heavy eyes, breathing through his mouth.

This much Dorian excelled at. He knew how to be marvelled at. He shrugged. “It can have its uses, what with the heightening of other senses. But it has never suited me.”

Cullen moved closer, not stopping at the end of the bed but stationing himself atop it, a knee on either side of Dorian’s hips. He didn’t touch Dorian, bracing his own weight with a flat palm by Dorian’s head. Somewhere between leaving the garage and entering his bedroom, Cullen had tucked the coin back under his vest. He waited for Dorian to speak on.

Dorian looked up at him with a smirk. “I deserve to be witnessed in all my glory.”

“Of course.” Cullen laughed with his eyes, softly. His gaze flickered across his face, as if it had only occurred to Cullen now that he too had permission to look. And he did, with such a softness that Dorian wanted to squirm. He had expected hunger, not this, not desire that made Dorian’s mouth dry. He had imagined being with Cullen as something giving but he had not considered how it might ache, even when Cullen had yet to touch him more than moving some wayward strands of hair from his forehead (especially when.) Cullen’s hands were never good at keeping still. Dorian wanted to reach out to make Cullen touch him, proper and true, but he could not look away himself. Cullen said, “I will endeavour to do my best, then,” like it was a vow.

Dorian thought of the secret lovers he had kept and the lovers that had kept him a secret. He thought of being too drunk to put a light on, to face his choices. He thought of closing his eyes, he thought of covering them, he thought of his face being pressed into a mattress. He thought of his eyes rolling to the back of his head, eyelashes fluttering and a hand in his hair. Dorian’s wants hadn’t always mattered. He had been with men who looked but Dorian had never been seen.

“I expect nothing less,” Dorian said but something caught in his throat. When he swallowed, Cullen’s fingertips felt it.

Then, Cullen shifted and their hips met, like a piece falling into place. They both breathed out, heavy. Dorian willed himself not to move, grab, arch up. He bit his lip and Cullen watched, transfixed, as he rolled his hips again and then again. He was teasing, he had to be, only he could not take his eyes off Dorian, almost calculative in his assessment.

Dorian could not stand it, the slow roll of Cullen’s hips against his own or the way Cullen looked because Dorian was seeing too.

His head rolled back, his eyes closed and Cullen’s mouth found his again. Dorian raised his hands to Cullen’s thighs and then his waist, knotting at the fabric there, wanting there to be skin. They kissed harder, as hard as they already were. Dorian could feel Cullen and Cullen could feel him between what little separated them. It was already too much.

“Off,” he said against Cullen’s mouth and Cullen hummed like a question. Dorian tugged at the material of Cullen’s coveralls to illustrate his meaning. “Off.”

Cullen didn’t stop kissing him and it didn’t matter if he was teasing or misunderstanding because Dorian had always been, beyond rhyme or reason, able to undress a man against all odds. Between their bodies, he unbuttoned Cullen’s coveralls further until he could push the top off Cullen’s shoulders, gripping the skin there for leverage, for some resemblance of control. Cullen would not give it easily, his own hands making impatient work out of Dorian’s shirt. When Dorian bucked up against him experimentally, Cullen sat back on his heels, thighs pinning Dorian down. Now Dorian could see how Cullen was flushed down to his shoulders but his expression was stern and hot.

“Are you going to tell me to behave?” Dorian asked. He may as well have grinded up against Cullen again. It had the same effect.

A memory crackled in the air between them. Cullen did not smile, pensive. Curious. “Would you like me to?”

“Ah.” Dorian was caught off guard by the seriousness of Cullen’s question. He propped himself up on his elbows again to look back at Cullen. “Is this you enquiring about my interests in the sack?”

“It’s always good to ask,” Cullen said simply. He shrugged out of the sleeves of his coveralls and exercised his shoulders. Dorian watched the roll of movement with envy. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Dorian licked his lips. Cullen’s vest was fitted and thin. “You didn’t answer mine.”

Cullen leant in to continue unbuttoning Dorian’s shirt, untucking it from his trousers. His smile was small and knowing. “I didn’t think you were one to take orders.”

“I can be convinced.”

There was a pause. Cullen’s hands were at his stomach, thumbing the hair there. “And if I don’t want you to behave?”

Dorian pressed a hand against Cullen’s shoulder, pushing him back and off only to follow, rising to his knees. He tilted his head, leaning in to murmur into Cullen’s mouth, “Then give me some rules to break.”

Cullen kissed him with a fierceness unlike before and Dorian opened his mouth to him, his tongue, his touch. He had Dorian’s name on his lips and he pressed it onto Dorian’s own, again and again. It was disbelieving and it was wanting. Dorian’s shirt fell from his shoulders and then off onto the bed and Cullen’s hands smoothed over the bare skin it left in its wake. When Cullen’s thumb brushed over a nipple, Dorian must have done something, made some sort of terrible breathless little noise against Cullen’s mouth, because Cullen rolled it between his thumb and forefinger as if in thought and then tugged. Dorian’s head rolled back but Cullen did not stop kissing him, unforgiving, forging ahead, pressing kisses down Dorian’s neck, his collarbones, lower. Dorian had to make a considerable effort to remember why he had got to his knees at all. When Cullen tongued his nipple, Dorian’s hands found the hair at the back of Cullen’s head and pulled too.

Cullen lifted his head in answer and they both reached for Dorian’s belt. Stupidly, it made Dorian smile. He pushed Cullen’s shoulder again. “As much as I enjoy a man in uniform, off with it.”

Cullen smiled a little self-consciously, as if realising the silliness to be one of two men wrestling with the simple task of removing a belt. He stepped off the bed to pull off the rest of the coveralls then watched as Dorian took off his own belt. Dorian watched him back, on his knees on the bed, fingering the button of his trousers teasingly. He popped it open and Cullen’s hands flexed.

Forfeiting control did not come easy to Cullen. He was a hands-on man.

Dorian nodded towards him. “And the vest.”

“Are you giving orders now?” Cullen raised his eyebrows, even as he peeled it off and tossed it aside immediately. He fixed the tangled chain around his neck, though Dorian imagined it was more to distract from the vulnerability of his nakedness. Dorian watched his deft fingers work.

“Now, I didn’t think that was something you would be interested in,” Dorian answered absently. The shape of Cullen stretched the material of his boxers. Dorian’s cock strained against his own.

“I can be convinced,” Cullen said mildly when it was anything but. He shrugged his shoulders, drawing Dorian’s eyes to the broadness of them and his mind to getting his hands on them or his legs over them. He looked at Dorian like he could hear his thoughts.

“I’m good at convincing.”

The side of Cullen’s mouth tilted upwards. “And what’s your first command?”

The possibilities were endless and not at all. Dorian felt overwhelmed as he often did with Cullen, be it with fondness or with desire. Now it was a mixture of both, to be asked what he wanted of Cullen as if the answer was not so obviously everything. Cullen’s smile said he humoured Dorian and his eyes said he would give him all he wanted.

Dorian had never wanted more.

“Well, that’s simple,” Dorian said and for the first time in his life, it really was. “I want you to fuck me.”

Cullen didn’t hesitate, not now. He reached out, hand over Dorian’s heart, and pushed him back towards the head of the bed, kissing him in short, hard bursts. Dorian’s head met a pillow and Cullen kneeled beside him then, brushing Dorian’s own hands away, to unzip Dorian’s trousers and pull them down without performance, without flourish. Cullen had a singular focus. He tossed them to the floor.

He paused, as Dorian had, when he saw Dorian’s erection pushing against his boxers. Dorian trailed a hand down his torso to tease at the waistband. When he saw Cullen follow the movement with an unashamed intensity, only then did Dorian reach under the band, down to grasp himself lazily, eyelashes fluttering. It was his own hand but with Cullen’s honey-coloured eyes pinning him to the bed, it could have been Cullen’s.

Dorian made a soft sound and it snapped Cullen out of his trance, reaching again to pull Dorian’s boxers down and to the side of the bed where the rest of Dorian’s clothes had fallen. Through it all, Dorian did not still the hand on his dick. He moved it at an achingly slow pace and watched as Cullen encouraged Dorian’s knees up with gentle hands so he could settle between them.

And then Cullen just looked at Dorian, only it wasn’t just. There was something religious in his gaze. Cullen drank him in, Dorian’s hair mussed and his mouth swollen and his hardened nipples and his hand around his own cock, pumping sinfully slow, torturing them both. When Cullen reached out to replace Dorian’s hand with his own, he watched Dorian’s face with a fervent focus like he could not get his fill of him, eyes flickering from Dorian’s mouth opening at the rough, warm touch of Cullen’s hand to Dorian’s shoulders as they dug back into the bed when Cullen’s fingers tightened and his wrist relaxed, jerking him off faster. The coin that hung from the chain around Cullen’s neck swung with the motions.

When Dorian could not bear Cullen’s eyes nor Cullen’s hands any longer, his own closed, cheek pressing into the pillow under him. Cullen did not allow it. His other hand cradled Dorian’s jaw, gentle but firm, tilting Dorian’s chin to face him once more.

“Look at me, Dorian,” Cullen said, low and rough and the sound made Dorian’s toes curl. Cullen eased his hand, feeling Dorian’s closeness from the slick at the tip of his cock and the sweat that curled strands of dark hair to Dorian’s forehead. When Dorian opened his eyes, Cullen smiled, rewarding him. “How do you want it?”

The question was earnest. Dorian could not think. He was overwhelmed once more, at the agonising pace with which Cullen touched him still whilst asking him so sweetly how he wanted to be fucked. Dorian feared if he opened his mouth, all that would come out was a sob or a beg or even, after all this time, a prayer. Heaven and hell were two sides of the same coin. It glinted on Cullen’s chest.

But Cullen would not move if Dorian did not answer him, one way or another. Dorian dug in his heels, stubborn, and caught the chain around Cullen’s neck between his fingers. He tugged Cullen down for a kiss that was wet and desperate and loud because when Dorian opened his mouth, he did make a noise. Cullen swallowed it like a starved man. It was Holy Communion, again and again.

Cullen pressed into him, releasing him without release to drag a hand over his bedside table blindly. Things fell to the floor. Dorian’s teeth caught Cullen’s lip. A drawer opened. Dorian pressed his mouth to Cullen’s scar, tonguing the indent. Cullen’s hands were between them again. And then a cool, careful touch, teasing. Cullen leant back to look at Dorian as if asking for permission. Dorian's legs spread in answer. They didn’t need words, not here.

Cullen fingered him open slowly, gently at first. He watched Dorian as if waiting for a retreat but Dorian only surrendered to one, two, three fingers. He relaxed like he had, all his life until this very moment, been tensed. It was quiet except for the sound of their breathing, hot, and the sound of Dorian opening up around Cullen’s fingers, wet. Cullen kissed the sweat from Dorian’s forehead. When he curled his fingers, Dorian almost tore the chain from Cullen’s neck. His cock lay between them, untouched outside of the friction of their shifting bodies, and Dorian felt himself cross a threshold into the non-sensical, speaking Cullen’s name and then not speaking at all. He made the kind of confessions that could not be spoken out loud again, not outside of the holy space of the bed. What he said was secret, reserved to the moment where Cullen leant back and simply watched Dorian writhe as Cullen’s fingers fucked into him relentlessly. Dorian’s eyes prickled with tears. Fuck me, he may have said. They did not need words but they spilled out of Dorian like a cup filled to the brim. Please, your cock, inside, fuck me, I want, Cullen, Cullen, Cullen.

Cullen pulled his hand back, kissing his mouth and then down, on the side of his knee. Dorian raised his head, just barely, to see Cullen stand to take off his boxers, revealing a hardness that was (unsurprisingly) impressively sized, thick and the same pink that coloured Cullen’s cheeks. Dorian watched as Cullen rooted around his bedside drawer once more to find a condom that he tossed without ceremony onto the sheets. He sat with a knee on the bed, his other foot on the floor, as he jerked himself back to fullness, looking at Dorian laid open not to tempt Dorian but himself. Cullen was not interested in putting on a show but Dorian spectated breathlessly anyway, marvelling at the simple act of Cullen fucking into his own fist. A curl fell onto Cullen’s forehead. His muscles glinted with a sheen of sweat, like a well-oiled machine. It enthralled Dorian, a strange thrill of an intimacy unlike any other to be watched and to watch in a moment so human, so practical, all while knowing what every god did. There was no sacrifice Dorian would not make for this. It was worth every cost.

Cullen touched the soft skin inside Dorian’s thighs. “On your knees.”

For once, Dorian did not need to be told twice. He rolled over, legs already trembling as he rose to this familiar position of worship. Cullen’s hand at his side steadied him and it wasn’t just his legs. Dorian shook everywhere, every muscle tightening once more in anticipation.

But where Dorian expected a welcome intrusion, there was absence. Then Cullen’s arm curled around him, his palm flat against Dorian’s chest to push Dorian back flush against Cullen’s front. Dorian could feel Cullen’s cock pressing against him, taunting him. Cullen’s hand moved upwards to grasp Dorian’s chin, turning him for the kind of kiss that was disjointed but they did not care, mouths locking in a desperate need to devour, to be devoured. Dorian could feel the sharp coolness of the coin where it was trapped between his shoulder blades.

Cullen wrapped a hand around Dorian’s cock to work him again, as he had himself. Dorian rolled his head back, against Cullen’s shoulder. Cullen kissed his temple, so soft, as he brought Dorian closer to an edge only to hold him back, gripping the base of his length, stopping there. Dorian tried to push his hips up, fuck into Cullen’s hand, but Cullen let go. He pressed a gentle hand to Dorian’s spine to push him down and Dorian fell again. He balanced on his forearms and ducked his head when he felt Cullen press a kiss at the centre of his spine.

Then Cullen put his hands at Dorian’s hips and positioned them both, Dorian at his will, and just before, there was silence. Then Cullen pressed into him slowly. Dorian lifted his head, arching as Cullen filled him, tight and overwhelming. It was all too much and not enough. And then Cullen started moving and Dorian could think no more.

Cullen started at a steady, forgiving rhythm, seeing what made Dorian grip the pillows under him, what made his hips snap back in return and what made Dorian still. One hand remained at Dorian’s hip and the other held Dorian by his shoulder, thumb pressing there and it would leave a mark, Cullen’s grip firm and Dorian oh-so pliant to him. Steady then unforgiving, hips rocking back and forth at a pace that had Dorian biting his tongue, his teeth, the pillow, desperate to move his own hand in tandem and yet unable to lift it from where it gripped Cullen’s headboard hard enough to hurt.

And just when Dorian thought the hand at his shoulder would lower, wrap around him for the final time for blessed release, Cullen was pulling out, turning him over, pushing him down, capturing his mouth and thighs to fill him up again. The beat of Cullen’s skin meeting Dorian’s own played a tempo that heightened, rising like Dorian’s voice, speaking into the pillow a chorus of nothings and everythings. Every sound that escaped Cullen was soft, deep in his throat and his chest. There was God on their lips, there were each other’s names. They were in harmony.

It had been so long since Dorian had felt like this, fucked like this and yet it was like he had been untouched until now, until Cullen took Dorian’s cock into his hand, conducting an orchestra with every stroke. Fucking him into the bed, Cullen watched Dorian tremble and break under him, like waves at a shore. When Dorian came, he was silent, drowning. It was a quiet unlike any other. Cullen finished, breathing into his mouth a kiss of life even as they died a small death. Cullen fell too and they laid there, sweat soaking their skin and making them taste salt.

After a few moments, Cullen raised his head, looking at Dorian curiously. Dorian raised an eyebrow in question, ignoring how it was most likely the only thing he would be able to raise for a while.

Cullen said, “I’ve never heard you be so quiet.”

Dorian huffed a laugh. “I was quiet?”

This made Cullen shy for some bizarre reason. “I meant now. Not when- not-”

“Not when you were fucking the living daylights out of me, you mean. God, Cullen.” Dorian looked at him in disbelief. “I have never met a man like you.”

“Thank you,” Cullen said slowly. “Unless it’s not a good thing then I’m sorry.”

Dorian didn’t reply, closing his eyes to hide the fondness there. He played with the hair at the nape of Cullen’s neck as Cullen cuddled into him, heavy and warm. It was too hot and Dorian’s legs ached to relax but it was not unwelcome and Dorian was disappointed when Cullen eventually pulled away to stand. Dorian attempted to fix the pillow under him so he could more comfortably watch Cullen pull off the condom with a wince and bin it. This was intimate too, watching Cullen wipe at himself gingerly. Dorian didn’t realise he was smiling until Cullen smiled back, lopsided and sweet. It was almost enough to make Dorian’s eyes roll to the back of his head again.

“Do you need anything?” Cullen asked him.

Dorian considered. “Another pillow wouldn’t go amiss.”

“I have more than one.” Cullen even sounded defensive, pulling the sheets from under Dorian.

Dorian lifted himself to allow it. “More than one, he says. You have two.”

“Two is more than one.” Cullen threw the blanket in the general direction of Dorian and Dorian swatted it away to glare at the other man until Cullen gestured him away. “Move over.”

Dorian rolled to the right side and Cullen joined him in the bed. There was no hesitation now. He let their bodies slot together, one arm hooking under the pillow below Dorian and the other pulling Dorian close to kiss him. It still took Dorian’s breath away like it was the first time.

When Cullen leant back, he waited until Dorian’s eyes fluttered opened and then said, “Happy birthday, Dorian.”

Dorian had, in all the excitement, forgotten. “Thank you,” he said, sincerely. He remembered Mae’s words. “I have crossed the threshold with less dignity, believe it or not.”

“Was this so undignified?” Cullen could have been joking. He was not. Dorian had learnt as much in the language they had made for themselves.

“It was…” A lot of things. All of them. Tremendous and terrifying. The atom and the universe. It was sex, the most natural thing in the world, and a conversation about semantics and specifics which was often everything but. Dorian answered carefully. “It was some of the best sex I have ever had.”

Cullen had the audacity to look embarrassed and pleased. Any other time, Dorian would have commented on it, the contradictory shyness of the man. For now, he was too focused on his next words. “There was a time when I had thought that fucking you would be enough.”

He had not realised he was frowning until Cullen’s thumb brushed at the corners of his mouth. He had done this before, in a strange bed, in strange circumstances. The way Cullen stared at him, so close, so warm, made Dorian wonder how he could have ever doubted Cullen’s feelings – or his own.

“And now?” Cullen prompted gently.

Dorian breathed out another laugh. “Now, I worry I may not be enough.”

“But you’re willing to try?” Cullen traced Dorian's smile with a touch that was hopeful.

No one had ever looked at Dorian in hope.

“Yes,” Dorian said and it was not simple but one day, it would be. “Even a man as scholarly as I am can not know everything but I am willing to try and to learn.”

Cullen kissed him, gentle but brave. The night would pass like this, talking as they always did, as if there would always be something new to learn about each other. The kissing was new. The fucking was new. Cullen found Dorian a spare toothbrush and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water and checked in on Lion. When Dorian had, for some undecipherable reason, padded across the carpet of the hallway to check in on the dog himself, Lion had lifted a sleepy head at the sight of Dorian but did not stir otherwise. He looked at Dorian, wearing one of Cullen’s shirts, as if Dorian had always been a part of his small world with a blanketed home and a cluttered garage and a man who had enough kisses goodnight to spare. When Dorian returned to Cullen’s bed for the final time on this night, he crawled under the sheets and swore when Cullen’s feet were cold and Cullen laughed warmly.

It was not perfect but these things rarely were.

Dorian would find himself waking in the middle of the night, fearing an earthquake but coming to nothing more than a shaking bed and a whining dog at the door, as if Lion could hear Cullen struggling against demons bigger than all of them. Dorian woke Cullen, bracing for something unspeakable but Cullen had opened his eyes with relief. Dorian let Lion into the bedroom, unsure if it was the right thing to do until the dog laid at their feet, warming them, and Cullen relaxed in Dorian’s arms, breathing heavily but breathing all the same. They all had ghosts.

It was not perfect but it was enough.

Chapter Text

This time, when Dorian woke in the same bed as Cullen, it was because Cullen had woken first. And this time, when Dorian felt the press of Cullen’s body against the back of him, he smiled.

As if feeling the first hint of conscious movement, Cullen kissed the back of his neck and his stubble tickled. He continued to press kiss after kiss on the bare skin under him, moving towards Dorian’s shoulder, lazy and sweet. Dorian let him, feeling the journey Cullen made from one point to another, the tip of his nose cold where it brushed against the hot skin of Dorian’s back but his breath warm. Distantly, eyes still closed, Dorian realised that Cullen was kissing from mole to mole.

Something pleasant made itself home deep in the pit of Dorian’s stomach but he could not fool himself into thinking it was new, even though it was foreign. It had bloomed long before this moment, stemming from lingering eyes and rooted stubbornly in excuses, a bike now covered in overgrown greenery, layered back and forth with conversation until you could barely see the glint of the handlebars, until nature had ran its course and left in Dorian a quiet refuge where butterflies were birthed. Dorian felt safe, safer than he had ever been, and yet he had never felt so vulnerable, Cullen’s arm wrapped around his waist and his thumb ran along the hair at his navel. It was intimacy, terrifying and exhilarating and patient and content. Even with his eyes closed, Dorian felt dizzy from it. It prickled behind his eyelids. He had said there was a time when I had thought that fucking you would be enough. He thought of Cullen asking and now?

Cullen nuzzled the back of his head. Dorian stretched a little, like a cat, and Cullen used the movement to retract his arm gently from under Dorian’s pillow. When Dorian turned to face him, Cullen was propped up on his elbow, his jaw on his fist, watching Dorian wake up with the kind of soft fascination that made the butterflies in Dorian’s stomach rise to his chest. Cullen looked tired, as one might having battled demons through the night, but no more or no less than he usually did and his eyes were clear. The morning made his face naturally flushed and tousled his hair. Dorian wanted to pat a wayward curl down and then realised he simply could. When he reached out, Cullen closed his eyes briefly, leaning into Dorian’s touch. Soothed. The power of it could have driven Dorian mad. It felt like it already had.

When Cullen put his hand over Dorian’s where it held Cullen’s face and leant in, Dorian was surprised to find the kiss firm but gentle, merely a meeting of two mouths. He was not sure he could have explained why he was surprised except his body was sore, pleasantly so, from their night together prior. He had not expected to be cradled the morning after. He had not really thought this far ahead.

“Good morning,” Cullen said and his voice was rough with sleep.

“Morning. Glad to see you’re still here.” It was meant to be a joke but Cullen raised his eyebrows and Dorian realised it sounded a little pathetic. He winced.

The morning made Cullen merciful but only a little. “I live here, Dorian.”

“So you do.” Dorian looked around them, blinking at the room now soaked in daylight. The door was slightly ajar which meant Cullen must have gotten up earlier to let Lion out, perhaps to feed him or to take him out to relieve himself. “Though that has not stopped anyone before.”

Now, he really did sound very sad. Cullen turned his head to press a kiss to Dorian's palm and then pulled a sympathetic face. “I might need to leave for eggs. How do you like them in the morning?”

“Bed and breakfast? My, you’ll put a certain haunted house out of business.”

“If that’s my only competition, I think I’ll be fine.” Cullen pecked Dorian's cheekbone, the mole there, and then rose to sit, stretching. Dorian watched the exercising of his shoulders and the sheets fall around his waist greedily. There were lines indented into the skin of his back where he had laid on the sheets at an odd angle for too long. Dorian brought himself to his elbows and traced the closest one, at the base of Cullen’s spine, with the tip of his finger. Cullen shivered, just slightly. It could have been the cold. Dorian knew it was not.

“Dare I say, there is no competition at all.”

Cullen glanced down at him over his shoulder. “I suppose this is more about Flemeth's interior design choices than my quality of service?”

Dorian grinned. “I thought I left a more than favourable review last night. Do you think poor Jim heard it? Oh, no need to look so embarrassed. I’m sure he’s always been curious.”

Cullen shook his head, even as the question brought more colour to his cheeks. A thought occurred to Dorian. He raised an eyebrow. “Though you were well-prepared last night. I can’t have been the first person – man, woman or otherwise – Jim has stared daggers at.”

“He was not- would you have preferred had I been ill-prepared?”

“I’ve seen the back of your truck,” Dorian pointed out, “and that is not a euphemism. I don’t believe it’s possible for you to be unprepared for even the end of the world. I was merely making an observation.”

“Again, you could just ask a straight-forward question, Dorian,” Cullen said but he didn’t sound frustrated by Dorian’s habit of talking in riddles. He laid back down, now on his front, balanced on his arms. “I have had… partners. I am not some unflowered maiden, even if Cassandra’s fussing would have you believe otherwise.”

“You must have been at one point,” Dorian said cheerily. “Though I’m sure Garrett Hawke had put an end to that.”

Cullen groaned and turned his head away as Dorian laughed. It was Dorian’s turn to press up against him, to let his mouth linger at the space between Cullen’s neck and shoulder. “You have to forgive me. I just wish to make sure Jim is my only competition.”

Cullen turned to look at him again and they were so close that only a tilt of the head would bump their noses. Dorian smiled, a touch ruefully. “Should you have a former lover turning up on your doorstep with a wedding invite and a proposition, I would like to be forewarned. Rather hypocritical of me, isn’t it?”

Cullen’s hand found his own under the covers. When he laced them together, Dorian wondered how the first people to walk the world had discovered handholding. Had it been by accident or by design? Had it made the first lovers feel like they could do anything or had it been like dangling from the edge of the earth with only your trust in the grip of another holding you from the abyss? If Dorian could go back in time, he had so many questions he would ask.

But in the present, he let Cullen squeeze his fingers as he said, “I can’t say I expect anyone to come knocking but I gathered neither had you.”

“I think I spoke him into existence, as if by magic.”

“I appreciated what you told me. All of it.”

“I would have bad news for you if you didn’t like the sound of my voice,” Dorian said lightly, letting the conversation take other turns. The ghosts were too human to exorcise away. For now. “I am rather hard to quieten down.”

Cullen smirked. “I know that much.”

“I suppose I walked into that one.” Dorian rolled his eyes but when Cullen rolled onto his side to kiss him, Dorian gave himself willingly, to the kiss, into Cullen’s arms. It was the kind of kiss that was learning, a process, as all kisses were first thing in the morning and last thing at night. They were vulnerable and communicative. With these open mouths, nothing was said and yet everything was.

Cullen kissed him until he was breathless and then some, until Dorian made a noise against Cullen’s mouth that was neither a protest nor a moan but something that transcended language. As Cullen leant back, the note stretched the distance between Cullen’s mouth and Dorian’s own. Dorian followed it with an eagerness that felt embarrassing in broad daylight but Cullen only smiled.

“What?” Dorian asked, almost self-conscious.

“I just like hearing you,” Cullen answered, serious and sincere.

He did not demand a response, at least not in words. Dorian kissed him instead and they could have spent the morning like this, speaking and listening in the daylight as they had seen and been seen into the hours of dusk.

But they were interrupted by Lion who, having heard them waking, bounded into the room once more and climbed onto the bed, separating them like a chaperone at a high school dance. They both laughed, leaning back to let Lion curl up between them. If a dog could look smug, Lion would be it, panting happily as Cullen’s arms wrapped around him instead. Dorian made a disapproving noise but then Cullen pressed a kiss on top of Lion’s head and leant there to look at Dorian, quiet now but the laughter remained in the warmth of his eyes, in the corner of them, folding in decades of joy and pain. Would time be kinder to him, to them both?

It was a sight so tender, it felt like a bruise. After all, hurt was only a part of healing.

Dorian would not leave for some time but Cullen did have to go to get eggs. He came back to feed Lion and Dorian both. After eating, Lion was indulged with some playtime whilst Cullen insisted on washing up. Dorian found himself winded in their games which were a mixture of tug of war with anything Lion could get his mouth around and something akin to wrestling which often had Dorian simply admitting defeat and letting the dog lay on him. Cullen had better stamina for the ordeal, joining them on the living room floor when he was done with his chores and seeming to never grow bored of Lion’s sloppy affections. Dorian found himself watching them with an expression that would have been a death sentence back home. Here, Cullen just smiled back.

It didn’t tire them out entirely, however. They allowed the time for the food to settle in their stomach and then Cullen suggested a shower. Dorian had agreed eagerly, letting Cullen remove the shirt he had leant Dorian up over his head and back him into a shower which Dorian immediately adjusted to run hotter. Cullen washed practically though, turning Dorian to shampoo his hair with capable hands. When he wrapped a hand around Dorian’s cock, it was firm, like Dorian’s body was something to fix- or rather, to make it flourish with a twist of Cullen’s hand, with the deft dedication of his rough fingers. Water dripped from their faces and every kiss was wet. The droplets that clung to Dorian’s eyelashes could have been tears. He saw light and colours when he came.

Cullen did not let Dorian return the favour, pushing him out of the shower and then the bathroom, leaving a trail of water towards the bedroom as they tried to dry themselves and tried to uncover the other. Their skin was still wet when their bodies found the bed. When Cullen fucked him this morning, it was the closest thing Cullen came to being selfish, almost desperate as Dorian threatened to become overwhelmed by the pace, the rhythm of wet skin slapping wet skin and the fullness. Dorian tangled his hand into Cullen’s hair, letting water drip down his arm, and they kissed and kissed and kissed.

Dorian tried to understand the sudden shift but it was not sudden. It was what accumulated when you did not run the morning after. It had carried them out of bed with rumbling bellies and it warmed them like coffee going down and cleansed like a holy ritual or simply, two lovers under a stream of water.

When Cullen came, he too made a low, soft noise. It was unpractised and genuine, the sound a man made when he realised, after a lifetime of piteous piety, he could worship his own gods. Dorian could understand now the joy of hearing.

They collapsed back on the bed, what had been water now sweat on their skin. Dorian winced at the feeling of his damp hair on the sheets. “Perhaps we should have showered after.”

Cullen breathed out a laugh, fingers at Dorian’s wrist. His pulse danced there. “Would it have made so much difference?”

Dorian looked at the man, at his wet curls and the chain around his neck and his flushed skin. He thought of how now he had been given permission to touch Cullen, he feared he would never able to stop. And now?

I want everything, Dorian should have said.

He conceded, “No, it would not have.”

*

Dorian would make it home after lunch time with ambitious plans to do more with himself than lay around Cullen’s bed like they were younger than their years. Though they had more sex in the morning alone than Dorian had had in quite some time, they talked more, in bed, in the kitchen, over Lion’s head, from separate sides of the apartment as Dorian brushed his teeth and Cullen, fully dressed, tried to weasel Lion onto a lead for his walk. Dorian had joined them, walking as far as the subway station.

When they had gone to say goodbye, there was a moment of unsureness. Cullen wrapped his arms around him and hugged him tightly but briefly. If his mouth brushed Dorian’s ear, no one was to know but them. Dorian had taken the ride of shame home with his head between his knees and everyone gave him a wide berth, most likely fearing he was about to vomit. He thought he might too, separated from Cullen and suddenly, madly, wondering if he had imagined it all, not just the night and the morning but Cullen and Lion and the garage and maybe even the bike. He needed a nap.

His plans were ambitious indeed. As soon as he arrived back, he set a generous alarm to wake in a few hours to give himself ample time to get ready before he had to go, per tradition, for dinner with Mae and Felix and then, Dorian slept the afternoon away. When he woke, he felt considerably better. Cullen had texted him a picture of Lion at the park, the dog holding a very large stick between his grinning teeth. They were both very much real. Dorian replied that it was an impressive discovery and Lion should be very proud of himself.

He showered and then readied himself at his usual leisurely pace. It was only when he caught himself smiling in the mirror that he knew he had to rehearse how he would tell his best friends about what had transpired the night before. Mae would probably be smug and Felix would be pleased for him and both would say I told you so in different ways, with a roll of their eyes and a wink. It made Dorian pull a face at his own reflection.

He had been preening at himself when Mae and Felix buzzed for him. He checked his teeth once more, his hair twice, gave the sleeves of his fitted blazer another roll upwards and grabbed his keys only for the intercom to fill his flat with Mae and Felix bickering. Felix, it seemed, needed the bathroom.

“Can it not wait?” Dorian asked into the intercom which silenced the duo very, very briefly.

“I’ll be quick,” Felix reassured. “Please, Dorian.”

Dorian could never say no to Felix, not even to the crackly imitation of his polite cadence. Mae nagged in the background about their dinner reservation but Dorian buzzed them through.

So imagine Dorian’s surprise when he opened the door for the Iron Bull to be stood there instead.

His hair was loose and wild and his vest did plenty of favours for the bulk of his torso. He was holding a six-pack of beers under each arm. When Dorian merely gaped at him, he grinned. “I know, I know. It’s a new shirt. Happy birthday.”

He, then, proceeded to walk straight into Dorian’s apartment. Dorian had meant to say something, demand an explanation even, but behind Bull trailed the Chargers, all carrying a copious amount of booze and wishing Dorian a happy birthday (except Grim but that was to be expected.) Krem had his own pack of drinks hoisted on a shoulder and gave Dorian an easy wink as he slid by.

“Oh, do close your mouth, my dear, lest something with more legs than you and I lay nest there.”

Dorian’s mouth snapped shut at the sight of Mae, looking mighty pleased with herself, and Felix who was shuffling with the excitement of a child. Either that or-

“Are you sure you don’t need the bathroom?” Dorian asked Felix dubiously.

Mae patted Felix’s arm. “He did well.”

“He lied to me,” Dorian pointed out.

“Yes, and he was very good at it.” Mae waved the hand that was not holding a bag full of what he could only assume to be, given the theme, alcohol. “Don’t look so sour, darling. At least you’re not underdressed.”

He had to give it to her, that was true.

Behind Dorian, something smashed. Already.

“So, no dinner?” he asked tiredly.

“Sorry, Dorian,” Felix said, sincerely enough that Dorian would forgive him. “Besides, I don’t think you would be able to fit the Iron Bull behind a table at Halamshiral’s.”

“No. I suppose not.” Dorian sighed and opened the door fully. “Well, come on in. Make yourselves at home. I see the Chargers already have. Oh, look, Skinner is already swinging from a non-existent chandelier.”

Mae, for all her dignified upbringing, did not look perturbed. They had been to a lot of different parties in their time. She handed Dorian a bottle of prosecco and followed Felix in.

Dorian stuck his head out of his apartment to peer from side to side comically. “No more nasty surprises? I half expected you to bring my mother too. She would have something to say about the company I keep.”

“Her and I both.” Seeing the hallway sufficiently empty, Dorian closed the door and followed Mae’s voice to the kitchen. She retrieved glasses for the three of them. Bull was leaning at the counter.

“Mae, you wound me. Look, a wound,” Bull said, pulling at the neckline of his vest to reveal even more of his chest.

Mae looked at it as she might have looked at anything, a clear sky or a bug on the ground, bored as she said, “And here I thought that was just your chest hair.”

“You sure? Wanna take a closer look? Just to be sure?” Bull was practically flexing. They played this game every time they saw each other, once a year for Dorian’s birthday. Dorian pulled a face behind Bull who turned in time to see it. “Hey, now, what’s that face for? Who do you think rustled up a whole group of people who can put up with you for more than an hour at a time?”

Dorian rolled his eyes to the ceiling as his friends, of course, laughed at his expense. “May I remind you all it’s my birthday? I can see why I barely spend any time sober around you all now.”

Bull clapped a hand over Dorian’s shoulder hard enough to hurt, the other hand retrieving the flute from Mae’s (with lingering contact that Dorian pulled another face at) to pass to him. “Not for long. Bottoms up, birthday boy.”

Dorian gave Bull a raised eyebrow that said the joke in itself but raised his glass too, downing the delicate drink in a way it was not made to be so the bubbles almost found their way up his nose. When he coughed, Bull whacked his back and it made things worse.

For reasons unknown, Mae and Felix took that as their cue to leave him alone with Bull. His eyes lingered on the back of Mae as she walked away.

“I hope you’re not holding back on my account,” Dorian said dryly.

Bull grinned at him. “Aw, you’re jealous!”

“Of you psychoanalysing me and calling it pillow talk?” Dorian snorted. “I’ll pass. You never let me sleep.”

“You didn’t used to complain about that.”

“Well, I suppose I’m getting old.” Still, Dorian sounded fond.

Bull noticed. Of course, he did. “You’re in good spirits.”

Dorian gave him a withering look. “Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed but it does happen to be my birthday. A whole day dedicated to me. And I do like myself a great deal.”

“No. You’re glowing like a pregnant woman, Dorian.”

“It’s the prosecco. Similar effects.”

Bull’s single eye narrowed. “You’re doing better. I haven’t seen you in a hot minute.”

“Exactly.”

“And you look it.” Bull leant in as if to get a closer look at him but Dorian thought he was just trying to overwhelm Dorian into admitting something incriminating. It wasn’t the first birthday Bull had stared Dorian down.

Dorian flicked him in the chest. “Now, you’re insulting me. I always look good.”

“On the inside, Dorian. You know, where it counts.”

“Yeah but my outside is so pretty.” Dorian poured himself another glass and raised it. “Let’s focus on that instead.”

Dorian had been so distracted by their conversation that he hadn’t realised his intercom had buzzed again until the door opened once more. Dorian craned his head around Bull’s everything to see Cullen at the door, flanked by Leliana, Josephine and Cassandra, all dressed up – which for Cullen meant his cleanest jeans and T-shirt. Dorian still appreciated the effort and the sight. The last time they had seen each other, they had been wearing little. Now, Cullen saw him and smiled, no different and not at all the same.

Bull looked at Dorian then Cullen then to Dorian again. Then his grin sharpened. “Dorian. You little minx.”

Dorian put down his drink and ducked around him as if he could ever escape his friend’s questioning. When he reached Mae at the door, he levelled her with an accusation, “You said no more surprises.”

“You said nasty surprises. You have to be more precise, Dorian.” She gave Cullen an appreciative once over. “Though I am more than happy to open up the debate on definitions.”

Cullen didn’t seem to know how to react, flushing before he even knew he had reason to be embarrassed. Josephine patted his arm and distracted Mae with the extending of her hand for introductions. Mae returned them with all the air and grace in the world and all the women seemed fascinated by her.

Then, behind her and Dorian, someone opened a can too soon. The spell of hospitality shattered, much like most of Dorian’s possessions would by the end of the evening.

Cassandra, almost roughly, pushed the bottle of wine in her hands towards Dorian. Josephine explained, “We weren’t sure what to bring as a gift.”

“Cullen was no help,” Cassandra grumbled.

Cullen shrugged helplessly. “I didn’t know what Dorian would like.”

Dorian looked up from the bottle in his hands with a grin. “Could have fooled me.”

Cullen flushed further. Dorian smiled at the women as innocently as he could. No one looked convinced so he focused on inspecting the bottle. “You didn’t need to but this is very much appreciated. And a rare vintage too. I didn’t realise you could get them this far South.”

“I called in some favours,” Leliana said, her first words beyond her name to Mae.

This made Dorian blink. He almost said for me? but he had no interest in sounding ungrateful, especially when he was honestly touched by the gesture. “Well, I’m flattered. I have been on a quest to find something that puts me straight to sleep on a night. Come in, all of you. Welcome to my humble abode. I cannot take responsibility if you lose anything here, be it material or your will to live.”

Mae rolled her eyes at Dorian’s dramatics but led the women to the kitchen to find them glasses with only a sly glance over her shoulder as she retreated.

Dorian was left with Cullen. The other man lingered, like a disciplined schoolboy, and it made Dorian smile. He raised an eyebrow. “I had not expected to see you soon. Eager, are we?”

Cullen was still pink but he explained, “Felix and your other friend, Maevaris, extended the invite.”

“Mae would.” She had always loved a good party. “She would be the person you ought to thank for knocking some sense into me. About last night.”

“You mean to tell me you didn’t plan to barge into the garage on the day before your birthday on your own accord?”

“Don’t give her so much credit. Though I can’t say I planned it either. I believe I may have been possessed.” In the corner of his vision, Dorian saw Mae engaged in conversation with Leliana. They were formidable women. “Were you in on this?”

Cullen shrugged. “I had some idea.”

“Was this before or after you seduced me?”

“I didn’t-” Cullen shook his head then smiled, seeing no point in picking apart semantics with Dorian. “Before.”

Dorian had told Felix, as briefly as he could, what had transpired over the weekend, insisting he had too much work to meet and talk about it. Felix had not argued and had let Dorian tell, at least this much, to Mae himself. But he had still been helping in his quiet, little ways. The thought of him calling Cullen up again made Dorian swallow hard, the little meddler.

Dorian didn’t ask Cullen if he, had Dorian not found his way to the shop last night, would have come along tonight before. Instead, he took faith in Felix who had believed Cullen would.

To distract himself from this pesky swell of emotion, Dorian looked towards Cullen’s friends. Like at the bar, they did not hide that they were watching the two of them, only now flanked by a smug Maevaris who had seen all she needed to. Leliana looked as she always did, observing every shifting of feet with eyes that saw everything and a mouth that said little. Josephine looked curious but delighted, taking simple pleasure in being right. Cassandra still frowned as she always did at Dorian, though her gaze was not necessarily unkind. She looked concerned, yes, but there was something almost tentative about the way she watched Cullen, hopeful. She worried for him, as Felix worried for Dorian. Friendships were precious little things.

“And have you broken the news to your guardians?” Dorian asked, inclining his head towards them.

“They’re here as supervision.”

“Should I expect Cassandra to have a serious chat with me?” Cullen was being sarcastic, Dorian wasn’t.

“Not if I can help it.” Cullen let out a breath. “We had planned to see each other this weekend anyway. Felix said they were welcome to join.”

“Two birds, one stone?”

“I had no excuse.” Then, almost shyly, he added, “And I wanted to see you.”

“Well, aren’t I the luckiest birthday boy in the world?” Dorian nudged him, teasing, but too delighted by the confession not to grin. Cullen looked back at him with a smile and it made Dorian realise, suddenly, that there was enough distance between them that Dorian’s elbow pressing into Cullen’s side felt like a stretch, deliberate and obvious. Neither of them were touching each other for more than a breath. It was already birthing an elephant into the room and it worried Dorian, what with the Chargers bounding about out of time to Mae’s music. Dorian’s downstairs neighbours already had enough to complain about. He admitted, “Though I had asked for more practical reasons.”

“Practical how?” Cullen moved so his friends were blocked from Dorian’s line of sight. Dorian could only look at him gratefully.

When Dorian smiled, it was self-deprecating. “I’ve never really had to have this conversation before. All I’d known about public relations of the sort I was inclined to was to not have them, at least not where they could be seen.” He felt awkward, speaking unrehearsed words in an untrained tone. “I fear I’m… inexperienced.”

Cullen seemed thoughtful, considering Dorian’s words with more gravity than he had delivered them. Then he reached out and touched Dorian’s elbow. He had done it before and he did it now. It felt as it always had, loaded with possibility but mostly gentle, guiding and comforting. “There’s no pressure. If you’re asking what I’m comfortable with, it’s whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“No limitations? Now, that’s a dangerous thing to say. A man might get ideas.” Dorian had thought a joke would give him some resemblance of control over the conversation again but it made Cullen tilt his head. No one could see how Cullen looked at him.

“I think he already has a few.” Cullen’s voice was soft with desire. It made Dorian’s mouth dry.

Dorian swallowed and thought about his words too, wanting to take them as seriously as Cullen had taken his. It did not come naturally to him but Cullen waited patiently for his answer. “In that case, I am not opposed to receiving affections nor giving it. I am just not used to doing so publicly.”

Dorian looked over to his house guests. Bull was holding two of the Chargers apart, as they fought, quite literally by their heads.

“You’re among friends.” When Dorian gave Cullen a questioning look, he rolled his eyes. “I am not one of them.”

“Harsh but fair.”

“You know what I mean, Dorian.” Cullen shook his head with a smile. “We can figure out what works in time.”

Something about that made Dorian swallow. In time. Cullen, steady at his side, was not going anywhere.

Dorian moved his arm under Cullen’s hand until it reached his own. He squeezed Cullen’s fingers, just once, a grateful touch. It was enough, for now.

Someone whistled. Someone spat. The former was a reaction, the latter was an accident. Dorian feared the Chargers had arrived already drunk.

“The audience will take some getting used to, certainly,” he observed wryly. It reminded Dorian that Cullen was empty-handed. Drinks had been spread across Dorian’s counter and he looked at Cullen with concern. “Are you sure you want to be here at all? They’re a raucous lot as is, forget when drunk. We’re all going to look like a pack of fools soon enough.”

“Are you trying to spare their dignity or your own?” Cullen raised his eyebrows but was not offended by Dorian’s fretting. “I’m fine, Dorian. Don’t worry.”

“You and your friends are in the same room as the Iron Bull. How can I not?” When Dorian spared another glance at his guests, he found Bull had detached himself from the children he called his friends and was lumbering over. Dorian groaned. “Speak of the horned devil.”

“You’re hogging the Commander, you left me no choice.” When he reached them, he appraised Cullen in a way that had Cullen rubbing the back of his neck. Dorian didn’t doubt that Cullen was fine but that didn’t change the oddity of the situation. He had arrived to the birthday party of a new flame, sober, to see his AA therapist was there as another one of the guests.

Still, when Bull extended his hand, Cullen took it. “Good to see you, Cullen.”

“You too, Bull.” And Cullen looked like he meant it. The hand at his neck moved to the small of Dorian’s back, a quiet touch, barely noticeable unless you knew where to look. Dorian could have moved if he wanted to. He didn’t. Instead, he listened to Cullen and Bull exchange easy conversation, about Cassandra’s gym and Cullen’s garage and Lion (who was not with Jim tonight but with Yvette, Josephine’s younger sister who was visiting and Josephine insisted would not be attending any festivities during her stay.) It was pleasant and light. Dorian had almost escaped notice.

Almost. Bull’s single eye was all-seeing. He looked at them stood so close.

“You know, Cullen,” Bull said slyly, “Dorian told me about your first meeting. He had a theory.”

Dorian groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. “Bull. Please.”

Cullen was blinking at them. “A theory?”

“You know how I like those.” Dorian sighed, defeated already. There would be more foolish arguments later. Dorian was picking his battles, simply less of them. “I just misconstrued some of your behaviour. A reaction, rather.”

“Does this have anything to do with you taking me by surprise and making me smash my face against the bottom of a car?”

Dorian winced at the memory. “No, not that. Which I apologised for, might I add. I was speaking of my, uh, sexuality.” When Cullen still looked confused, he said, “I thought you were straight.”

Bull, very unhelpfully, added, “Oh, no, he specifically thought you were a homophobe.”

Cullen stared at them. “You thought I was- what? Why?”

Bull was enjoying watching Dorian squirm. He was a terrible friend. Dorian gave him a fierce glare and then explained, “You didn’t appear to enjoy my particular brand of humour.”

Cullen’s eyebrows were still furrowed. Dorian blew out a loud breath. “I know you remember this. Something to do with gendering vehicles, I made a joke about riding only hims, all just another day in the life of, yada yada. You did not seem impressed.”

Cullen was shaking his head like Bull was not making the floor tremble with a laugh so loud that every conversation paused, unable to be heard over the sound of him. Mae, at least, looked delighted by the entire exchange from where she stood across the room.

In a strained voice, Cullen said, “I was at work.”

Dorian threw up his hands. “It was a vehicle joke!”

“Like I’ve not heard them all before.”

“Well, then, it had no reason to scandalise you.”

“Is that how I looked?”

“You wanted to change the subject.”

“To talk about your bike, my job, Dorian.” Then, almost as an afterthought, Cullen said, gruffly, “Besides, it was… unsolicited.”

“Oh, really? Then what would you call-” Dorian cut himself off when he realised that Bull was no longer laughing and Dorian was speaking too loudly into the quiet that was left in his wake.

Bull’s grin was toothy. “No, keep going. We were just getting to the good part.”

Dorian turned away from him pointedly but Cullen was still staring at Dorian in disbelief. “I was just doing my job. What about that makes me straight, let alone a homophobe?”

At that, Dorian could only point an indignant, accusing finger at him, poking into his chest. “Your jeans don’t fit. What do you want people to think?”

“That I’m a perfectly capable mechanic if they’re in the garage. Not a bigot.”

“Just a little one. A casual homophobe.”

This only baffled Cullen even more. “What does that even mean?”

“Now,” Bull said, rubbing his hands together, “take your shirts off.”

Dorian made a withering noise. “Away with you, you’ve done enough.”

“Come on, Dorian, you have to admit, it’s a little funny.” Bull gave Cullen a serious look, the one that reminded Dorian that people paid real money to let this beast of a man hear their feelings. “Sorry you had to put up with that, Cullen. I should have warned you that Dorian has no boundaries.”

They both ignored the noise in offense Dorian made. Cullen, a tad dryly, said, “I managed but thank you, Bull.”

When he looked at Dorian again, he shook his head once more and, under his breath, mumbled, “Unbelievable.”

Dorian simply threw up his hands. “I need a stronger drink.”

It was probably not his wisest decision but he left Bull and Cullen alone to do just that, marching to the kitchen where Mae, smirking knowingly, held out a glass for him. She knew him too well.

From that point, the gathering proved to be tame, at least relatively so. Dorian was more used to parties as a front for underhanded dealings, political sometimes, sometimes sexual, occasionally both. In comparison, Krem leading a drinking game with a pack of cards he brought out of his pocket was rather nice. Dorian had not played a game in a while and certainly not one which costed nothing more than having to take an extra sip of his drink because he was, after all, the man of the hour, every hour. Dorian kept track of time through the games Leliana and Josephine won.

At some point, Cullen came to sit at his side and they watched as Bull and Cassandra faced off in a game of stacking the cards into a tower. Everyone held their breath as they rose to the precarious top and Dorian looked around, at all the serious, intense but undoubtedly drunken faces and he could not help but laugh. It was loud in the quiet. Cullen startled and swore, spilling his drink on his shirt, and Bull’s hand slipped too, knocking the entire card structure across the coffee table. This elicited despair from all those who had been watching which only made Dorian laugh even harder. He was only upright at all because most of his weight was pressed against Cullen’s side.

“You little shit,” Bull said to him and then looked at Cassandra and grunted a single word, “Rematch.”

Cassandra shook her head. “I won that fair and square.”

“Bullshit,” Bull said. When Dorian laughed at that too, he pointed a finger at him without looking away from Cassandra. “You had help.”

“I think Dorian is just in a… merry mood.” Cassandra nodded at Dorian and her mouth twitched as if she was trying not to smile. It could have been allyship. Dorian tipped his drink to her. She looked past him and her expression was serious once more. “Cullen, your shirt-”

“It’s fine.” Cullen was dabbing at it uselessly with a tissue Mae had passed him without a word.

Or not. “Nonsense. I’m sure Dorian has an oversized shirt he can let you borrow.”

Dorian shrugged at the glint in Mae’s eyes. “Or you could simply take it off. That would not be unwelcome.”

Someone giggled and someone else whistled. Cullen looked unimpressed with all of them, giving up with patting at the unmoving stain to get to his feet. This, Dorian felt almost bad about. He stood unsteadily, trailing behind Cullen as he headed into the kitchen.

There, Cullen ran the tap. He lifted his shirt to it, revealing his waistline. It was a distracting enough sight (the skin, the hair there, the waistband of his jeans) that Dorian almost forgot why he had followed him at all.

“Whilst I have seen you in a wet shirt and treasure the sight dearly, this is an awful lot of effort, isn’t it?” Dorian said, leaning against the counter. “Are you this attached to the shirt? I can believe it if it is the only one that isn’t full of holes.”

Cullen sighed. “You took me by surprise.”

“Better you than me. I like my birthdays best when drinks are not thrown on me. A lot to ask, I know.” Still, he gestured Cullen to follow him and Cullen did, leaving the sight of the occupants of the living room who had started another card game. Dorian pretended not to notice the eyes that followed them too.

In his bedroom, Dorian turned on the light and Cullen closed the door behind himself.

Dorian rooted through his wardrobe for something that would fit Cullen, making a show of it with accompanying commentary. “Unluckily for you, all my clothes fit me perfectly. Maybe an old sleep shirt that I certainly hadn’t bought for myself. I should have set up a lost and found for all the things men have left on my bedroom floor. Clothes, money, their dignity. The list goes on.”

“Does it?” Cullen asked.

Dorian turned to grin at his raised eyebrows. “Take that shirt off and find out.”

Cullen caught the shirt Dorian threw at him. When he peeled off his own, Dorian watched him. Cullen hooked his arms through the borrowed T-shirt, head ducked, face flushed like they had not spent the morning in varying degrees of undress. Dorian relished the information that he still had the capacity to fluster Cullen. It was sweet.

The shirt Cullen wore now was a faded grey, a little big for Dorian but comfortable on Cullen’s form. Dorian couldn’t remember who had left it here, maybe Rilienus, maybe someone else. For all his sentimental thinking, Dorian was not as attached to material things as people thought him to be. Runaways always had to travel light.

It looked good on Cullen. Dorian took the stained shirt from Cullen’s hands and tossed it into his laundry hamper. They were stood with nothing in between them. When Cullen took Dorian’s face into his hands (always holding something) and kissed him, it felt like relief.

Dorian was smiling when they separated. “You didn’t spill that drink on yourself to get me alone, did you?”

“This wasn’t my idea,” Cullen pointed out. He let go of Dorian to reach into his pocket. “Though, while we’re here…”

Cullen pulled out a familiar set of keys. He held them out towards Dorian. Dorian took them, asking slowly, “Is it parked outside? Am I getting a romantic ride through the city at night?”

“No, you left them last night.”

Dorian spun them on his finger. “They were better off staying in the garage. I doubt I’ll be able to come collect it any time soon. Tomorrow’s hangover notwithstanding, of course.”

“Still, they’re yours.” Cullen shifted, as if a little uncomfortable. “Besides, I didn’t want to come completely empty handed. I should have gotten you a gift.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow at that. “What do you call last night? Or this morning, for that matter? Chopped liver?”

Cullen cleared his throat, pink at the neck. “I meant, a proper gift.”

“Cullen, you fixed the unfixable bike.”

“That you can’t ride.”

“You too?” Dorian raised his palms to the heavens. “Did you all gather here to taunt me?”

“I just mean you paid for it. It isn’t a gift.”

Dorian shrugged at Cullen’s insistence. “I’m sure it will be when I sell it off.”

This made Cullen pause. “You’re going to sell it?” he asked and he sounded surprised and something else, something almost hurt. They were stood too close for Dorian to miss it.

“I mean, if it’s as rare as you say.” Dorian’s tone was flippant. He even inspected his nails. “Do you think anyone would be interested?”

Cullen frowned. “Of course they would but I could ask around, if that’s what you’re going for-”

“Cullen.” Dorian had to stop him. He put a hand to his bicep, catching his gaze. “Are you interested?”

“I-” Cullen shook his head, not in answer. “You can’t be serious.”

“I know, it’s a new look for me but I thought thirty-two years into my time on this plant, I should try something different,” Dorian said, tone pleasant and silly but he squeezed Cullen’s arm.

Cullen barely heard him, it seemed. “Are you sure?”

Dorian let out a long, hard breath. “I’d clung to it as some sort of symbol, even when I insisted it was not. But I got what I wanted from it.”

“And what’s that?” Cullen asked, as if he didn’t know. Maybe he didn’t.

Dorian smiled. “I’ve moved on.”

When Cullen kissed him, it was sudden and hard. Dorian staggered back but Cullen caught him with an arm around his waist. Dorian wasn’t surprised but his mouth fell open on its own accord and it took a moment for him to gather his wits about him and kiss back. It was the kind of kiss that was as overwhelmed as it was overwhelming. It made Dorian feel powerless. It made him feel powerful. He was not alone in his desperation.

Cullen’s hands dragged across the collar of his shirt and then his hips but when he tried to move them towards the bed, Dorian dug his heels into the ground. He pushed Cullen back, pushed Cullen’s back into the nearest wall. He lifted the borrowed shirt up and touched the skin underneath. Dorian thought they had done well, testing the boundaries of affection for their friends as audience, but it bubbled over now, like the drinks Dorian had poured, over and over. He felt giddy from it, drunk on the way Cullen sucked Dorian’s bottom lip between his own.

Maybe it had been foolish for Dorian to hold back. He had never been good at hiding who he was. Many had learnt the hard way.

Dorian grasped at Cullen’s belt blindly and Cullen didn’t stop him but he stopped kissing Dorian to help, unzipping his jeans. Dorian palmed him through them, unable to stop kissing him now he had started, pressing his mouth to the stubble at his jaw. When he reached under Cullen’s waistband, Cullen’s head tilted back and hit the wall with a small thump.

“It’s your birthday,” he pointed out breathlessly, even as the hand Dorian had wrapped around Cullen’s cock was already moving. Dorian was undeterred by the awkward angle and the constriction of fabric. When he pulled Cullen out from his boxers, he was close to fully hard.

“Yes, happy birthday to me,” Dorian said and then he went to his knees and took Cullen’s cock into his mouth.

Dorian, even when drunk beyond the point of reason, had always been very good at this. He was not so drunk now that he needed to think about every time he had foolishly or ambitiously gone to his knees. He did not need to close his eyes to stop the world spinning but he did to focus, feeling Cullen with his mouth and a hand wrapped at the base of him. Dorian had no reason to recall how the first thing he had ever done for another man was suck him off, even when they had both really only been boys, young and curious – except maybe to pause at the thought that, even at thirty-two, Dorian came back to this. He could have smiled but Cullen moved his hips forward, only a little, and Dorian put aside his arrogance. This was, after all, the only time he would.

Dorian took Cullen’s cock as far into his mouth as he could, breathed out through his nose and then dragged his lips, slowly, back to the tip. When he sucked the head, Cullen’s hand found his shoulder and then the side of his neck. When Dorian pressed his tongue to it, Cullen’s fingers were in his hair. Dorian tasted him, felt the sweat under his other hand which held Cullen by the waist whilst the one on Cullen’s dick, which was now slick from spit, circled the length of him in practiced motions. Cullen groaned quietly, fingers digging frustrations into Dorian’s hair, and Dorian wondered the limits of Cullen’s patience. He considered just jerking Cullen off into his mouth, lazy and filthy. Maybe Cullen would let him, indulge him, or maybe he would move his hips back and forth until he found the rhythm he fucked with and Dorian could only, once again, take it.

But they wouldn’t find out because Dorian could not wait. Maybe he was not able to ever be truly selfless. Impatiently, he took as much of Cullen’s cock into his mouth and found his own pace. Music was still playing elsewhere in the apartment. Here, all they could hear was the wet sounds of Dorian’s mouth and Cullen’s breathing, labouring with every passing beat. Cullen was an embarrassed lover, self-consciously quiet, so Dorian could not rely on sound alone. He felt the muscles of Cullen’s stomach tighten and when he did, he slowed, teasing Cullen out of his mouth, just barely.

When Dorian looked up, through his eyelashes, he had expected to see Cullen flushed and frustrated but found Cullen watching him quietly. He was staring at the tip of his cock where it pressed to the edge of Dorian’s mouth and his tongue swiped at the edge of his own, as if he were merely thinking very hard.

Then, gazes locked, Cullen’s hand in Dorian’s hair loosened and lowered to cup his cheek. Dorian’s mouth opened, answering an unsaid command, and Cullen guided it onto his cock, as if he could not wait either. The head of him pressed against the inside of Dorian’s cheek and Cullen’s hand on the outside pushed it away, in, further. Dorian tilted his head back and hallowed his cheeks. The dance began again. Cullen moved with him.

It ended too soon and not soon enough. When Cullen came, Dorian closed his eyes and swallowed hard around him. Cullen’s hands were on his face, in his hair and then wrapping into his shirt, pulling him off and up. Dorian’s legs shook as he rose to full height to kiss Cullen or rather, be kissed, mouth wet and jaw aching. This was Dorian’s favourite part, he always found, the feeling of a man’s tongue where his cock had once been. Cullen kissed him like he had never been kissed before, as if every time was the first and the last.

When Cullen’s hand reached for Dorian’s belt, Dorian found the strength to stop him. He feared his smile was lopsided because he could not, in all honesty, feel his mouth. He wiped the back of his hand across it. His voice was only a little rough when he said, “It’s okay.”

Cullen’s eyes searched his face. Whatever they found, it made Cullen’s own soften. He pulled away from Dorian’s hand to reach up and, very tentatively, fix Dorian’s hair. The gesture could have made Dorian laugh as easily as it could have made him cry so Dorian busied himself with Cullen’s jeans. He did not look up until he finished with the belt and when he did, Cullen kissed him, soft and grateful. Dorian did not have the words, not presently, to explain how this had been just as much a gift for himself as it had been for Cullen but he knew, when he did, Cullen would listen. In time.

“We should get back,” Dorian said. As soon as he did, he realised the music had stopped. He wondered if someone had broken his speakers.

Cullen nodded and they both inspected themselves and each other without words, speaking in smoothing collars and tucking shirts. There was nothing they could do about the flush of Cullen’s skin and Dorian’s smile but hope everyone thought it was all a result of Dorian’s drunkenness and nothing more. They headed towards the bedroom door.

When Dorian opened it, Bull was stood on the other side, hands on his hips. Dorian yelped, bumping back into Cullen who was somehow less perturbed. There was no way of knowing how long he had been stood there. His grin said too bloody long.

It had been foolish for Dorian to attempt anything discrete whilst Bull was about. He took one look at them and said, “Mae was right. Good work keepin’ him distracted, Commander.”

Dorian was about to tell him to mind his own business when his words registered. He looked between the two men suspiciously. “Distracted? From what?”

And then Dorian realised Bull only looked so terrifying because he was illuminated by Dorian’s bedroom light alone, the rest of him falling to shadows. He reached past Dorian, into the room, to flick the switch off and Dorian realised, stupidly, that the flat was not just in silence but in darkness too.

And then Bull yelled. “Take it away, Chargers!”

Dorian was steered out of his room by Cullen who was close behind, following Bull back into the living room where Krem was stood on the sofa, orchestrating an enthusiastic but off-key and off-beat happy birthday song that even Cullen’s friends joined in on. Josephine sang with as much energy as the Chargers themselves. Cassandra’s voice was unpolished but surprisingly sweet. Leliana’s raised above them all like a bird in flight, light and lovely. Under them, Bull sang with his entire chest, deep and joyous, and Dorian shook from it, with laughter. Bull winked at him.

Cullen sang into Dorian’s ear, softly, as he led Dorian to where Felix held out a cake in the shape of a caterpillar, bought last minute no doubt. Mae cupped her hands around the lit candles, protecting them from the gusto of the surrounding chorus. The flickering flames made Dorian realise that it had been a long time since his candles were not simply lighters, blowing out smoke from a loaded gun, year after year. It was not the lavish parties of his childhood with few classmates, disgustingly decadent for the benefit of his father’s guests rather than his own. This was a ragtag group of people who Dorian hadn’t realised he could call his friends until now, as they sang and swore and hollered around him, and a man he was glad wasn’t his friend but when Dorian turned to him, in disbelief and in delight, he looked back at Dorian with kindness.

In only the light of the candles, Cullen’s eyes were so warm, Dorian had to close his own. He blew out a breath like he had been holding it for thirty-two years and the candles went out but the cheers went on. Mae kissed his cheek as she elbowed by to retrieve a knife, ducking under Bull who fronted a hip-hip-hooray, like leading a gaggling group of school children. Cullen watched it all from Dorian’s side. Even in the darkness, Dorian could only look at him.

“You’re not going to ask me what I wished for, are you?” he said, barely audible over the ruckus. Cullen leant in towards his mouth and not his ear. Dorian tilted his head to listen.

“No. I’m getting better.”

“At what exactly?”

Cullen smiled. “Knowing what it is that you want,” he said, like it was the easiest thing in the world, to be known.

And he had been right. Dorian hadn’t wished for anything. In the split second of quietness as everyone held their breaths and Dorian blew out the candles, Dorian had no want for anything in the world.

Chapter Text

In Dorian’s defence, he was left alone in an elevator with Solas.

Everyone was wrong. Dorian did actually like Solas – or at least, he respected his research. Whether he respected anything else didn’t really matter in the greater schemes of things but it was remarkably easy to bother the man. For starters, he wore what could only be described as a tunic to work. It was Dorian’s moral duty to make Solas answer for that much, at least.

“Solas,” Dorian said loftily into the silence between them, “I believe I’ve stumbled across something that might be of interest to your realm of scholarship.”

Solas did not look convinced. He sighed and said, “And what might that be, Dorian?”

“It was something about ancient civilisations- you like those, don’t you?” When Dorian saw Solas’ eye twitch at the triteness of the word like, he knew he had successfully gotten under Solas’ skin. “Well, whilst I was working late last night, I made the most unbecoming discovery.”

Solas looked like he knew exactly what Dorian was about to say. It would not be the first time.

Dorian surveyed himself in the mirror and adjusted his jacket accordingly. He spoke as if in absent mind. “I don’t know if you’ve heard but the people you study so fervently had some very specific uses for household essentials. What they did with olive oil does not bear repeating, not in polite company.”

Solas shook his head. In the elevator light, the baldness of it glinted almost menacingly. Dorian had never worked out if the hair (or lack thereof) was a choice or a circumstance. “I suppose you consider yourself polite company?”

“Well, that depends entirely on who’s asking.” Dorian schooled his expression into one of seriousness as the elevator slowed. “But let us speak plainly in a place of learning. It was sex they were having. Gallons and gallons of it. Fascinating stuff, yes?”

When the doors opened, Solas said, “One day, your unseemly wit will get you in trouble, Professor Pavus.”

Dorian considered his words, he really did. Maybe it was why he grinned so hard over his shoulder as he exited the elevator. “Oh, it already does. Good thing I like trouble. Have a good weekend, Solas.”

Dorian made his way out of the building and towards the car park, side-stepping lingering students who waved at him shyly. The new academic year had started again with fresh faces tiptoeing their way around him, wary of his wit (sharp, he would argue, but not unseemly) but eager to please, nonetheless. The previous year had ended with him making a favourable enough impression on his last cohort that many of them had not only returned for an advancement of his classes but had even recommended his course readily, apparently appreciating the candid nature in which he spoke of wild theoretical concepts.

Though it could have easily been the abundance of jewellery, distracting everyone so much that, even if Dorian had worn a wedding ring, no one would have been able to focus long enough to spot it. Either way, he was a handsome enough member of staff to stare at for a few hours a week. Dorian didn’t see no reason to dispel their fantasies, not when he was not yet old enough to forget how his own had gotten him here. Whatever had propelled them to sit their restless selves in front of him, he welcomed it, encouraging in his students a nature that was inquisitive and full of possibility. In a way, it was like being young again. Maybe that was what made his classes so interesting. He liked that reason best.

Vivienne had suspected his enthusiasm for teaching was not solely due to his renewed passion in his students and he had refused to confirm or deny the details of his summer but then Cullen made a habit of picking Dorian up from work and the cat was out of the bag. Vivienne had raised her eyebrows but to her credit, she simply told him to take care. For all her icy airs, there was something warm deep within Vivienne. Dorian considered introducing her to Mae. He suspected they would get along splendidly.

As Dorian passed her car now, she reminded him to consider investing in some new shirts.

“You and him, both,” she said, nodding past them.

Dorian didn’t follow her gaze, instead looking down at his own work shirt. It had been a while; she was not wrong. This was her way of caring.

Dorian gave her a cheery smile. “I will see about arranging a shopping trip soon, lest we assault your eyes anymore with our outdated tastes.”

“You jest, darling, but I don’t.” She tilted her head, appraising Cullen where he stood, patient and unassuming. Then she gave Dorian a pointed look. “It is not in your nature to dress poorly. I would hate to see a man change you, that’s all.”

Dorian glanced beyond her at where Cullen waited, leaning against his motorcycle, his helmet tucked under his elbow. He wore his usual pair of torn but admittedly, otherwise perfectly adequate jeans and an old, worn brown leather jacket which Dorian secretly did not completely hate. Dorian had not, however, given up on his tireless crusade against Cullen’s choice of work boots and when they, much to Dorian’s delight, began to fall apart, Dorian had convinced Cullen to take him along when shoe shopping.

“Are shoes really a dealbreaker for you?” Cullen had asked him as he wrestled off a sock to try on the line of boots that had to pass Dorian’s test of prettiness and Cullen’s test of endurability before they made their way onto Cullen’s feet. Dorian had sat beside him, picking lint off his jacket as an excuse to touch him. That, at least, had not gotten old in the months that had passed.

“I simply have standards.”

“I wear them for work.”

“And you’re always working,” Dorian had pointed out. Cullen could not argue with that.

They bickered lightly until they found a pair that was both practical in qualities and passable in appearance. What was a relationship without compromise?

When they returned back to Cullen’s flat, he took his sweet time taking off his new boots. He had looked up at Dorian, balancing awkwardly to remove them but smiling in good humour. “Should I leave them on?”

Dorian had pulled Cullen up with his hands bunched at the shirt covering those broad shoulders. “Let’s not get carried away.”

They had. And Dorian did now. He had almost forgotten about Vivienne which he knew his boss would not appreciate. He recovered but just barely, giving her an easy smile as he assured her that, “As would I, my dear Vivienne. I will see you next week.”

She wished him a good weekend, ducking gracefully into her car, and Dorian headed towards Cullen. When he neared, Cullen looked up from his phone which he had been fiddling with. He pocketed it as he stood up properly, greeting Dorian with a smile. Dorian kissed it, easily, easier than he had ever thought possible. This, too, never got old.

When they pulled back, Cullen watched Vivienne drive out of the car park. “I hope you’re not in trouble.” He frowned and added, “Or I hope I’m not in trouble.”

Dorian laughed, squeezing his arm. “Vivienne had some choice words on your dress sense.”

“And were the words dastardly and set them on fire?” Cullen asked dryly but he was used to this by now.

Dorian had warned Cullen that his appearance in the faculty car park would have tongues wagging but Cullen had not been deterred, stubborn in a way that Dorian often found attractive, even when it made them butt heads over even what shoes Cullen wore to work. Regarding his own work, Dorian had seen no point in convincing Cullen otherwise. After all, he had visited campus before. What was another time? And another and another and another.

Admittedly, it was not so much Vivienne’s comments on his manner of dress and choice of transportation that ruffled Cullen than the attention the students paid him, tittering around him like tiny birds. The first few times Cullen had parked up to wait for Dorian, Dorian literally had to wave away the students in fear that Cullen would be left with no choice but to bark at them.

Dorian was a creature of habit. Though he had worked through the summer with students on their doctorates, the new academic year demanded boundaries. Dorian insisted on them to encourage Cullen to establish a work-life balance which Dorian would claim was for his own selfish needs because he liked the more and more frequent nights Cullen wound his way into his bed when no other work demanded him and enjoyed most when Cullen had enough energy to fuck them both to sleep. Eventually, they found a routine that was almost healthy, agreeing upon Dorian not dropping by unannounced at the garage on account of the fact he was too distracting and kept demanding Cullen pay attention to him instead of do his job which is nothing new but Dorian, are you pouting? and Cullen would wait in the parking lot on Friday nights, even when Dorian suggested Cullen come up to his office, seeing through Dorian’s lazy lies of forgotten books and wayward papers, left on that mighty sturdy desk of his. Still, Cullen waited down below, even when he was at the mercy of giggling freshmen or worse, giggling faculty. He stood by the bike when he was alone and the truck when Lion had not been pawed off to Jim or Josephine and Cassandra. There was no bigger crowd of admirers than when the lovable dog stuck his head out the half-broken window of the monstrosity of a truck that, when Vivienne had first laid eyes on it, Dorian could not even pretend to defend.

Today, it was the bike, once Dorian’s and now Cullen’s. It was like a proud creature, tall even when propped on its side and handsome. Cullen took good care of it, treasuring it in a way that Dorian knew he never would have, even when it had sat in purgatory for a while, neither claiming it as they became distracted in each other, unsure of where the bike that had brought them together would fit as it passed between them. As a result, it did not leave Cullen’s garage for some time but Cullen had not wasted it, making some minor modifications that Dorian had not understood but was in no position to argue against once Cullen bought the bike from him. Cullen could have painted it hot pink if he had liked, though Dorian had warned him that if he did, Dorian would never sit atop it. Cullen had laughed and promised him that much.

Now, several months had passed since Dorian had handed the keys back to Cullen. There was not a day that went by that Dorian wasn’t glad he had. It no longer stood between them.

Dorian pressed Cullen into it, hands curled into the collar of his jacket. The material was cool under Dorian’s fingers but Cullen’s breath was warm. Dorian leant into it as he said, “You don’t need to worry. After all, no one’s complaints matter but mine.”

“And you have so few complaints,” Cullen said with a roll of his eyes but his smile was fond.

“Only one.” Dorian gave his jacket a tug. “Why dress yourself at all? All these pesky layers get in the way of one’s primal urges.”

“I’d get cold. You know this better than most.” The corner of Cullen’s mouth lifted upwards, the birth of laughter. He looked over Dorian’s shoulder where, no doubt, some students lingered. “And I would rather your students not see me in such a state.”

“Alas, the modern man is so weak.” Dorian sighed and pushed away from him, accepting the spare helmet Cullen handed him (it had been bought specially for Dorian.) He contemplated his own reflection in it. “I miss when men would go out into the wild and die there.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Cullen said in a tone that Dorian had come to recognise was Cullen coddling him, as you might a petulant child. Dorian didn’t find it too insulting, not when Cullen pressed a kiss to his forehead but then he took the helmet to put on Dorian’s head in a manner so firm, it was almost comical. Dorian was sure there were students watching who were laughing at him.

He lifted the eye guard to peer at Cullen suspiciously. “Where are we off today then?”

Part of their Friday plans was the illusion of spontaneity, texting each other dress codes the night prior (upon Dorian’s insistence, given he would not be seen ill-prepared for a dinner date because he had been chauffeured straight from work.) Often, when the week had been long, they wound up back at their respective apartments, ordering takeout they made sure to eat this time. Sometimes, they went out for dinner or saw Cullen’s friends or Dorian’s or both and Cullen would drive a drunk Dorian home and tuck him into bed with more tenderness than Dorian thought he deserved.

A few times now, Cullen had driven them out to walk Lion together, along the rocky approximation of a beach they had around these parts that Dorian whined about ceaselessly until Cullen tucked him under his arm in the name of warmth. It was getting too cold now for ice cream but they would sit with their shoulders pressed together, watching the sea breathe in and out and in and out and holding their cones with numb but determined fingers. Whenever Dorian looked out at the ocean, he thought of the land that was separated by it, a warmer place. It was so close and yet so far away, beyond an expanse of sea that left Dorian’s skin flushed and hair wispy. Dorian found, on those days, that when Cullen kissed him with a cold mouth, he did not mind the taste of vanilla. Not everything was familiar but it did not always have to be unwelcome.

The first time Cullen had told Dorian he loved him, he had said it by the sea, brushing the curling strands of hair from Dorian’s forehead and holding his cheeks until they warmed under his palms. He had not expected Dorian to say it back. Cullen had always been very good at being patient. In time.

Today, Cullen had told him to wear good, sturdy shoes, if Dorian even owned any and now, he shrugged as he said, “You’ll see.”

“A surprise?” Dorian said and that was a surprise in itself. Cullen was a straight-forward man, uninterested in grand gestures of affection in favour of merely enjoying each other’s company. Still, Cullen did not don his helmet fast enough to hide his smile. Dorian didn’t question him further, gesturing for him to get atop the bike first. “Well, lead away, my man.”

Cullen drove them away from campus, away from both their homes and then, out onto the highway.

Dorian still hadn’t gotten truly used to riding a motorcycle, even when he was merely a passenger. When Cullen eventually gave Dorian the midnight ride he had promised (and no, not that kind), he had drove them around carefully, though Dorian had needed no excuse to press himself against Cullen’s back. Every time after, something changed, a longer journey, a tougher road, more reason to test the limits of the massive machine. Cullen was as patient as ever, even when Dorian teased him about his sense of adventure, no signs of a daredevil in the gentle mechanic with a giant dog.

Dorian, of course, ate his words the first time Cullen had truly pushed the acceleration. On a long stretch of uninterrupted road, Dorian tightened his arms around Cullen’s middle and closed his eyes. As they drove down the highway, Dorian found himself unable to think, caught between terrified and exhilarated. He did not loosen his arms, not even when they slowed to a stop, not until Cullen gently untangled himself from Dorian’s grip. He had been unsteady on his feet afterwards and Cullen had caught his elbow, of course he did, as if to remind Dorian that he was in safe hands. When they had fucked that night, Dorian had pushed Cullen onto the bed and rode him, as promised. The adrenalin wore off eventually but his hands only stopped shaking when Cullen held them to his mouth and Dorian had said I love you, I love you too. Cullen had smiled, golden and true, and replied I know.

It was a good thing Dorian had not insisted on keeping the bike. It made him feel erratic, like something beyond his control. He did not know how to tame, be it things or feelings, beasts in themselves. Cullen steadied them both.

Still, Dorian had gotten better at soothing his erratic heartbeat by feeling Cullen’s regular thrum against his front when they took these journeys. Cullen was as calm at the handlebars as he was at the wheel. Even now, as they turned off the highway, making their way through country lanes that jostled them unforgivingly, Cullen did not falter and Dorian leant into him. If fate wanted Dorian to hold Cullen tighter, who was he to question it? He held on.

It wasn’t until Cullen pulled over, suddenly, that Dorian realised that there was a problem.

Dorian slid off the vehicle, pulling off his helmet as he said, “Don’t tell me it’s broken. Again.”

Cullen squatted by the bike, fiddling with something Dorian still hadn’t, after all this time, learnt the name of. Dorian knew they were in trouble when Cullen removed his own helmet only to rub the back of his neck.

“Not broken,” Cullen said, though he didn’t sound sure. He retrieved from his pocket a small tool, a masculine little thing that served as a bottle opener, a knife and a kind of screwdriver. Dorian watched him tinker as he had many times before, fascinated by the easy way Cullen dissected machinery, like a surgeon at work. There was an art to it that Cullen scoffed at but Dorian enjoyed.

“I hope you don’t expect a refund,” he said into the silence between them, only broken by the sound of metal. He stretched his legs now he had the opportunity to. They had been driving for some time. “What did Bull tell me when I realised the blasted thing was broken? Hey, no takesies backesies.”

“It’s not-” Cullen shook his head, blowing a heavy breath out as he leant back. “It’s a simple fix.”

“But?”

“I have none of my tools.”

Dorian looked around them. The view, as far as the eye could see, was fields. There were no passing cars either. They had, once again, found themselves in the middle of nowhere, though this nowhere lacked quite the abundance of trees or lakes or a little B&B where secrets had passed back and forth into the late hours of the night. Instead, from where they stood, there was only grass, the changing of seasons tinging the green with yellow. The autumn sun breathed the last of life to the wildflowers dotting the fields. Eventually, a blanket of white would smother them. Dorian could have shivered at the thought of baring another Southern winter but he warmed knowing he would not endure it alone.

He leant against the stationary bike as Cullen, luckily, was able to get a hold of a breakdown service which assured him they would be there but warned that they were out of the way so to make themselves comfortable in the meantime. Cullen frowned but thanked the person on the line before sighing and sitting down beside the bike.

Mildly, Dorian commented, “I believe this is why no one likes to venture off into wilderness.”

Cullen didn’t respond. Dorian sighed and moved to sit down beside him. “Come now, was I about to see another lake dear to your heart?”

“No, no, it was-” Cullen was rubbing at the back of his neck again. Dorian reached out to catch his hand, lacing their fingers. Cullen allowed it to be lowered, down onto his lap. He looked at it, at their joint hands, as he spoke. “I was just taking a shortcut. It’s further out.”

“What is? I see no point in you keeping your surprise a secret now.”

“It was… a car park.”

“A car park?” Dorian repeated the words like they were in a foreign language.

“Yes.”

Cullen’s certainty made Dorian blink. “Should I assume we were about to see a particularly special outlet mall?”

This, at least, made Cullen pause, realising that he had not explained himself properly. “Oh, no, it’s empty. It’s a good place to learn to drive. Out of the way, with plenty of space.” When Dorian’s expression dawned with realisation, Cullen looked a little embarrassed. “I did say I was going to teach you.”

“Did it warrant such secrecy?”

Cullen raised an eyebrow. “Would you have agreed had you known our destination was an empty parking lot, even if I said the view was rather scenic?”

Cullen had him there. “Well, you’ve seen what scenic views get us.” Dorian gestured at the absence of anything around them. “We should have gone to Halamshiral’s instead. They do a happy hour on cocktails and mocktails every Friday.”

When Cullen again didn’t respond, Dorian bumped his side against Cullen’s. Cullen still held true. That much was a relief to Dorian. “Whilst I appreciate a brooding handsome man as much as the next person, this is hardly worth such misery. Though before I venture into a pep talk that would do our dear Josephine proud, you did check the weather forecast, didn’t you?”

This made Cullen smile. “All clear.”

“Well, there you have it.” Dorian leant back on his palms, looking up at the sky. “Silver linings.”

He could feel Cullen looking at him so Dorian closed his eyes, letting him. Cullen leant in, resting his forehead against Dorian’s temple, leaning into him as if he could feel in Dorian something steady and strong too. Dorian had worried- still worried that he did not know the first thing about caring for, let alone loving, another person, at least not in such a way, as open as a wound. But with every passing day, it did not hurt so much to give himself to another man. Cullen did not take without giving something in himself in return. Dorian had always loathed the idea of completion, he’d had enough of thinking himself broken, but the wholeness of being with Cullen was not like crude drawings of broken hearts pencilled onto the back of the cubicle doors in Haven or even the motorcycle that had landed them here, figuratively and literally. It was merely the gap between one’s fingers. Dorian opened his eyes to look at Cullen’s hand holding his own too, now.

Dorian had learnt, in the quiet few months since his birthday, that what overwhelmed did not always have to smother. Things could rise steady, like the sea against the rocks, smoothing the jagged edges of cliffs that had stood proud since the beginning of time, like a thumb brushing against the coin that hung from Cullen’s neck. Dorian had made a habit of it too.

Cullen smiled at the delicate touch. “Trying your luck?”

“No.” Dorian tugged him closer with it. He would never get tired of doing so. “How prepared did the Boy Scouts train you to be?”

It would be almost an hour before a tow truck would arrive but they passed the time, easily. The sun would lower, painting the land orange and the sky colours that Dorian could see but not decipher, not when he could not focus for long enough to look beyond Cullen, not when he was able to see the sunset reflected in his eyes just fine. There was not another soul for miles, no one to tell what transpired between the two men in the open. By the time the driver pulled up by the motorcycle, stubborn in its brokenness, Cullen and Dorian were sat on the ground again, Dorian picking shards of grass from Cullen’s curls, though there was nothing they could do about their grass-stained clothes, except perhaps to buy more.

When the driver had, after loading the bike onto the back, asked where to, Cullen looked at Dorian expectedly.

“Let’s go home,” Dorian said. It was an odd thing to say but Cullen knew what he meant. Dorian may have not looked at the sunset earlier but he saw it now, in the colours of Cullen’s smile, warm but not blinding. Cullen’s hand found Dorian’s once more and when it slotted there, everything made sense to Dorian, all the wars and tragedies and sacrifices done in the name of love. It did not make a man whole but it made Dorian better.

They went home.