Everything Will Be Fine

Aran groaned, lapping the sour dust from Loranil’s upturned arse in the moonlight. Hours, they’d been fucking and fingering and fondling on the forest floor- at least it felt like hours. The mushrooms and herbs muddled time, made Aran feel electric and the taste of skin something akin to ambrosia. The feel of it beneath his lips. He spread Nil’s cheeks and lapped at him, drawing deep groans from the man before him.

Loranil’s tiger mask was askew, his long sunset hair braided back from his face to trail down his spine, the glitter and color on his face and shoulders streaked with sweat and other fluids as he bobbed on another man’s cock, sharing it with the woman he was furiously fucking, while Aran feasted on his arse.

He tasted like sweat and fresh baked bread and mushroom dust. Open and soft and practically begging to be fucked. Everything about Nil begged to be fucked. The bend of his spine. The shiver of his lips. The arc of his elbows.

The trees bent away to allow the moonshine through. The grove was filled with starlit bodies in motion, rambling music wafting over them from speakers set about the trees. Protected torches and sizzling rods of incense cast flickering lights and shimmering smoke.

Aran caught his breath as a firm cock brushed his cheek. A wolf mask above him. A line of musky powder on the darkened head of his dick. Aran lapped at the powder, feeling it soak into his tongue along with the taste of sweat and musk and weeping precome. Gods, he was aching. He sat up, taking the stranger’s cock into his palm and his mouth, rubbing himself at Nil’s prepared entrance.

“Fuck me-“

He wasn’t sure who said it and it didn’t really matter. It was a gathering of the willing and the wanton. Birch-shadowed and moss-mattressed, writhing with abandon in the fairy circle of the grove and the gentle slopes around it. Aran moaned, allowing his head to be dragged forward onto the wolf’s cock as he pumped into Loranil beat by beat, the drums circling them all, the rhythms driving every body in the moon’s light into a slow motion frenzy.

The woman beneath Loranil was wearing a feathered mask, like an owl, her flaxen hair poured out across the blanket on the ground like spilled corn silk. Powerful; undulating like waves, moaning like the earth herself. She rose up in his arms, her hands flexing at Aran’s hips, and they held each other’s gaze as Loranil rocked between them. Filling her, filled by him.

Aran kissed her lips: wine and root, cock and come, salt, brine, slick- She moaned, drawing them both in to the movement of her hips. Drowning them. The wolf had fallen on a woman in a panther mask, rutting splendidly a few feet away. The mongoose poured himself into Loranil’s mouth, come dripping over his lip, and Aran and the owl lapped it from his chin and lip and tongue as they fucked him. As the mongoose knelt beside them, hands sliding over their skin like wind. Like branches in a breeze.

Weren’t they all? Reeds in a storm, whipping each other into frenzies and fading into soft relief. The moans of wind and wonder becoming the music around them as they in turn unraveled and became sound and earth, moss and leaves, touching the sky and each other as they became what life could be...

He woke pillowed on a set of broad, hairy shoulders with a very soft, very warm woman curled against his back. The scent of the bonfire still wafted around the grove. Aran eased up, padding naked but for his boots through the woods, following the sound of wheels on gravel and distant music. Loranil was perched atop the van, headphones on, guitar in his lap, scribbling into a notebook. Aran tied a sarong around his waist and drank juice from a carton, laying out in the back of Loranil’s van. His knees were scuffed. His jaw was sore. His arse-

“How’s the head?”

His head ached, too, Aran squinted over the top of the orange juice carton, though none of it was bad, per se. Only… used. Well used. Thoroughly. It was a good feeling, though he wouldn’t have said no to a toothbrush. Loranil offered him a half-smoked blunt instead; he looked like a peacock on fire. Lean and lithe, thick dark violet hair caught up into a braid like a twisting mohawk, streaks of orange, blue, yellow, and red poured through his mane, his mask resting above his brows. His eyes - one speckled red, one deep blue - gleamed as he climbed down to straddle Aran’s lap. “I feel like I ate a dead raccoon while it’s kin fucked me.”

Loranil laughed, lilting and light. “Deep mushrooms are an acquired taste.” He pressed a kiss to his forehead, “Did you take the willowbark last night?”

“Aye.”

“Good, that’ll sort you out. I promised Cole I’d return you in good order.” He smiled slyly, sitting back. “Am I? Returning you in good order?”

Aran slid his hands up Loranil’s sides. Fennec fur, Cole always said. And he was right. Fuck, he was right. Aran felt stretched and raw and used- and soft and warm as fur on the inside. “Aye. Well enough,” he murmured.

“Good.” Loranil nudged him back, setting the carton to the side. “I’ll check for good measure, shall I, oinun ?”

“Hm,” Aran sighed beneath him, grinning as the elf lifted his sarong and stroked him, heedless of the couples and groups milling about the campsite. “I didn’t- with a woman- did I?”

“I don’t think so.” Loranil kissed his collarbone, the scrape of his unshaven chin juxtaposed with the softness of his lips. “Would it be terrible if you had?”

Would it? he wondered, stretching beneath the Dale’s roaming hands. He’d been in several situations where he’d watched Loranil rolling around with women in various states of undress. Anders, as well.

“If you enjoy it-“ And, Maker’s breath, did he enjoy Loranil’s lips and his tongue and the dexterity of his fingers stroking him in the morning sun- His deep red robe sliding off of his shoulders, revealing the intricacies of his vallaslin down his chest and arms- The flint of the morning sun on his piercings, his pale skin, his nipples hard with morning chill and want- “Does it matter who it’s with? What they’re shaped like? We’re all the same on the inside.”

“Not- Not exactly the same-“ Aran breathed. “Ah, Nil-“

“Did you have an awakening, though?”

“Transcendental,” Aran thrust into his grip, groaning as Loranil lapped at his nipple. “Really, really bloody brilliant.”

“As did I,” the elf sighed. “So many thoughts, so many songs drifting from the trees and the night-“

“Brilliant,” Aran repeated, sighing as Loranil shifted forward and began circling his hips down- down- tight- fuck-

“Ah, oinun , you are,” the man moaned, posting Aran deeper with every roll of his hips. “You are, you are.” His head fell back as his fingers traced up Aran’s chest, his neck, stroking his ears as he rode him.

Shivers beneath his skin. Relaxing and winding him up at once. Beads of sweat glistening down Loranil’s chest. Aran was vaguely aware of the people who’d paused to watch them, but it didn’t matter. Not like they hadn’t seen them like this only hours before. Not like he hadn’t seen them. All one, he thought, losing himself to the rhythm of Loranil’s heart and hips. All of them were one, part of the same whole, part of- “Nil-“

“Aran-“ He squeezed Aran’s earlobes, sinking all the way down onto him. “We’re going to stay here a while longer before we return to the city. Alright?”

“Fuck, yes,” Aran laughed, thrusting up into him to draw a rough shudder from the man.

“Down and to the left,” Loranil murmured, shifting his hips to match his instructions, then sighed log and loud and low. “There. Just- Ah, just there.”

He’d thought a change of location would help him focus. His room at the Alliance dorms was so full of distractions. Sera spinning out ideas for her next podcast. His stacks of borrowed books that he really needed to read and return at some point. The console beckoning him with the newest DLC for Middle Ages: A Time of Conquest. He could have gone to the library, but he knew he’d get dragged into work, even if it was just troubleshooting for the new work-study kids who’d been hired on at the beginning of the term.

No. He needed simple. He needed relative isolation. He needed a drink. Not to drink it, necessarily, just to have it. Like a talisman. He touched the side of the glass, watching the amber liquid ripple. 

Anyway, he liked the Clinic, especially on weekdays in the afternoons when there were only regulars and chess players and muted music on the jukebox. And if he was in the mood, every once in a while, a rough-hewn blond man with magic hands who could make his muscles melt. Not at the moment, though. At the moment, he just wanted to finish the bloody thesis. Nearly there. It was coming together. Slowly but surely. 

He hacked away at it for another hour and finally finished his first pint, ordering a second just to keep his place at the table. He stretched his arms, his back, and settled into the booth, idly tracing the ink rings on his palm. Not even a pang now. He could walk his pinky over each ridge and remember. Snow angels in open fields and diving into waves and sneaking liquor into the maze and- and it was ridiculous: this self-imposed exile. So many years of good couldn’t be wiped away for one event. One event that, in hindsight, shouldn’t have been remotely surprising. He just needed to sack up and seek Tristan out. It wouldn’t be that hard. There were less than ten fencing clubs in the city. Go find him, bring him a coffee, talk it out, and they could get back… get back to how things were supposed to be. Friends. Friends as old and indestructible as ancient trees. Yes, Tristan was with Pod. What else was new? And since he hadn’t had word from Tilly that he’d cracked into pieces again… Well, that was good. That was proof they’d worked something out. Something that was good for both of them or he was sure Tilly would have mentioned. Tristan probably didn’t even think about that week in Wycome anymore. Ages past. Just find him, clear the air, and move on. Make it clear to Pod that he wasn’t going to make any false moves. Easy as lamb pie. 

Later. After the thesis was finished. Before the new DLC. Just in case it didn’t work out and he needed to beat a bandit in the head with a two-handed sword. 

Another hour. A plate of chips and curry sauce. He was still chipping away on the right way to phrase his thesis’ conclusion when he heard the voice. Arched and low. Precise like needlework. Aran didn’t need to look, but he did- just to be sure. 

Tristan. 

Oh, Maker, Tristan- Hair pulled back from his high, glorious cheekbones. That milk-white neck he’d once licked and kissed with abandon. 

He quirked a brow. “Alright.”

“You remember them.”

“No.” Aran poured a heaping spoonful of instant coffee into a mug and boiled it to death, dropping to his bed with a sigh as he breathed the bitter steam. 

“You do, too.”

He yawned into his mug. “Cecil with the pastel pants and the paisley shirts.”

“Yes.”

He shuddered. “Why am I thinking about him?”

“Because they broke up.”

“Why do we care?” Aran asked, befuddled. “Weren’t they kind of… massively judgemental pricks? Since when are we close with them?”

“We aren’t. Ursula is.”

Oh, Maker. “No. No , Sera. No more emotional errands for Ursula.”

“She’ll be back in a week. She just wants us to look after him.”

“You do it then. She hates me. And I hate those pants.” He squinted, “Maybe Irving did too.”

Sera snorted. “It sounds to me like Irving saw nothing wrong with the pants. And someone else developed a fondness for them, much to his surprise. Which is why we’re going to keep him company.”

Aran glanced up from his mug, “For fuck’s sake, Sera.”

She winked. “It’ll be fun.”

It was not fun. 

Aran sat in the theater grinding his teeth while Irving sniffled through a car chase and all out wept when the hero’s friend turned out to be part of the Qun. Then he stared daggers at Sera as they sat in the pub watching Irving moisten the chips with his tears and talk about how much he missed the-

“-cheating dirtbag and you should just forget about him already,” she was telling him. It was Sera being kind, but it wasn’t helping. 

In all truth, he felt bad for the man. Forgetting was easier said than done, he well knew, as did Sera, but they’d both decided it was better to move forward than look backwards. Watching Irving gazing longingly into his past was uncomfortable for them both. Void, it was probably just as uncomfortable for Irving.

Aran scooted out of the booth, “I’ll pick up the next round.”

By the third round and the second smoke break, Aran decided that Irving wasn’t a bad sort at all. He was actually kind of sweet, with his brown eyes all puffed from crying, dark complected and exhausted. Especially when he swayed with the drink, loose, his thin lips curving in a weary smile.

The street outside Fey’s apartment was quiet when Tristan pulled over. Fey was standing by the sidewalk, his floral beach dress fluttering in the cool breeze. A bright smile crossed his face when he saw them, hopping before Tristan’s window. “Hello, hello, hello!” He took his large sunglasses off and shoved his head through the window to pull Tristan in for a kiss. “Hey you,” he purred softly.

Tristan hummed against his lips, tasting his strawberry chapstick. “Hello to you, too. Hop in.”

“You don’t have to say that twice,” Fey said brightly, opening the back door. He jumped in tossing his oversized beach bag on the seat next to him. “Hey, Cassie! Long time no see!”

“It’s good to see you, Feyren,” Cassandra said, turning back to smile at him.

“Just call me Fey.” He leaned forward, perching his chin on Tristan’s shoulder. “How’s my favourite person in the world?”

“He’s well. Probably about to hear a handful from his sister who’s already waiting at the station.” He gave Fey a light peck on the cheek. “Fasten your seatbelt.”

Fey nodded excitedly, settling back on his seat. The seatbelt latch clicked in place, and he clapped his hands once. “Alright! Ready to go! Oh, this is so fun,” he said, lowering his window as Tristan took off once more. 

“We’re lucky the weather is still warm,” Cassandra said, squinting at the bright sunlight through her sunglasses. “Let’s hope it remains that way. The weather forecast said something about clouds later on.”

“So what? We’ll swim in the rain!”

“That’s dangerous,” Cassandra said flatly. 

“Yes, but it’s fun. All fun things should be a little dangerous, no?” Fey winked at Tristan through the driver mirror. Tristan huffed a laugh, taking a left towards the station. 

“I don’t think you’ll ever convince Cass of that, Fey,” he said with a smirk. “She has very firm ideas when it comes to safety.”

“I can be very persuasive,” the elf said, wiggling his eyebrows at Tristan.

“Of that, I have no doubt,” Cassandra said, smiling at him over her shoulder. “Still, I think we should be fine until late afternoon at least. After that we could go for some lunch.”

“Why plan ahead? Why not go where destiny takes us?” Fey stuck his head out of the car window, waving at Tilly that was waiting outside the station. “Hey! Over here!”

“Doesn’t he know it’s dangerous to stick his head out of a moving vehicle?” Cassandra whispered to Tristan.

“I’m sure he does, Cass.”

Tristan paused midstep. He wrapped his arms around Aran's waist and lifted him off of the ground, pressing a smacking kiss to his lips. "I love you, damn it," he growled softly, in his ridiculous film noir accent. "More than anything in this world, and I've seen all of it."

Aran laughed outright, grinning down at him. “My hero . All the world? And still you love little old me?” He twined his arms around Tristan’s shoulders. “How am I meant to repay such a grand kindness, eh?”

"Easy." Tristan chuckled, setting Aran on his feet and bending forward in a dramatic swoop, holding Aran by the waist. "Kiss me, gorgeous. Kiss me until I can't breathe."

“Music to my feckin’ ears.” Aran kissed him hard, tugging his cap low over his ears in the effort, until they were panting and laughing in the middle of the walk. “Let me get this much back to the AV Lab and we can fetch the shite curry before your sister comes in and you make us eat all your fancy nonsense.”

"You love my fancy nonsense. There's no shame in admitting it," Tristan grinned, straightening. He gave him a last, deep kiss, then went back to pushing the cart leisurely forward. "So, are you officially on holiday now? Any more last minute classes I need to know of?"

“No!” Aran held up his phone and turned it off. “And if they try to call me back for anything, I’m saying this fell in a lake. I’m all yours for fifteen glorious days. So. Catch me up on everything that I’ve missed.”

"I missed you. It was terrible. I don't know how I managed." Tristan blinked at him with puppy eyes and a pitiful, adorable pout. "I demand all of your attention for the next fifteen days, and that's non negotiable."

“What about your Tuesday date nights? Those on hiatus?” He was too bloody cute; that was ecstasy. Every moment of every day; when the breeze blew his hair in his face or he burned his tongue on tea when it was too hot or he was cursing and digging through their drawers looking for just the right blue shirt as though everything didn’t look amazing on him. 

"I asked Dorian to reschedule our date for Thursday, when you're meeting with Miranda. And next week... we'll see. I might ask him to reschedule again. Unless..." He sneaked a glance at Aran out of the corner of his eye as he sipped on his hot chocolate. 

"Unless?"

Tristan swallowed, licked his lips and shrugged. "I don't know. I was thinking perhaps you might want to meet him. Now that you have time."

“Ooh. Meet him.” Aran waggled his brows. “Serious business?”

Tristan smiled, a spot of colour blossoming on his cheeks. "I like him," he said softly. "I like him a lot. And now that Vivienne's coming back and he won't be my advisor anymore, we could start dating more openly. I think... he'd like that, too." He reached for Aran's hand as they walked, squeezing his fingers lightly. "He's been asking about you. He hasn't asked to meet you yet - he's too shy to do that- but I believe he's curious about you. He's watched all our videos. He won't tell me his username, though," he grinned. "Perhaps, with you there, we'll be able to pry it out of him one way or another."

Shy . Shy wasn’t something he paired with the other parts of Tristan’s stories about his dark, handsome temporary advisor. “If he’s b1gc0ck, I can’t blame him. Some people are so boring on the internet.” Aran handed his ticket into the AV desk and waited for them to stamp it as a girl with bright blue hair emerged to retrieve the cart. “What did he ask about me?”

"Just a couple things. Where we grew up, what we used to do as kids, how we got together... When I told him you work at the university too, he asked me about your field of study. He seemed quite fascinated with your dissertation topic. Though I'm not sure I explained it very well," he said, his eyes narrowing in a perplexed little frown. "It does have to do with those Neromenian tablets that were discovered a couple years ago, right?"

“Aw, you do love me.” Aran leaned up on his toes to kiss his cheek. “Look at you, listening when I drone. Warms the cockles of my heart.”

"What, you thought I was sleeping during that half hour impromptu lecture on Neromenian runes while we were in bed last night? You wound me." Tristan laughed as he wrapped one arm around Aran's shoulders and leaned down to kiss his head.

“I ought to wound you more for staying awake.” Aran tucked himself against Tristan’s side, squinting up at the high gabled roofs of the university buildings. “What’s he doing for Satinalia?”

"I'm not sure. I... don't think he's doing anything, actually. He hasn't got any family in the Marches, and his friends... Well, from what I've gathered, it's the kind you go out for drinks with after work, not those you'd spend holidays with. He'd never admit it, but I think he's a little lonely. Still hasn't really built a life here. You know?" Tristan let out a soft sigh, tightening his hold on Aran ever so slightly. "I just want him to be happy here. With me."

“With you,” Aran echoed thoughtfully. “Alright. Let’s have him over then. Home-cooked meal and the like.” Aran turned them towards the Political Sciences building. “Aye? No time like the present.”

Tristan slowed down just a little. "Are-are you sure? You really want to invite him over for Satinalia dinner?"

“You like him. He’s lonely. It’s a holiday. Why not?” Aran tilted his head back to peer up at him. “Unless you don’t want me to meet him yet?”

"Of course, I do. I suggested it, didn't I? I just thought... it might be too big of a step for you. Satinalia dinner is usually just us two, or Tilly and the lads. We've never really had any of our... you know," he lifted his brows, "coming over for such an occasion."

“Well, no, but our ‘you know’ don’t usually last longer than a week, if that. This has been… nearly three months now?” 

"Is three months the preferred time frame after which one gets to meet the parents? Or the boyfriend, in this case?" Tristan grinned. He fished his phone out of his pocket and typed a quick text. The answer came back almost immediately. "He's almost done with work, he says. We could go grab some coffee, warm him up a bit before the grand invitation," he smirked. 

"Rainier? He can’t compete. He's too old."

"He's only a few years older than you, Cass. I think he would do really well. Why aren't you competing, by the way?"

"Me? You must be joking." Tristan gave her a curious look and she huffed. "I'm too old for that sort of thing. Competitions are for kids like you."

"I am not a kid," Tristan grumbled.

"I disagree. Anyway, I think you should consider it. The club hasn't sent anyone worthwhile in ages."

Tristan chuckled under his breath. "I'm glad you consider me worthwhile."

"Oh, you're more than that." Cassandra tapped him lightly on the back. "But don't let it go to your head. You do have that tendency. Being over confident is just as bad as not being confident at all."

"I'll… keep that in mind," Tristan said, frowning at her. His phone buzzed in his pocket. A smile blossomed on his face when he pulled it out and glanced at it. "My sister's on her way. She should be here any minute-"

"Tris!"

Tristan turned around, just as Tilly flung herself into his arms. He pulled her in a tight hug, burying his face in her hair. "There you are," he said softly, leaning back to look at her grinning face.

"Here I am!" she exclaimed, bouncing on her feet. She stepped back, peering at Cassandra. "Hello! You must be Cassandra."

"I am. And you are-"

"Ottilie. But you can call me Tilly." She held out her hand, and Cassandra shook it firmly. 

"I've heard a lot about you from your brother."

Tilly arched a brow at him. "Good things, I hope?"

"Only the best," Cassandra said. "He is very fond of you."

"Oh, he'd better." She glanced at Tristan's cup, leaning forward to sniff it. "And that'd better be your first coffee of the day. The second, at most."

Tristan bit his lip. "Of course," he mumbled, looking away. He wasn't about to tell her that he was well into his third cup. "So. Where are we all going? Shall we grab some lunch?"

"Oh, I'm stuffed," Tilly said. "I just had two pieces of an excellent chocolate gateau. But we could have a walk? It's a brilliant day."

"I'm afraid I'll have to leave you here," Cassandra replied. "My lunch break is almost over, and duty calls."

Tilly's brows shot up with interest. "Do you work nearby?"

"My office is at the police headquarters nearby." She clapped Tristan jovially on the shoulder. "It was good to see you today, Tristan. Think about the applications."

"I will," Tristan said halfheartedly.

Cassandra straightened up, giving Tilly a small bow with her head. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Tilly."

"Likewise!"

Tilly and Tristan watched Cassandra's back as she walked away in wide, purposeful strides. Tilly linked her arm with Tristan's after Cassandra had disappeared around a corner, pulling him forward along the path. "Your friend is lovely," she said, giving him a warm smile.

"She is," Tristan agreed. "I've been looking forward to introducing her to you."

"What applications was she talking about?"

Tristan let out a small sigh, taking a sip of coffee. "She wants me to take part in the Free Marches Amateur Fencing Championship."

Tilly's eyes widened, and she gave his arm a little squeeze. "You should! Oh, Tris, you should. You always did so well in those things."

"I don't know, Till. Preparation for championships takes time. And I'll have to go to Kirkwall for it."

"So? I'm sure you'll find time if you plan ahead. And it will be a good excuse to have some fun in Kirkwall while you're there, too."

"I'll think about it."

Tilly grinned at him. "You do that."

Aran’s head whipped up and around, “What? Where?” 

Lanky arms closed around him from behind, curving up to fold over his chest. Long fingers rested over his heart. “You stop breathing when you’re thinking about him.” Cole’s breath was warm against his ear, fluttering his hair. “You need air. For your brain.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat, “Right.”

“You’re going to think about him more than usual today.” The taller man smiled against his cheek. “Be kind to yourself. Your heart is a good heart.”

My heart is an aching bruise. Aran sighed, leaning back into his hold. “You think so.” But the bruise was healing. Bit by bit. Day by day. He could feel that heart slowing down under Cole’s fingers. Steady breaths in. Steady breaths out. And he could feel Cole’s heart- thrumming fast against his back. 

Cole disliked crowds. He was so careful with himself. So easily overwhelmed. They both were. Huddling together in dim quiet like a pair of warm socks. On rainy days like this, they were usually tucked away in a corner of the library, or napping in the close warmth beneath a pile of blankets in Cole’s room, or rucked up against the side of Aran’s bed playing video games and watching old movies. Yet here he was, in the middle of the station, waiting with him to welcome his ex… whatever’s sister. ‘Ex-boyfriend’ felt right but wasn’t accurate. They’d called it that, sure, for a time, but even Tristan had never really believed that was what they were.

‘What are we?’ Tristan had asked in that gatehouse, what felt like a million years ago. Maybe that was why. He’d loved Aran. Never been in love with him, never would, but had loved him all the same. Not enough. Not enough for either of them. But still they had kissed and kissed and kissed… and a number of other things besides. Always ; the word echoed in his mind and he shoved it aside. ‘Ex-friend’ didn’t seem right either, because Maker help him, he’d never stopped caring and worrying about Tristan. But he had retreated. He’d done that. He’d had to. He’d seen what it was like to be pulled into a whirlpool of wanting and despair; Tristan might have been able to come through that, but Aran was sure he couldn’t. He felt too much as it was. The verb of friendship, then. He’d retreated from the verb of friendship, and in doing so, he’d retreated from Tilly. His friend. She was his friend and he’d left her behind. 

Unfair, because it wasn’t her fault. Maker, it wasn’t Tristan’s either, if he really- lied to himself. Yes. It was. It was Tristan’s fault. He’d made choices. Stupid choices. But Aran couldn’t blame him for it. If it had been the other way around, if Tristan had simply gone without a word… wouldn’t he have chased him to the ends of the earth to know why? But he hadn’t made him chase. He’d stood there. He’d said. He’d told him that he loved Pod. Not in so many words, maybe, but he’d heard it all the same.

Tristan loved Podrick. Tristan always would. Nothing that had happened really meant more than what it was. Sweat and whispers. Some laughter. Release. Relief for the ache. Balm for the burn. That was what friends did for each other. 

Void, that was what humans did for each other- friends or not. Hadn’t he asked the same grunting assistance from people since? Acquaintances. Strangers. 

Before Cole had bought him pie, given him friends, gotten him back to therapy. Before Cole.

And since. With friends. Good friends. Thoughtful and kind. Better than the meaningless. Not love. Just… good. 

He pulled Cole’s arms tighter around him, burrowing back into the shelter of his embrace. He could only pray that Tristan had found a Cole in Podrick Kaylen. Somewhere to lean. Somewhere to be safe. Somewhere to be needed. 

“I do.” 

“Hm?”

“I need you,” Cole whispered, barely audible over the rumble of trains and chatter of voices. “I do.”

Maker, he was a good soul. A kind one. Aran folded his hands over Cole’s when he started to draw away. “Can you just hang on a minute?”

“I’m here.”

“Thank you.” He met Cole’s gaze, “I mean it. Really.”

He ducked his head, hiding under the short brim of his hat. His lips curved. “And she’s here.”

“What?”

Cole nodded ahead to where Tilly was hurrying across the station’s center towards them. 

“You’re here!”

“So are you!” He felt Cole melt away from him, nudging him forward, and he caught Tilly around the waist in a hug. From one embrace to another. “It’s good to see you again!” 

“Yes!”

“We were talking brunch, aye? There’s a brilliant spot less the high street.”

“What are you working on?”

“Predicting raindrops.”

Aran bit his lip, setting his phone aside. “That’s really important?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

Cole glanced at him. “Yes.”

“You like Loranil. You’re the one who said we should go see him last weekend.”

“I like him for you.”

Aran flushed. “No. What?” He frowned, “What do you mean, you like him for me?”

“You know what I mean.”

And he did know. With a sudden, irritating surety. Like a thorn in his thumb. “I want to hear you say it.”

Cole eyed him for a long moment then went back to his paper.

“So that thing where we went out last week- that was you… what? Matchmaking for me?”

“He’s kind.” Cole added another line to his proof. “The last one I saw you with- the man with the earring. I didn’t like him. Loranil is better.”

The words were paper cuts in his already thin skin. Frustration was a lemon on top of that. Stinging. “Just so I am certain I understand you: you don’t want to touch me, but you get to tell me not to stone Glenn? That’s what you’re saying? You’d prefer a shuffle in the lineup? Who made you the manager of who I fuck?”

“You’re putting words in my mouth because you’re trying to fight with me. I don’t want to.”

Maybe he was. Maybe weeks of Cole’s steady unflappable comfort were starting to wear on him. Maybe he wanted him to care, to push, to- “Well, that’s too-“

Cole sighed, “You can do whatever you want, Aran.”

“Can I?” He placed a hand over Cole’s notebook. “Can I, really?” 

The way his gaze shifted and slid. Thin ice over a deep pool. “We’ve talked about this.”

“I know what you told me.” Aran crossed his legs on the couch, scooting closer. “I don’t know why you let me hang around with you.”

“You get into trouble on your own.”

“I like trouble. So do you.”

Cole‘s laugh was like a summer mist. “The wrong kind of trouble.”

“Are you trying to protect me? Or mind me like a child?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

“You know what.”

“I don’t pretend to read minds.”

That sigh again. A breeze through leaves. “I like you.”

Words like bells. True and quiet and pure. “I like you, too.”

“Yes. But.” He bent his head, bangs falling to cover his eyes like a mask. A sheer, corn silk mask. “You are who you are. And I am who I am.”

“What the Void does that even mean?”

“...It means that you should go see Loranil.”

“I should go fuck Loranil, you mean.”

“If that’s what you need.” He could feel the pressure of Cole’s blanket calm, squeezing tight around his back. Cooling the heat that flamed at his neck. “If that’s what you want.” He paused, “And it is.”

Maker, sometimes he was infuriating. “I want you , you massive numpty.”

“I know you do.” He tapped the back of Aran’s hand. “You’re very easy to read.”

Aran turned his hand to watch Cole’s fingers tap in his palm instead. The tree rings tattooed there looked like ripples beneath his touch. Echoes. He didn’t feel like an echo. Not here, not now. He felt… too much, yes. Still. Too much of everything. Too present. Too hot. Too tight. “Am I?” 

“You’re looking for a balm for your burn. You ache. You wish. You want.”

“I know you’re ace,” he whispered. “I don’t expect- I don’t expect you to change.” He shut his eyes as Cole traced the outer ring thoughtfully. It felt good. His fingers felt good. His arms felt good when they folded around him. That was enough. That could be enough. “I don’t need sex.” The sting returned when Cole laughed. “What? You think I can’t live without sex?”

“I absolutely believe that you can.” 

“It’s been largely unsuccessful for me, to be honest. I could stand to do without.”

“The sort you’ve been doing- yes. Less. But all of it? I don’t think that you want to. Or that you should. Or that you should want to. It’s not who you are. I like who you are.”

“I like who you are.”

“Good.” Cole gently picked up his hand and placed it on the back of the sofa. “So go watch the band with your friends.”

He stared at his own lonely hand. “You’re my friend, too.”

“Aran.” 

“Cole,” he intoned in reply. “I don’t want to sleep with Loranil.”

The look he gave him. As though he’d just said something so ridiculously, patently untrue- not angry. Almost pitying. “Yes, you do.”

Aran gritted his teeth. “Sometimes you're a smug sonofabitch, you know that? I don’t want to sleep with him more than I want to be with you. Is that appropriately accurate, Professor?”

His lips twitched gently. “No one said it had to be either-or. I’ll be here.”

“Oh, aye. Predicting raindrops.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s just fine by you, is it.”

“You’re complicating this.” He shrugged. “You want him. He wants you.”

Aran pushed from the sofa, scrubbing his hands through his hair, “So the fuck what? I’m not an animal. I can want someone without leaping on them heedlessly.” He thought he’d gotten past this. These sudden flashes of Tristan’s face in the cool evening light. ‘I’ve been wanting to fuck you,’ he’d growled against his ear, pounding into him. The feel of being pummeled by his wanting, torn. The elfroot tingling inside of him as it healed him moment by moment, taking the sting and resolving it into pleasure. Then Tristan had taken that want directly to Podrick. Directly. Not me. Never me. A placeholder for what he’d really wanted. “I can control my impulses.”

“I know you can.”

“No, you don’t. You think I’m going to cheat on you if we make this into- into what it bloody is.”

“What is it?”

“ This .” Aran spread his hands, “Us.” 

Cole carefully closed his notebook and set it aside. “If?”

“What?”

“You can’t make a stone a stone.”

“Oh, Andraste preserve me, the riddles are back.”

“Rivers run. Snow melts.”

“Speak Common, you monster.”

“I’m trying to.” Cole pressed his lips together, thinking. “We are what we are.”

Aran dropped, cross-legged, to the floor and stared at him. “You’re giving me a migraine.”

Cole had the audacity to chuckle. A storm as seen through a wind chime. “I don’t see why. It’s simple.”

“I want to be with you .”

“You are .”

Aran looked at him. Really looked. 

Calm. Alert. Amused. Mildly concerned. 

“I’m with you?”

“Yes.”

He hesitated, “I don’t mean physically in this space at this moment. I mean- I mean-”

“I know what you mean.” Cole leaned forward slightly, “This is that. This is what there is. This is us being us.”

And, merciful gods, Aran felt his heart flutter awake even as his stomach sank. “Since bloody when? Since when ?” he asked again, feeling panic rise- and just as quickly subside as he knelt in the warm pool of Cole’s gaze. “Cole- I didn’t know. I mean- I felt like- I felt something shift, but we didn’t talk about it- I didn’t know- I wouldn’t have- I swear, I wouldn’t have gone with- if-“ He exhaled, shaking. “How are you not upset about this?”

“About what?”

“About Glenn ! About- Maker , how long- how many-“ Oh, he was going to be sick.

Cole held out a hand, “Come here, please?”

Aran crawled across the floor and dropped his head into Cole’s palm. Smooth fingers traced the back of his neck. Cole folded over top of him, lanky and light, pillowing his cheek on Aran’s spine. 

“I like who you are,” he said quietly. “Your joy is my joy.”

“That’s not true, though. You literally just said you didn’t like Glenn-“

“I don't dislike him. I don’t care about him. I care about you.” 

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“When you’re with the bookseller, or the Orlesian language major- Afterwards, you carry that time with you like feathers in your palm. This one is a stone in your pocket. He weighs. That is what I don’t like.”

“So you think Loranil would be better,” Aran whispered, trying to keep up.

“He’s kind. He doesn’t want anything from you. He’s safe. He leaves people feeling like fennec fur. I’d like that for you.”

Aran turned his head to press his ear to Cole’s chest. Listened to his steady heartbeat. “That isn’t something that people do.”

“Make each other happy?” Cole asked quietly. “Not enough. I agree.”

“You can’t be with someone and then be out- out- fucking around.”

“Who made that rule? We decide for ourselves what we want. It’s only to do with us. It’s of no concern to anyone else.”

Decide for themselves? “You’re bloody strange.”

“You’re not the first to think so. But you are among the first to like me for it.” Cole sat up, combing his fingers through Aran’s hair. “You like research. I’ll give you some books and links. You can talk to your therapist about it. And about us.”

Like he was reading his mind. Calming him. Soothing him. Giving him resources for the problem. Not problem. Confoundment. And yet. And yet. Cole felt true. Untroubled. I care about you. “...I want to live with the ‘us’ thing for a while.” 

“Okay.”

“You… this… How does it work?”

“I don’t know exactly how.” Cole sighed. “This is new to me. I didn’t think I could feel the way I feel about you. I didn’t want to. It’s… specific. Unique.” The words warmed him, sloshing sun-touched water. “But here we are.”

Here we are . “A stone is a stone?” he asked quietly.

“And a river runs.”

“You didn’t want to?”

“No,” he said softly. “I really didn’t. I tried not to. I’m glad that I do.”

Aran rested his hand over Cole’s on his neck. “Can you come back down here so I can listen to your heart again?” 

Cole folded back over him like a swan’s wing. “Like this?”

“Yes.” He let his eyes fall closed to listen. To feel. “Like this. Cole?”

“Hm?”

“The thing you feel, that you didn’t want to, that you’re glad you do- can you tell me about it?”

He stumbled through the half empty streets, not quite knowing where he was going. Did it matter? It didn’t seem like it did, right then. All that mattered was that he was away from that apartment. Away from that silence. He had been tempted to break everything in there just to hear it crash against the walls, but in the end decided against it. The silence after everything lay in pieces on the floor would have been worse. 

He hated the night sometimes. He absolutely did. Not a sound, not a bird chirping outside the window, not a dog barking. Just this complete, unending fucking quiet-

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, down his face, angrily wiping the tear stains on his cheeks, but a sharp pang of dizziness made him stop abruptly. He swayed on his feet, the world spinning around him, the ground trembling under his feet. He reached out, trying to find something, something to steady himself. The wooden back of a bench met his outstretched palm. He clung to it, holding on for dear life. Digging his nails into the wood. Funny, wasn’t it? He could just let go, drown in the sea that threatened to engulf him, yet his instincts still leapt up to keep him on the surface. Was it worth it? Was any of it?

Tristan laughed under his breath. A slow, weak chuckle that soon turned into a bout of manic laughter. He slumped on the bench, lying flat on his back on it as he trembled. Why did he find that so funny? Why was everything so bloody funny all of a sudden? And why were there tears still running down his cheeks?

He wiped his face on his sleeve. Brushed the tears from his eyes, the snot from his nose, the sweat from his brow. The gin bottle fell from his hand on the ground below him, the liquid splashing against the glass. He buried his face in his hands, took a deep breath. He was losing his mind. Losing it. Lost it. Poof. 

His eyes cracked open just a hair, looking at the world through the gaps between his fingers. He was alone. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so alone. He had spent time by himself, surely, but it wasn’t like this. Never like this. Perhaps because he always knew that there was someone out there, someone he could reach out to. Someone to lean on. And that someone had been Aran, and then Podrick, and now he had neither. Right at that moment, it felt like he would never be happy again. Would he ever be able to wash that responsibility off him? Would he ever be able to laugh without tears in his eyes again? Would he ever be able to be with someone again? Would he ever stop feeling so alone?

His breath caught in his throat, choking him. He clawed at his chest, trying to get some air in. It was no use. He was drowning. A stone sinking in dark waters. Never reaching the bottom. He would die there, and no one would ever find him. He would die there, and no one would ever know. No one that he knew. No one that cared about him. 

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, almost dropping it as he shook. He punched the numbers in with trembling fingers, brought it to his ear. Listened to the steady beeps. Listened for what felt like a lifetime. Took in a gasping breath when the beeping stopped, and a low, raspy voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Hi.”

A pause at the other end of the line. The shifting of a body on the sheets, the familiar creak of the bed’s wooden frame. “Tristan?”

He stumbled through the half empty streets, not quite knowing where he was going. Did it matter? It didn’t seem like it did, right then. All that mattered was that he was away from that apartment. Away from that silence. He had been tempted to break everything in there just to hear it crash against the walls, but in the end decided against it. The silence after everything lay in pieces on the floor would have been worse. 

He hated the night sometimes. He absolutely did. Not a sound, not a bird chirping outside the window, not a dog barking. Just this complete, unending fucking quiet-

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, down his face, angrily wiping the tear stains on his cheeks, but a sharp pang of dizziness made him stop abruptly. He swayed on his feet, the world spinning around him, the ground trembling under his feet. He reached out, trying to find something, something to steady himself. The wooden back of a bench met his outstretched palm. He clung to it, holding on for dear life. Digging his nails into the wood. Funny, wasn’t it? He could just let go, drown in the sea that threatened to engulf him, yet his instincts still leapt up to keep him on the surface. Was it worth it? Was any of it?

Tristan laughed under his breath. A slow, weak chuckle that soon turned into a bout of manic laughter. He slumped on the bench, lying flat on his back on it as he trembled. Why did he find that so funny? Why was everything so bloody funny all of a sudden? And why were there tears still running down his cheeks?

He wiped his face on his sleeve. Brushed the tears from his eyes, the snot from his nose, the sweat from his brow. The gin bottle fell from his hand on the ground below him, the liquid splashing against the glass. He buried his face in his hands, took a deep breath. He was losing his mind. Losing it. Lost it. Poof. 

His eyes cracked open just a hair, looking at the world through the gaps between his fingers. He was alone. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so alone. He had spent time by himself, surely, but it wasn’t like this. Never like this. Perhaps because he always knew that there was someone out there, someone he could reach out to. Someone to lean on. And that someone had been Aran, and then Podrick, and now he had neither. Right at that moment, it felt like he would never be happy again. Would he ever be able to wash that responsibility off him? Would he ever be able to laugh without tears in his eyes again? Would he ever be able to be with someone again? Would he ever stop feeling so alone?

His breath caught in his throat, choking him. He clawed at his chest, trying to get some air in. It was no use. He was drowning. A stone sinking in dark waters. Never reaching the bottom. He would die there, and no one would ever find him. He would die there, and no one would ever know. No one that he knew. No one that cared about him. 

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, almost dropping it as he shook. He punched the numbers in with trembling fingers, brought it to his ear. Listened to the steady beeps. Listened for what felt like a lifetime. Took in a gasping breath when the beeping stopped, and a low, raspy voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Hi.”

A pause at the other end of the line. The shifting of a body on the sheets, the familiar creak of the bed’s wooden frame. “Tristan?”

A bath. He should have a bath for his muscles, something soothing. 

Tristan liked him. Of course he did. Obviously. He would be a fool not to, after all. 

And yet. It warmed him. The way the man spoke about him. The hunger in him. The softness of his pleading kisses. 

“Tristan,” he murmured again, brushing a stray strand of gold from Tristan’s brow. “I’m going to run a bath. You’ll need to give me back my arm.”

"Not yet," Tristan sighed, draping a strong, muscled leg over his hips. He drew Dorian in a full-bodied hug, kissing him with bruised lips and forming his name with that cool, pink tongue that could coax countless shivers of ecstacy from Dorian's body. "Let's stay in bed all sweaty and sticky. I like the way your sweat tastes." To demonstrate, he licked a stripe up the side of Dorian's neck, humming. "You're incredible."

“Very insightful. It’s nice to be appreciated.” Dorian hummed low, walking his fingers across Tristan’s shoulder. “You’re a rather exemplary specimen, yourself.”

"Hm, sweet talker." He purred and nuzzled Dorian's neck like a cat. "You said you'd be playing with me until the wee hours of the morning." He glanced up at the bedside table clock and grinned. "We still have plenty of time. So, play with this exemplary specimen to your heart's content."

His own laugh surprised him as he admired the way Tristan could move seamlessly between slumber and seduction. “Aren’t we insatiable.” Dorian rolled to his back, carrying Tristan with him. “A bath, however, is necessary, I think,” he murmured, running his hands over Tristan’s skin. Sticky indeed. “When do you plan to depart? I hadn’t asked.”

Tristan hummed, pressing a line of kisses along Dorian's collarbone. "After I'm done with you," he growled playfully, "which is never." He chuckled, hugging him tightly. "I actually promised Aran to bring him back tiramisu, so I can't stay the night. Tomorrow though..." He wiggled his eyebrows with a smug grin. "I can do all kinds of things to you tomorrow."

That was several times now in one night that he’d mentioned this Aran. That must be Titus. He hadn’t been certain at first mention, but- What must the man be thinking? What exactly had Tristan told him about them? About Dorian? What did he think? Did he worry? No, of course not, why would he worry when Dorian had witnessed again and again how close knit the two were. Bonded as if by magnetism. Why would anyone turn from that? Novelty? The eroticism of the exotic and forbidden? 

Dorian rested his thumb over one pale pink nipple, brushing it until it stiffened to a peak. 

Oh, Tristan liked Dorian. Of course he did. Everyone liked Dorian, except a select wearying few. He was eminently likable, and he cut a striking figure. He was well aware of that. 

He arched as Tristan’s teeth raked his skin. As he gripped and groaned. 

Insatiable. 

Perhaps that was why. Novelty and to give his lover a respite from his hungers. Dorian had known a few of that sort. Before. When he’d been sure of things. Unshaken. 

He'd been swept by Pod's storm once more. The months that had passed since he'd last seen him had just dulled the pain, hid it, but there it was once more, staring at him in the face. It had only taken a look into Pod's eyes to be pulled by their dark, shifting currents, like he always used to. He'd always been drawn to him helplessly, since the start- but now it was different. Since Wycome, things were different. They should have been different. 

He loved Aran. He couldn't think of his life without him, he was a part of him as sure as his beating heart was; when he was with him everything felt right, like it was all clicking into place. But he loved Podrick, too. His need for him, to be close to him, was deep and visceral and came from a part of him that Tristan didn't even know existed, much like his fear that if he lost him again he would surely crumble. 

What was he to do? How was he to go on, pulled in two entirely different directions?

His eyes were swimming, his vision blurry from tears he tried hard to hold back as he caught the cigarette he'd slipped from Pod's packet between his lips and lit it. He inhaled deeply, willing his pulse to calm, and failing. 

"Tristan."

Pod's sleepy voice tugged him from his thoughts. Pod was standing by the bedroom door, watching him, his form obscured by night and illuminated by moonlight. 

"Couldn't sleep," Tristan whispered hoarsely. "Did I wake you?"

"No." Pod brushed the sleep from his eyes and padded slowly towards him. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes," Tristan said quickly, automatically. Then, his shoulders sagged as he let out a breath. "No. I don't know."

"What's wrong?"

"I..." Tristan stopped, swallowed. Pod leaned beside him on the kitchen counter, crossing his arms before his chest. He was wearing nothing but his black boxer briefs, the muscles of his long legs carved by shadows. The smell of his skin, so close to him, made his heart ache. He turned away. "I have to go," he whispered. 

He sent the waiter away with a sharp and exasperated wave when the man walked by his table to ask whether he wanted to order for the third time, then bit his lip. If Aran had been there, he would have surely kicked him under the table for snapping at the service. So he forced himself to smile at the young man, and called him back to ask him for another helping of the breadsticks, though he hadn't eaten a bite out of the first. 

He couldn't understand why he was so blighted nervous about it all. Sure, Dorian was great. They'd spent an incredible week of working on his dissertation, then fucking vigorously in his office. He was tall, gorgeous, smarter and more knowledgeable than anyone had a right to, and he smelled like heaven and sin had an offspring. He knew exactly what to do with his fingers and his tongue, and his cock... Tristan shivered just thinking about the girth, the length and the weight of it in his hand. It was amazing, just as Dorian was amazing, and Tristan liked him. Not just for that. He liked spending time with him; he liked listening to him talk about one legislation or other for hours, and then he liked being able to climb into his lap and kiss him breathless after he was done. He liked being around him, and he liked being inside him, and he wanted to do more of both now, please and thank you.

He set his empty glass down, and raised his hand to ask for another, when Dorian's heady cologne drifted to him with the wind. 

A glance towards the door proved his senses correct; Dorian had paused just inside the doorway, scanning the room. He wore a long navy overcoat, the collar of a dark purple button-up peeking out over the edges. Unreasonably bundled for the autumn, but he was - as he had made clear- used to a warmer climate. When he found Tristan with his gaze, his lips curved into a quick, heated smirk, then he nodded to the hostess as he passed her to wind through the tables. He doffed his coat when he arrived, folding it over the back of the chair and glancing around as he straightened the lines of a buckled, black on black paisley vest. “I was touring the red lights between the university and here and I’m happy to inform you that they all work perfectly. Hello.” He touched Tristan’s shoulder lightly before settling down across from him. “Maker’s tears, that’s a lot of bread.”

Tristan smiled nervously, glancing at the not one, not two, but three breadstick baskets that he'd managed to accumulate in the time he'd waited for Dorian. "The bread here is really good," he explained, bringing his glass to his lips, belatedly remembering that he had drunk it all. He set it down on the table, trying not to think too much about how beautifully the dark purple complemented Dorian's skin, or how infernally fitted those slacks were. "Would you like something to drink? I should-" he glanced at his own empty glass, "-probably not drink anymore. Or I'll order all the breadsticks this place has."

“Is that what happens when you drink?” Dorian chuckled, low and dark, leaning back in his chair. “Ask for things that you want but aren’t sure you should have?”

Tristan chuckled, "In this case, it's more like: I order a lot more food than I can possibly eat." It was downright evil, how infuriatingly graceful and sensual his every movement was. The man was made to be worshipped, thoroughly and in every way imaginable. Tristan itched to lean closer and whisper in his ear exactly what he wanted to do to him once they were alone, just so he could see the heat in those diamond-grey eyes. He dabbed his lips with his tongue, hoping his thoughts weren't plain in his expression. "Is that what happens when you drink?" He bit his bottom lip as he leaned forward and lowered his voice. "We should drink together more often, then."

“Hm.” Dorian brushed his fingers over his lips on the way to smoothing his mustache, twisting the curls just so as he smiled. “Perhaps. What were you having?”

"Glenlochry, neat. I can recommend this one and a few others from the list, if you'd like some whiskey. They have a good selection here." Or we could go back to your place, and I could lick the whiskey off of the hollow of your throat , he thought, but he decided to leave out that part.

He watched Dorian’s eyes darken, flick to down then up again. “I have whiskey at home,” he murmured, lightly nudging the silverware with his pinky. An emerald winked, set in the gold ring around the digit. A liquid dragon curved around his thumb. 

Tristan let out a slow breath as warmth coiled low in his belly with the soft, velvety quality of Dorian's voice. "Do you?" He smiled, biting his bottom lip. "Is it to share? Or is it one of those you keep to yourself and drink only on special occasions?"

Tristan didn't consider himself badly dressed and his wardrobe wasn't lacking, by any stretch of the imagination. All his clothes were stylish -at least according to himself and pretty much everyone who knew him- and many of them made to measure, to boot. It would have all been fine if he were going to dinner with Aran or the lads, but this was different. He had to dress to impress, and he suddenly had no clue how to do that.

He huffed, exasperated, then grabbed two button down shirts from the rack and stomped to the office room. 

"Which one?" he asked the messy mop of copper curls that peeked over the mountain of books and manuscripts that had been laid on the mahogany desk. "The black or the light blue?"

“Blue,” Aran murmured without looking up from his book. 

"You don't even know what I'm showing you!" Tristan pouted. "I demand some attention."

“It’s the blue one with the light gray stripes or the black one with the gold buttons. You always wind up with those two when you’re anticipating something and blue is always the best one.” He flipped a page and made a note. “Brings out your eyes.”

"Huh." Tristan glanced at the blue shirt, then the black, frowning. "I don't always pick those two, do I?" He let out a sigh and flung them both over the back of the small couch by the window, then walked around the desk. He scooped Aran out of his chair, ignoring his protests, then sat down on it and pulled him in his lap. 

"Tris, what-" Aran huffed as he was manhandled into a hug, Tristan's arms wrapping around him and his face pressed in the crook of his neck. 

"I'm nervous," Tristan mumbled against his skin.

“Anticipating. Not nervous. Why would you be nervous? You like him. He likes you. I need to breathe, Tris,” Aran wiggled in his lap until he could turn slightly to face him. “Hey. You’re grand and anyone would be lucky to spend five minutes in your company.”

"Yes, but-" Tristan swallowed thickly, glancing up at him. "I don't know what to wear. Dorian's so... He's so prim and proper and stylish.”

“So are you.”

“His hair is incredible. He always looks like he's just walked out of a fashion shoot.”

“Uh huh.”

“But he's so reticent, too. I can't tell what he's thinking. There are always thoughts behind his eyes, but I can't decipher them. And he didn't jump at the chance of going on a date with me- he actually seemed kind of hesitant." He worried the inside of his lip, peering at each of Aran's eyes. "I want him to have a good time with me tonight and see more of Ostwick, but I don't know if he wants that. Perhaps a good lay is all I am to him."

“If that were the case, why would he agree to go out with you?”

"Because-" Tristan hesitated, blinking. "What if he was just too polite to turn me down?" 

“He’s not too polite to bang you in his office,” Aran lifted his brows. 

Tristan flushed. "That's- that's different." He bit his lip, smiling slightly. "It was pretty hot, though. I've never been banged in an office- a real office." 

“This isn’t a real office?” Aran crossed his eyes. “Why? Because I don’t have a placard yet? I can get a placard.”

"Can you?" Tristan grinned, pulling him closer to kiss and nip at his chin. "I could do a little reenactment for you. If you're interested."

“You could .” Aran laughed, allowing himself to be nuzzled and kissed again. “But then you’ll be sweaty for your date. Rain check, though, for a certainty. I want all the details.”

Tristan chuckled, fingers slithering under Aran's T-shirt. "And you shall have them, my heart." In one dramatic swoop, he pushed a stack of books to the side to splay Aran on the desk, pinning him down and kissing him within an inch of his life. "You shall have all of me. Je suis le tien, mon amour merveilleux ."

“Damn it, Tris, some of those books are antiques-“ Aran hissed against his lips. He touched Tristan’s cheek, peering up at him. “I love you, aye, I can move things without you scattering my notes hither and yon."

Tristan chuckled darkly, nibbling at Aran's bottom lip. "What are things and notes worth, before the magnitude of our love? They are but flotsam, swept by the tide of our emotions." He rocked against him, oblivious to the colourful pens that dropped to the carpet one by one. "I want to kiss you, to make you breathless, and what I want, I shall have."

"Did your professor toss his things about willy-nilly?”

Tristan paused for a moment, trying to remember. "I think so," he murmured, squinting. "I do remember a folder clattering as it fell on the floor, but can't recall if it was mine or his. I was quite occupied at that moment."

“Hm.” Aran narrowed his eyes, resting his arms around Tristan’s neck. “Suspicious.”

"What is?"

“You and your memory.” Aran pressed a kiss to his chin. “You’re a sneaky fellow. And I’m going to muss your hair if you insist on experiencing the magnitude of our love before you go.”

"No! Aack! Let me go, you tyrant," Tristan laughed, batting Aran's hands away as they tried to slither into his locks. He edged back, pulling Aran off of the desk and setting him on his feet. Their laughter was still warm on their lips when Tristan drew him in a tight hug and a fierce kiss. "I love you," he hummed. "More than anything. Don't stay up too late now, eh. And there's a bowl of spicy noodles in the fridge for you, make sure you eat it."

“Ooh,” Aran nipped at his lower lip. “I’d forgotten that. Where are you going for dinner?” 

"At Malconi's. Do you think it's too casual?" He peered anxiously at Aran. "I don't know what he likes. I just thought he'd appreciate some Antivan food." 

Aran smiled, his fingers dancing across the backs of Tristan’s shoulders. “Malconi’s is good. All the starlights are nice and the music’s good and you like the wine there. Bring me home tiramisu?”

Tristan hummed a quiet laugh against his lips. "As much as you want. And I'll ask them to pack in some of those garlic and cheese breadsticks that you like."

“Mmm.” Aran nuzzled him, his knee gently pressing the outside of Tristan’s thigh. “You should go on dates more often.”

"The next one I go on," Tristan grinned wickedly, "will be with you. And I'll be eating the tiramisu off of you."

“Promises, promises,” Aran beamed, trailing his thumb down Tristan’s spine. “What trousers?”

"Hm." Tristan tilted his head to the side. "The grey ones? Or the black?"

“Grey.” Aran pressed a kiss to the side of his chin. “With the black belt. And the boots.”

“Your wish is my command, my liege." Tristan laughed, leaning into Aran's kiss. "You should become my personal stylist. You've an talent for dressing me up." 

“Among other things,” Aran deadpanned, sly and smiling. 

He glanced at his watch, then straightened with a soft sigh. "I should finish getting ready. Won't be a good look if I'm late on the first date." He pressed a final smattering of kisses all over Aran's face, his lips, his neck. "As I said. I want you in bed by the time I get back home. No staying up until morning."

“I will do my best. But if I am still up, I will eat tiramisu while you tell me about the handsome professor.”