So we'll burn it down now and you can sit on it tomorrow in full Tevinter regalia when all those stuffy arseholes are here. [ It's as he's making a great, swooping gesture with his other arm, because Dorian's clothes are still something of a fascination for him and he likes to exaggerate how exotic they are when they're not paying lip service to the dictates of court decorum, that he realizes that he's gotten the order of that idea all mixed up. His nose wrinkles as he stares at the throne, like it's pulled one over on him. ] Wait, no, that's not right. I think I've gotten it backwards. Blast.
Or just burn it down now and advise me on a replacement tomorrow. We can concoct a brilliant story how it came to pass. Possibly with a dragon. Everybody loves those stories.
[ A hint of darkness creeps into his tone at that. The fact that he's king provides a buffer to a lot of the curiosity, but there are still plenty of people who don't feel the least bit awkward pestering him with questions about the archdemon. Nobility, mostly. Merchants. Minor lords and ladies and visiting dignitaries who think it's all a bit of a lark, pressing him to reminisce. Now he's getting maudlin. That won't do at all.
Alistair shakes his head, dispelling the dark thoughts before they can go too far and ruin his buzz. It's a nice buzz. He'd like to keep it for a while longer yet. ]
Oooooooor... [ He draws the word out entirely too long and takes the plunge and tosses the flirtation out there. Because he may have gotten older, arguably wiser, but he's still downright terrible at flirting. There's an eyebrow waggle. It's embarrassing. Thank the Maker he's too soused to care. ] I could persuade you to sit down.
[ In all fairness, compared to the drab affairs Fereldans call clothing, Tevinter fashion is exotic. Try as he might to make all attempts to fit in, Dorian just get let go of his expensive and quality made wardrobe. There's no way on this blessed earth he's trading in silks for that blighted plaidweave. That is offensive even to a blind man.
The look on his face softens at the mention of dragons. True, the archdemon and the Blight had held Dorian's interest. Purely in the scholarly way, of course. The south was a novelty to him while tucked away in the seemingly untouchable Tevinter. Everyone operates on a wholly different scale. There's Wardens and the Templar Order so different from the one he knows. He'd wanted to ask, but had seen the change in Alistair when questioned. Dorian knows what it's like to put on airs, parade around like nothing's wrong. So, he hadn't ever asked, just read the books in the library recounting it in better detail than the ones in Tevinter. He sees this might be happening now, so he gently gives his arm a squeeze before dropping his hand back down to his side. ]
Quite frankly, I enjoy stories more when there isn't a dragon involved. [ Nose upturned, he takes on a hauteur air. ] I prefer to be the one around with the pure, raw power, thank you.
[ But, he rights himself and gives Alistair a look. It's colored by flirtation and barely veiled interest. His arms cross low over his torso and he turns to face Alistair completely with one brow raised in question. ]
Now, that all depends on how you'd like to persuade me. Go on. I'm listening.
[ That’s the nice thing about Dorian. Well, one of the nice things about him. There’s rather a lot of nice things, despite all that rubbish about being a Tevinter magister out to steal the kingdom in the name of the Imperium or whatever the latest whisper of doom and gloom happens to be. Alistair used to keep track when Dorian came to the palace. It’d been entertaining, watching the nobles get their fancy knickers in a twist. But it got old after a while and now he only pays attention to the really juicy bits.
He gets it, is the thing. He gets that there are things Alistair doesn’t want to talk about and he just lets them alone. Not many people know how to do that. Or if they do, they aren’t living in Denerim. And he’s smart too. Probably too smart.
Alistair watches him suspiciously as he denounces stories of dragons—the man’s got dragons and snakes on his clothes, for Andraste’s sake, of course he likes dragons!—but there’s no true wariness there. His advisors call him a fool for it, like they call him a fool for so many other things, but he trusts him. Because Alistair’s never actually been a fool, and he knows the rumors aren’t true.
Opening his mouth, Alistair’s suddenly recalls a much younger version of himself making a comment about licking lampposts in winter in a ham-fisted attempt at innuendo and can’t help a chuckle. He’s almost tempted to try it again, but something tells him a man of Dorian’s refined taste won’t find it nearly as amusing as he does. ]
Well, I thought maybe I could show you how a king ought to be treated. [ Not his best work, but no doubt significantly better if he just left it there. He doesn’t. ] None of this fancy party business and hard to pronounce little pieces of fluff some cook somewhere swears is edible. No, I’m talking about making you feel like a king. [ He takes a step closer, not quite crowding him. ] You just have to take the throne first.
[ It's true, really, Alistair isn't a fool, no matter how much he might act like one at times. There is a world weariness and wariness about him due to everything he's been through over the past ten years. He's heard visitors say what he used to be light—eyes bright and always some sort of joke at the ready with him. But, time—as it is so wont to do—has changed Alistair. Dorian has no idea if it was for the better or worse, however, in spite of it all he finds he does like the man.
Even his poor attempts at flirting.
He's been on the receiving end of it enough to know when he's making the attempt and Dorian tends to entertain him through it. It's so poor, all the time, but somehow it had charmed him enough once or twice or thrice before. They've done little more than share a few furtive kisses in an abandoned hallway of the castle; one time things had gotten a little too heated in the study, but Dorian doesn't regret it.
His lids lower as Alistair comes closer—he smells like wine and metal, woodsy from spending too long sitting in chairs made of pine. He doesn't move to give more space, instead relishes in the magnetic draw between them. There's much he could do or say in this moment, a few lines that would wrest control away into his hands. Except, he's far too curious about where Alistair is going with this. Even if he's starting to get a good inkling he knows exactly where it's headed. A low, amused hum rolls in his throat. ]
Trying to tell me how you'd like to be serviced, my lord? [ There's a sharper glitter in his eyes, as if he's cottoned on to what Alistair intends; he wets his lips. ] I'm afraid I'm not too interested in land disputes or relations with Orlais.
[ One hand shifts to smooth out a few wrinkles in the gaudy red monstrosity Alistair has on. Distantly, Dorian makes a mental note to have some proper regal robes commissioned for him tomorrow. ]
However, if we've means to discuss relations between Fereldan and Tevinter, I might be far more inclined to offer a treaty of sorts.
[ No one ever asks his opinion on the matter, but Alistair isn’t sure whether he likes the man he’s become now or not. He leans toward no out of some faint, misbegotten sense of loyalty to nostalgia, though it wouldn’t be true to say that he misses the person he used to be either. Always so ready with a smile and a joke, always the butt of every joke. Not so much has changed with that, really, he knows he’s still a joke to so many people, but his memories of who he was often annoy him.
Though, if that’s because he regrets losing that part of himself to war and death and a duty he never wanted, he doesn’t look too deeply to find out.
Alistair takes Dorian’s lack of retreat at his advance as a sign to continue. This thing they do, the flirtations, the little moments stolen when the flirtations get a little out of control, he doesn’t really know where it’s going, if Dorian’s humoring him because he’s the king and his employer or if he actually likes him. The former seems more likely, the latter rather preposterous. But a man can dream and Alistair’s always been full of dreams. ]
What? No. Relations with Orlais are terrible. [ He shakes his head, maybe a little too vigorously. ] I hate them, they hate me, there isn’t really much of anything to discuss there.
[ Waving talk of Orlais away, he lets the arc of his hand arrest itself against Dorian’s hip. Quite by accident. How did that get there? The wine makes him think that it’s a smooth move. If he was sober… he probably would think it smooth too. Or at least smooth by his standards. ]
I’m much more interested in relations between Ferelden and Tevinter. Close relations. The sort they write books about. [ He’s starting to lose the thread of this analogy and angles himself a little closer, dipping his head in not quite close enough to actually kiss him. ] What kind of treaty are you offering?
[ Though it might be a strange thing for someone like Dorian to admit, but the fact that Alistair is always ready with a smile or some outstandingly ridiculous joke is something he appreciates. After being here as long as he has been, it's refreshing to see at least someone will still welcome him with positivity rather than spit at him behind his back. Or to his face. If he were to be further truthful, he could say it's that smile that has charmed Alistair further into his heart than even he realizes.
So, he's not that far off in thinking Dorian does these things because he truly does care for him. It's more that than it is because he's king (though, to be sure, that is a perk; even Dorian isn't impervious to the allure of royalty). There's nothing wrong with dreams, even Dorian has some outlandish ones of his own—quite possibly involving the man right in front of him. But, dreams are dreams. Foolish flights of fancy to have during idle moments. Nothing can come of this, Dorian knows that. And yet he lets himself get carried away all the same.
It's hard not to when the wine tells him this is fine. Just as it's fine that his hand slips up to curl around the side of Alistair's neck—not bringing him closer, or pushing him further away. Just there. His nose bumps against Alistair's lightly. ]
You'll discover them in due time.
[ He hovers a moment, breath fanning warm and soft over Alistair's lips as if he'll close that last small gap and kiss him. But, he pulls away with a smirk on his lips as he slowly backs toward the throne. His hand does slip, but only to circle around Alistair's wrist, urging him to follow along. ]
Tell me, though, I'm quite interested. What sort of books would they be?
[ The perk with being the king, really the only perk as far as Alistair sees it, is that he can do whatever he wants. Hare off on a quest with scoundrels to find his father with his kingdom none-the-wiser? Not a problem. Take anyone he wants to his bed? Possibly a problem but no one can actually stop him. If he wanted to, he could give Dorian lands and a title in Ferelden. He could have anyone who looked at him funny hanged.
Dreams aren’t so far out of reach, when there’s a king involved.
He just hopes that it isn’t the crown that’s got Dorian reaching out to touch him. It’s neither a pull toward nor a push away, but it’s not a push away and Alistair takes what he can get. And then he stops thinking about what it is and isn’t when Dorian leans in, his breath is warm against Alistair’s mouth. His eyelids grow heavy, not quite closing but starting to, and he licks his lips ever so briefly. Waiting for it. Waiting… ]
Sorry, books?
[ Alistair blinks at him, confused, as he emphatically doesn’t kiss him. In fact, he’s pulling away now, walking away, leaving, and Alistair’s only recourse is to half-stumble after him, belatedly realizing he’s got a hand on his wrist, tugging him along. It takes his brain a moment to catch up. ]
Oh, right. Books. Yes, little things with covers and pages and words written in the middle.
[ That still doesn’t explain why they’re talking about books right now and not kissing. They should be kissing. Alistair thought they were going to be kissing and he’s not pouting, no, he’s the king and kings don’t pout. Why are they talking about blasted books at this—Oh. ]
History books. You know, very officious. In the year such and such, Ferelden and Tevinter were united by the… [ He trails off, shaking his head. ] Actually, no. I think I drank too much to try to make this a clever analogy. Something outrageously smutty. One of those scandalous romance novels all the courtiers like to pretend they’re too highborn to read and spend every party giggling about in whispers.
[ Dreams are incredibly far out of reach when he's basically an exiled scion of his house. Not in so many words, of course, but Dorian knows his standing with his father. So, he will indulge in his whimsical dreams and what ifs as a reprieve from the truths of his life. There's no harm in it. No harm in thinking he might actually mean something to someone instead of just a pleasant tumble in the sheets.
But, it's a role he's played many times before and one he can easily slip into again. Dorian can be the wanton tease, the sanctimonious lover, the lecherous little secret. The thicker he lays it all on, the better it fills all the cracks of wanting. It becomes easier to convince himself this is all just a game. Eventually the pieces will clear the board for checkmate and the game will be over.
Might as well enjoy what he's got while he's got it.
Dorian laughs softly, unable to help himself. The wine makes it harder to repress his initial responses. No matter how much he'd like to—at least to upkeep his own game, anyway. Tipping his head to the side, he hums thoughtfully and regards Alistair with a curious look. ]
Smutty literature, is it? [ There's a knife edge to his smile, sharp and cunning. ] Then perhaps we ought to work on the smutty part.
[ There's no hesitation as he sits on the throne, no second thought crosses his mind. Now is the time for boldness. Dorian slips easily into this particular role, takes to it like a fish to water. It's not difficult to affect a hauteur attitude (he carries it most days as it is), his legs lazily spread and he leans against one gaudy armrest of the throne to cradle his chin in the palm of his hand. His eyes are dark, yet catch the glittering of the fires that light the room. A wide gesture is given with his other hand to encompass the space in front of him; when he next speaks the tease is gone from his voice and carries a demanding presence. ]
Kneel before your king and swear fealty. Prove your worth.
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no subject
Or just burn it down now and advise me on a replacement tomorrow. We can concoct a brilliant story how it came to pass. Possibly with a dragon. Everybody loves those stories.
[ A hint of darkness creeps into his tone at that. The fact that he's king provides a buffer to a lot of the curiosity, but there are still plenty of people who don't feel the least bit awkward pestering him with questions about the archdemon. Nobility, mostly. Merchants. Minor lords and ladies and visiting dignitaries who think it's all a bit of a lark, pressing him to reminisce. Now he's getting maudlin. That won't do at all.
Alistair shakes his head, dispelling the dark thoughts before they can go too far and ruin his buzz. It's a nice buzz. He'd like to keep it for a while longer yet. ]
Oooooooor... [ He draws the word out entirely too long and takes the plunge and tosses the flirtation out there. Because he may have gotten older, arguably wiser, but he's still downright terrible at flirting. There's an eyebrow waggle. It's embarrassing. Thank the Maker he's too soused to care. ] I could persuade you to sit down.
no subject
The look on his face softens at the mention of dragons. True, the archdemon and the Blight had held Dorian's interest. Purely in the scholarly way, of course. The south was a novelty to him while tucked away in the seemingly untouchable Tevinter. Everyone operates on a wholly different scale. There's Wardens and the Templar Order so different from the one he knows. He'd wanted to ask, but had seen the change in Alistair when questioned. Dorian knows what it's like to put on airs, parade around like nothing's wrong. So, he hadn't ever asked, just read the books in the library recounting it in better detail than the ones in Tevinter. He sees this might be happening now, so he gently gives his arm a squeeze before dropping his hand back down to his side. ]
Quite frankly, I enjoy stories more when there isn't a dragon involved. [ Nose upturned, he takes on a hauteur air. ] I prefer to be the one around with the pure, raw power, thank you.
[ But, he rights himself and gives Alistair a look. It's colored by flirtation and barely veiled interest. His arms cross low over his torso and he turns to face Alistair completely with one brow raised in question. ]
Now, that all depends on how you'd like to persuade me. Go on. I'm listening.
no subject
He gets it, is the thing. He gets that there are things Alistair doesn’t want to talk about and he just lets them alone. Not many people know how to do that. Or if they do, they aren’t living in Denerim. And he’s smart too. Probably too smart.
Alistair watches him suspiciously as he denounces stories of dragons—the man’s got dragons and snakes on his clothes, for Andraste’s sake, of course he likes dragons!—but there’s no true wariness there. His advisors call him a fool for it, like they call him a fool for so many other things, but he trusts him. Because Alistair’s never actually been a fool, and he knows the rumors aren’t true.
Opening his mouth, Alistair’s suddenly recalls a much younger version of himself making a comment about licking lampposts in winter in a ham-fisted attempt at innuendo and can’t help a chuckle. He’s almost tempted to try it again, but something tells him a man of Dorian’s refined taste won’t find it nearly as amusing as he does. ]
Well, I thought maybe I could show you how a king ought to be treated. [ Not his best work, but no doubt significantly better if he just left it there. He doesn’t. ] None of this fancy party business and hard to pronounce little pieces of fluff some cook somewhere swears is edible. No, I’m talking about making you feel like a king. [ He takes a step closer, not quite crowding him. ] You just have to take the throne first.
no subject
Even his poor attempts at flirting.
He's been on the receiving end of it enough to know when he's making the attempt and Dorian tends to entertain him through it. It's so poor, all the time, but somehow it had charmed him enough once or twice or thrice before. They've done little more than share a few furtive kisses in an abandoned hallway of the castle; one time things had gotten a little too heated in the study, but Dorian doesn't regret it.
His lids lower as Alistair comes closer—he smells like wine and metal, woodsy from spending too long sitting in chairs made of pine. He doesn't move to give more space, instead relishes in the magnetic draw between them. There's much he could do or say in this moment, a few lines that would wrest control away into his hands. Except, he's far too curious about where Alistair is going with this. Even if he's starting to get a good inkling he knows exactly where it's headed. A low, amused hum rolls in his throat. ]
Trying to tell me how you'd like to be serviced, my lord? [ There's a sharper glitter in his eyes, as if he's cottoned on to what Alistair intends; he wets his lips. ] I'm afraid I'm not too interested in land disputes or relations with Orlais.
[ One hand shifts to smooth out a few wrinkles in the gaudy red monstrosity Alistair has on. Distantly, Dorian makes a mental note to have some proper regal robes commissioned for him tomorrow. ]
However, if we've means to discuss relations between Fereldan and Tevinter, I might be far more inclined to offer a treaty of sorts.
no subject
Though, if that’s because he regrets losing that part of himself to war and death and a duty he never wanted, he doesn’t look too deeply to find out.
Alistair takes Dorian’s lack of retreat at his advance as a sign to continue. This thing they do, the flirtations, the little moments stolen when the flirtations get a little out of control, he doesn’t really know where it’s going, if Dorian’s humoring him because he’s the king and his employer or if he actually likes him. The former seems more likely, the latter rather preposterous. But a man can dream and Alistair’s always been full of dreams. ]
What? No. Relations with Orlais are terrible. [ He shakes his head, maybe a little too vigorously. ] I hate them, they hate me, there isn’t really much of anything to discuss there.
[ Waving talk of Orlais away, he lets the arc of his hand arrest itself against Dorian’s hip. Quite by accident. How did that get there? The wine makes him think that it’s a smooth move. If he was sober… he probably would think it smooth too. Or at least smooth by his standards. ]
I’m much more interested in relations between Ferelden and Tevinter. Close relations. The sort they write books about. [ He’s starting to lose the thread of this analogy and angles himself a little closer, dipping his head in not quite close enough to actually kiss him. ] What kind of treaty are you offering?
no subject
So, he's not that far off in thinking Dorian does these things because he truly does care for him. It's more that than it is because he's king (though, to be sure, that is a perk; even Dorian isn't impervious to the allure of royalty). There's nothing wrong with dreams, even Dorian has some outlandish ones of his own—quite possibly involving the man right in front of him. But, dreams are dreams. Foolish flights of fancy to have during idle moments. Nothing can come of this, Dorian knows that. And yet he lets himself get carried away all the same.
It's hard not to when the wine tells him this is fine. Just as it's fine that his hand slips up to curl around the side of Alistair's neck—not bringing him closer, or pushing him further away. Just there. His nose bumps against Alistair's lightly. ]
You'll discover them in due time.
[ He hovers a moment, breath fanning warm and soft over Alistair's lips as if he'll close that last small gap and kiss him. But, he pulls away with a smirk on his lips as he slowly backs toward the throne. His hand does slip, but only to circle around Alistair's wrist, urging him to follow along. ]
Tell me, though, I'm quite interested. What sort of books would they be?
no subject
Dreams aren’t so far out of reach, when there’s a king involved.
He just hopes that it isn’t the crown that’s got Dorian reaching out to touch him. It’s neither a pull toward nor a push away, but it’s not a push away and Alistair takes what he can get. And then he stops thinking about what it is and isn’t when Dorian leans in, his breath is warm against Alistair’s mouth. His eyelids grow heavy, not quite closing but starting to, and he licks his lips ever so briefly. Waiting for it. Waiting… ]
Sorry, books?
[ Alistair blinks at him, confused, as he emphatically doesn’t kiss him. In fact, he’s pulling away now, walking away, leaving, and Alistair’s only recourse is to half-stumble after him, belatedly realizing he’s got a hand on his wrist, tugging him along. It takes his brain a moment to catch up. ]
Oh, right. Books. Yes, little things with covers and pages and words written in the middle.
[ That still doesn’t explain why they’re talking about books right now and not kissing. They should be kissing. Alistair thought they were going to be kissing and he’s not pouting, no, he’s the king and kings don’t pout. Why are they talking about blasted books at this—Oh. ]
History books. You know, very officious. In the year such and such, Ferelden and Tevinter were united by the… [ He trails off, shaking his head. ] Actually, no. I think I drank too much to try to make this a clever analogy. Something outrageously smutty. One of those scandalous romance novels all the courtiers like to pretend they’re too highborn to read and spend every party giggling about in whispers.
no subject
But, it's a role he's played many times before and one he can easily slip into again. Dorian can be the wanton tease, the sanctimonious lover, the lecherous little secret. The thicker he lays it all on, the better it fills all the cracks of wanting. It becomes easier to convince himself this is all just a game. Eventually the pieces will clear the board for checkmate and the game will be over.
Might as well enjoy what he's got while he's got it.
Dorian laughs softly, unable to help himself. The wine makes it harder to repress his initial responses. No matter how much he'd like to—at least to upkeep his own game, anyway. Tipping his head to the side, he hums thoughtfully and regards Alistair with a curious look. ]
Smutty literature, is it? [ There's a knife edge to his smile, sharp and cunning. ] Then perhaps we ought to work on the smutty part.
[ There's no hesitation as he sits on the throne, no second thought crosses his mind. Now is the time for boldness. Dorian slips easily into this particular role, takes to it like a fish to water. It's not difficult to affect a hauteur attitude (he carries it most days as it is), his legs lazily spread and he leans against one gaudy armrest of the throne to cradle his chin in the palm of his hand. His eyes are dark, yet catch the glittering of the fires that light the room. A wide gesture is given with his other hand to encompass the space in front of him; when he next speaks the tease is gone from his voice and carries a demanding presence. ]
Kneel before your king and swear fealty. Prove your worth.