thecapitol | (no subject)

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(no subject)

Who| Dorian and Maxwell, Tabris
What| Dorian is in a bit of a downward spiral and who needs self respect anyway
Where| Maxwell's room
When| a few days before the arena
Warnings/Notes| lots of sexual innuendo, and really terrible life decisions. Alcohol abuse ( a bit ). Probably a really ill-thought-out attempt at seduction.

At the very least, he wasn't drunk.

The drinking had gotten worse. Even he could acknowledge that to himself - dimly - as if from a great distance, and about someone else. He'd always enjoyed a good drink but he was using it more and more as an escape, lately, and he was caring less and less about keeping to his tolerances. It was beginning to be a Problem, but one that he couldn't quite help himself with.

Tonight, however, he was not drunk. That was a relief. He would not be doing what he was doing if he had been - he legitimately did care about Maxwell enough that he wouldn't make the man endure that - but he was tired, he was depressed, and he was lonely. The Sinful places in the city had enticed him for a little while but hadn't actually made the depression or the loneliness any better. Whores made good friends but there were only so many male ones in the city and while engaging in carnal passion was indeed a) a satisfying type of rebellion, and b) distracting, it was in absolutely no way fulfilling. Quite the opposite. He felt emptier with each passing day.

He'd been avoiding his friends. He at least had it in him to be ashamed of himself, even if he saw no other particular way of getting on with his life. Back home, perhaps, he could have found another avenue. He could have thrown himself into his studies, into his magic. Into killing random strangers in the countryside. But here...

But here.

It was enough to almost make one wish that one was Tranquil. At least then he wouldn't care.

He had a bottle of brandy in his hand and two glasses, when he knocked on Maxwell's door in the middle of the night. He was dressed, but in the kind of leisurely sexual way that many in the sinful class of this city seemed to. Not as flashy as the peacock modes, but a late night demure outfit - a shoulder bare - the neckline high and strewn through with glinting silken threads, but still soft. It folded to the touch, lay his adam's apple bare. He wore a carefully tailored, if comfortably loose shirt under it. His trousers were fairly snug, with whisps of embroidered blue fire up the outside of the calf. He looked, in a word, fantastic. But there were bags under his eyes that hadn't been there before, and his coif was not quite as well placed as it usually was, and his smile, when he gave it as the door opened, didn't quite manage to reach his eyes.

"Good evening, Maxwell," He said quickly, before the man could make any sound of surprise or even of acknowledgement, before carefully side stepping past him and into the room. "I thought you could use some company, and I had the perfect bottle in mind."

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"Is it?" Dorian teased, walking over to the small table to set the glasses down and take the lid from the decanter. "I admit it may contain a touch of spontaneity, but completely unexpected?"

He poured one glass then poured another, before turning to give Maxwell a knowing smirk.

"Was that a gentle hint to tell me that I am unwelcome?"

There was a book open on the stand, the image of twin boys on one of the pages, (Gemini, the constellation was called; charming and adventurous, with a love for knowledge), and there was a candle. Unlit and unused, in a simple glass votive.

"You're always welcome, Dorian," he replied softly, honestly, though he didn't smile back. He'd tried, more than once, since speaking with Tabris to speak with Dorian. To try and - sort things. But the man had been always been busy, and not always because of Jason, if the gossip was too be believed.

He'd have rather talked it out, however painful it was, than have it come what he expected this was.

"And I am glad you came. I've been trying to see you, since the meeting."

"Yes, I've been told I'm hard to come by," he said wryly, picking up both glasses and handing one to Maxwell. He gently ignored the subtle hint that Maxwell wanted to talk. Mostly because he was fairly sure talking was the worst thing this could come to, at the present moment.

"I admit I've been doing my utmost to keep myself distracted. Did you know they've bred seven different colours of peacock, here? Seven! I almost want one, for my room, but they are terribly noisy."

He raised his glass and clinked it gently against Maxwell's, not meeting his eyes. "To our endless fortune and prosperity," he said, deeply sarcastically, before taking a good, long, drink.

Maxwell said nothing - did nothing - for a moment, watching Dorian instead as he swallowed back his drink in nearly a single mouthful. Then he followed, taking a deep drink of his own. Holding it on his tongue, burning in time with his lungs, before finally swallowing.

"So," he said, exhaling a long husky breath. He studied the last splash of brandy in the bottom of glass, swirled it from side to side. "Is that why you're here? No more new distractions?"

"No. I'm here because ever since Adella arrived, Cullen has made a terrible drinking partner."

He drank the last of his glass and then set it aside, folding his arms and leaning against the wall.

"And I'm here because I got the distinct impression that you wanted me to be here. That is, of course, when you don't obviously want me as far away as humanly possible."

He let out a breath. He certainly didn't want Maxwell thinking that this visit was different than what it was, but that would require Dorian somehow figuring out exactly what it was in the first place.

"I'm here, Maxwell. Make of it what you will."

And not, Maxwell noted, because he wanted to be. Not because he actually wanted-- But that was fair enough. He'd expected that, hadn't he?

He could understand that, even as that feeling in his chest turned cold and sank heavily into his gut.

He tipped back the last of his glass and then set it empty on the stand, pushing it away from the edge with the tip of his finger as he swallowed.

"I won't pretend that I don't, Dorian. I won't pretend that there isn't a part of me that hasn't wished to the Maker that it could be that simple... but it's not." He met Dorian's eyes, folding his own arms over his chest, feet set shoulder-width apart, as if expecting a blow. As if needing to steel himself. "I haven't been honest with you."

Ah. They were back to talking. For a brief moment Dorian wondered if he could distract Maxwell from the actual discussion - but decided against it just as quickly. Dorian's own stance, though similar, was casual and relaxed, versus Maxwell's guarded defense.

"You're not the Inquisitor?" Dorian asked wryly, quirking an eyebrow. "Or, perhaps, you've a little more in common with our friend Krem than I was led to believe? No! Don't tell me - you're actually an elf, or at least 1/8th elf on your mother's side--"

Maxwell blinked at him, momentarily caught of guard, then he snorted. A small, low laugh.

"If only," he replied with a small shake of his head. "I would know what to do about outright lies..."

The soft edge of humor disappeared as quickly as it came.

"No, the truth is -- I left someone in Thedas, Dorian. Someone I cared about very much." His gaze moved over Dorian's face, tone shifting, deepening as his throat began to tighten. Threatening to close. "...But even as I say that, he is here. And to him, I never was."

Whatever he had expected, this wasn't it. Or - perhaps it was, partially. Perhaps a part of him had thought-- no. Ridiculous. His eyes fell away, the smile disappearing.

"... Ah," was all he could think of to say. It was rare that he was a man without words, but this was certainly one of those times.

Under other circumstances, Maxwell would have taken a simple, teasing sort of pleasure in being able to trip up Dorian's clever tongue, but it that moment, he waited, his breath stilled.

Hoping for -- what he couldn't even say.

Something foolish, no doubt.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I should have told you sooner, but I thought it would be for the best that if I didn't. That it might get easier... but it hasn't. If anything it's gotten worse. Every time I see you, and I know you don't--

He raised a hand to stop him.

"That I didn't know? That I was making a fool of myself? How painfully right, on both counts." He looked up, tried to give a sardonic smile, and failed. "But I take the message loud and clear. I won't make things more complicated for you, Maxwell. Though if it is who I think it is, you'd best put your heart aside, on that one. He's fairly firmly in his own world, now--"

That he wasn't feeling any of the things that he was, complicated or otherwise. That he wanted something that Maxwell would likely never be able to give him.

That Dorian would never care for him the way he once had.

"Yes, you've made that quite clear, Dorian," he said, interrupting the man in turn. The mage had a right to be angry, and Maxwell wasn't going to begrudge him for feeling the way the way he did, but it wasn't as if he'd done anything lightly.

"For what it's worth, if I could send you back, or bring him here for you, I would."

Confusion flashed across his face, and then the brows furrowed. "Send me-- I see." He stood straight up, now.

"Far be it for me to give a damn, Maxwell, but it isn't my fault that he doesn't love you, here. And you're hardly the only one having to go this particular trek alone. I thought you could use the company, and I was wrong. But maybe you should actually talk to Cullen, instead of having to deal with such a poor substitute."

He reached behind him and grabbed the decanter, a little too roughly, a little brandy spilling out onto the carpet."

"I know it's not your-- Cullen?"

He'd been about to try and explain. To promise that he would try to keep his distance, that he would try to keep his feelings from being a burden to him - or anyone else for that matter, but then Dorian mentioned Cullen and he stopped fast.

"Why would I talk to--" He stared at Dorian, a strange mix of incredulity, and amusement, and pain pulling at his face. "...Dorian, the only person I need to talk to, I am."

"Well then don't complain to me if he--" Dorian started, but midway through his sentence, he froze, understanding finally dawning on him.

The only person he needed to talk to, he was.

His mustache drooped as he turned his face, something pained in his expression. "... Oh." He said finally. "... Well, that was an unfortunate misunderstanding..."

Watching him turn away, Maxwell wondered for a moment if maybe he should have let Dorian think it Cullen he carried a torch for. That anger might have easier for them both.

"A bit," he agreed, wryly, after a long moment of silence. "But it all still stands. It isn't your fault, and I am sorry that I didn't tell you as I soon as I realized there wasn't--"

He shook his head and turned away as well, arms unfolding to rub a hand through the hair at the base of his head.

"I knew you were grieving. I didn't wish to burden you further."

He didn't seem to quite hear Maxwell - both his eyes and his attention focused elsewhere, as the gears in his mind slowly shifted into place, realigning with the newly gained knowledge.

... Well. That made things quite a bit clearer. He wet his lips, frowning, before looking back at Maxwell murmuring about burdens.

"What? No. How is it a burden?" He finally met Maxwell's eyes, his brows furrowed, but more out of a sense of attempting understanding than of anger. "I admit I-- I find it someone incredulous, that something could happen twice, but then, that's the entire premise what our myriad worlds are based upon. That another Inquisitor should--" he cut himself off, still frowning, and let out a long breath. "... Well. I've been a fool. And a fool likely doing significantly more damage than I ever meant to."

Maxwell snorted again, rougher, deeper that time. Leaning against the little stand, a hip beside the little white candle, he looked back.

"That's how. I know you're not him, Dorian. How much alike you may be." And they were, so, so much. He was still all the things he'd come to know and love: charming and intelligent, adventurous and brave, confident and determined, gentle and caring....

He was certain they probably wouldn't have been having this conversation, if he weren't.

"You are your own person, and you shouldn't have to concern yourself over what damage you might or might not do just by being you."

"My entire life has been centered around damage control for 'just being me'," Dorian pointed out, a little wryly.

He wasn't sure what else to say, however. His brows furrowed again, and he realised he was still holding the decanter. Carefully, he filled his glass again, and then gently took Maxwell's and filled it too.

"Of course I'm him," He said, somewhat airily. "At least, in so far as flesh and bone can extend. Just as the rest of our intrepid little party are very much them, despite the fact that none of them seem to remember anything quite the way I do - if at all." He took a breath, handing the glass back. "... But you're right. You should have told me. And I...." his eyes slid away. "... Exactly how much do you actually know about my 'grief'?"

He took the glass, easier this time. For better or worse, the truth was out. The rest, now, would simply be.

He would find a way to carry on. He was, already, nothing, so it wasn't like he had any worse place he could go.

"I never wanted you to regret anything, least of of all where it came to me," he said softly, lifting the glass to drink. A deep swallow later, he said, "I know you care for your Inquisitor, even if you can't say so."

He never had with him either.

(You're incredibly dull, and I hate you.)

"And from what I've heard you've been -- keeping company since the arena."

He didn't confirm or deny it - which was confirmation enough in itself. Gavin wasn't here. There was no point digging up that coffin again.

"... Ah. Yes, and here we have the 'things I've been doing to unwittingly hurt you'," He said, offering a slightly apologetic cringe. "I've fallen into old habits, it's true. This place reminds me so much of home that I find myself resorting to the same tactics to cope here as I did there." He didn't drink, instead swirling the brandy around in his glass while he stared down into it.

"... And I don't regret you, Maxwell. I'm glad that I've met you. And I'm glad that you... I'm glad that he found something, with you." He glanced up and offered a slightly pained smile. "It's encouraging to know that I am not entirely without hope, in every universe."

There was a flash in Maxwell's eyes, something sharp, and his head dipped to hide it.

Dorian had other universes, while he had his own, and... this. And there was a distinct possibility he'd never see the former again.

But that was a bitter thought, selfish and black, and beneath him. He pushed it away with another drink.

"You sell yourself far too short, Dorian. I would bet that if all the yous out there share even the least bit in common, there's someone smart enough to realize how lucky they would be to earn your affections."

His pulse trembled in his throat, the vein fluttering. His lips were dry, and he wet them, watching Maxwell carefully.

"... I wouldn't be so certain of that," he said quietly. "Once seemed like a bolt from the blue. Two seems relatively impossible." There was something odd in his voice, and he turned his eyes away again.

"... Regardless, here we are. At least now I understand the bizarre dichotomy of seemingly wanting me around and not wanting me around, at the same time."

There it was, that look. That one Dorian would swear up and down he never gave - that was nigh impossible for him to make, and that never failed to make Maxwell's heart skip a beat. A warm, rush of affection thudding against his ribs.

To his credit, despite the little squeeze in his chest, he did his best to ignore it.

"I would," he replied quietly. "...But yes. Now you know, and I promise, I've no more secrets to share."

A lame attempt at humor.

Edited 2015-05-18 22:45 (UTC)

He didn't reply for a little while, finally raising his glass to his lips and taking a careful, thoughtful, sip, before letting out a breath.

"Don't hold it against me," He said finally, a little heavily. "My... coping mechanisms. I don't want you to think that it reflects--" he hesitated, frowning, "... anything. About him, or you." He met Maxwell's eyes and held his gaze, firm and dark.

"I am perfectly capable of being just as contradictory as you can be." He took another drink, finishing the glass, and set it down - never breaking eye contact. "So. This brings us back to the first point. I'm here. Do you want me to be here?"