“Dorian?” Cullen called as he lifted the flap of the tent.

Dorian was sitting on a crate, his gaze cast down at his hands, lit in profile by the light of a single lantern. He looked up when he heard his name, and his expression shifted from neutral to his usual easy, practiced smile. “Finally got shooed out of the Inquisitor's tent, did you? How is she?”

“She'll be all right, but she needs rest,” Cullen replied. “We all do, after that...” He sighed and dropped himself onto another crate opposite Dorian's. “Though I imagine most of us won't be resting very well. At least not for awhile.”

Dorian's smile dimmed, though he leaned back with an air of nonchalance that offset any suggestion that he might be less than at ease. “I'll at least be resting better sharing a tent with you instead of Bull. I've seen him drink himself unconscious at the tavern and he snores like a bear with an obstructed airway.”

“Well, I've never been told I snore, but I do sometimes scream,” Cullen said, stress and sleep deprivation making him uncharacteristically blunt and revealing.

“Oh, really?” Dorian said, drawing out the vowels, one eyebrow raised with insinuation.

“Not that kind of screaming.”

“Pity.”

Cullen huffed out a brief laugh in spite of himself. He let a moment of silence lapse between them as he watched the lantern flame flicker. He tried not to think about the demons, the burning, the immense loss, but it was still so fresh in his mind that an image of Haven alight flashed on the insides of his eyelids every time he blinked. When he spoke again, his tone was somber. “This... waiting. With nothing to do, no way to help. I can't stand it. I wish I at least had a book or my chessboard, but everything is buried under a mountain's worth of snow and rock along with the rest of Haven.”

From in front of him, Cullen heard movement, then Dorian's hand and a silver flask entered his field of vision. Dorian shook the flask once as an invitation to take it.

“I don't have a chessboard, but I do have this. Ferelden spirits. What it lacks in refined flavor it more than makes up for in brute strength.”

Cullen took it gratefully and raised the flask to his lips. He swallowed a bit too much at once and coughed, the acrid burn in his throat a welcome distraction. “That takes me back,” he said. “I haven't touched that stuff since my days in templar training.”

“Oh? Surely that was against Chantry rules? I have trouble imagining you as a young rebel. You seem so... straight-laced.”

Dorian had an odd way of making the observation sound like it was half-compliment, half-derision. Cullen supposed he could have said uptight instead, so perhaps it was meant to be not entirely negative. “Believe it or not, I was young once, too.”

“I do find that hard to believe.”

“I lived it, and I find it equally hard to believe sometimes.” Cullen swallowed another mouthful of alcohol and handed the flask back.

Dorian took an impressively long drink then capped the flask and set it aside. Cullen yawned; the mere act of sitting down after so long on his feet and so much action was like snuffing out a candle. He suddenly felt exhausted. It was tempting to stay where he was and let sleep take him, but he knew he'd wake with an angry crick in his neck.

“I've got to get to sleep before I pass out right here.” He stood, and began removing his armor and piling it neatly on the crate. He held onto his fur; the night was cold and the canvas tent offered only the barest barrier against it. Glancing around the tent, he spotted a bedroll in the corner and unrolled it. There was one only and it was inadequate, designed for fairer weather, but it would have to suffice. He slipped in, and draped the fur over this torso. As he settled, he realized Dorian hadn't moved at all.

He lifted the corner of the blanket. “You should get some sleep, too. Tomorrow won't be any easier if you don't rest.”

Dorian looked down at him, his features sharp but his eyes shadowed in the candlelight. “In there, with you? You aren't afraid of what I might do to you in your sleep?”

The sarcasm hadn't completely obscured the sharp edge of subtext in Dorian's tone, and Cullen blinked up at him, uncertain for a moment how directly to respond. “Do you thrash about in your sleep? In the barracks I once shared a bed with a man who kicked like a mule. My shins were black and blue for months.”

Dorian didn't reply immediately, as if gauging the subtext in Cullen's own response. “No, I'm not going to kick you.”

“Then get in. We've only got the one blanket and with the way you're dressed, you're liable to freeze to death if you try to sleep without it.”

Dorian huffed. “There's nothing wrong with my outfit.” But he dropped to the ground and slipped in next to Cullen, leaning over to snuff out the lantern.

In the darkness, Cullen heard him settle, then sneeze. Then sneeze again and sniff. “What is this mangy thing? It smells like a wet, feral hound.”

“Bear pelt,” Cullen replied plainly. “You'll be grateful for that when the temperature drops even further in a few hours.”

Dorian sniffed again, but it sounded to Cullen like it was just for dramatic effect. He could hear him breathing softly over the faint din of people moving about in the little camp.

“So about that screaming...”

“Forget I mentioned it, Dorian.” Cullen rolled onto his side, facing away from Dorian. “Go to sleep.”

Dorian also rolled onto his side. In the tight confines of their little bedroll, his back pressed against Cullen's. It was warm and solid and Cullen shifted his shoulders to lean against him just a bit.

“Goodnight, Commander.”

“Goodnight,” Cullen replied. He closed his eyes and was asleep before his mind had a chance to recall the image of Haven.

* * * * *

“Commander?” Cullen heard a voice call from below him. “Are you up there?”

Cullen moved toward the ladder in his bedroom and looked down to his office below. Dorian's face smiled up at him.

“Your door was open so I let myself in. Can I come up?”

“Sure.” Cullen nodded and stepped away from the hole. A moment later, Dorian's face popped into view.

“My, isn't this quaint?” He said. He looked around, spotting the hole in the roof even in the dim candlelight. “And... rustic.”

“Call it a work in progress,” Cullen said. “Can I help you with something?”

“I've got something for you,” he said, pulling a box out of the bag he had slung over his shoulder and holding it out.

Cullen took it. It was a heavy wooden box with a hinge; neatly inlaid filigree decorated the lid. Dorian nodded impatiently and Cullen lifted the lid, revealing a fine chess set carved in Orlesian fashion.

Cullen's brow furrowed. “This is for me?”

“I know you lost your old set at Haven. I thought you might like a replacement.”

“Thank you, Dorian,” he said, genuinely touched, though still surprised by the gesture.

Dorian waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, don't act quite so grateful. I miss playing myself, and the only reason I gave it to you instead of Leliana is because she beats me more consistently than you do.”

“Regardless,” Cullen said with a smile, “I appreciate the gift.”

“Does that mean you have time for a match?”

“I'd welcome any excuse to put off finishing this letter to my sister,” he said as he moved a few sheets of paper from the little table and pulled up a stool for Dorian.

Dorian set to work setting up the board, then sat across from Cullen. He leaned over and pulled a bottle of wine from his bag and set it on the table. “I assumed you probably didn't have any wine up here so I took the liberty of bringing my own. Plenty to share, though. I've got another bottle.”

“By all means, drink it all yourself,” Cullen said, lifting a chess piece to make the first move. “It will just make it that much easier to beat you.”

Dorian made a chiding noise. “So cocky, Commander. But if you need to stay completely sober to have any chance against me I won't hold it against you.” With a lazy finger, he pushed one of his own pieces to an adjacent space.

Cullen smirked and regarded Dorian's choice of move. “With an opening move like that, you're well on your way to losing, wine or no wine. If I didn't know any better, I might think you'd never even played before.”

“Nice try, Commander, but I'm far too confident in my abilities for such petty mind games to work on me.”

Dorian uncorked the wine bottle and took a long drink, then held it over the table as an offering. Cullen took it and drank. His taste in wine wasn't particularly refined, but it tasted good. Not too sweet, with a pleasant earthiness that reminded him of spring. He took another drink and passed it back, then moved a chess piece. Their game continued amiably, the bottle making the short journey back and forth, though Dorian consumed the bulk of it. The match was close, but Cullen won. He gloated for a minute before relenting to Dorian's facetiously indignant demands for a rematch. As Cullen reset the pieces, Dorian pulled out the second bottle of wine and started in on it.

Cullen took an obvious lead more quickly this time, pushing his pieces around the board with a self-satisfied air purely to annoy his companion. Dorian muttered under his breath and struggled to answer aggressive moves, missing more than one opportunity to meet Cullen's advance with a good defense. In some strange way, playing chess with Dorian reminded Cullen of playing with his siblings so many years ago in Honnleath, and it brought out a mild but enjoyable childishness in him that he had rarely indulged in since those days.

Cullen won again, smiling squarely at Dorian as he dropped his winning move into place. “Victorious again.”

Dorian grumbled, but he couldn't keep a good natured smile from destroying the illusion of irritation. “Letting you win was part of the gift.”

“I'm sure it was,” Cullen said, as if placating a small child.

Dorian waved him off and stood a little too quickly, wobbling and nearly tripping over his stool.

Cullen stood just as quickly, more stable—and based on how Dorian teetered on level ground, significantly less intoxicated—and moved his body between Dorian and the ladder. He held his hands up, ready to stop him if he ambled forward and forgot about the gaping hole in the floor. “Careful,” he said, nodding toward the hole.

Dorian took a step to the side and attempted to put the wine bottle he was holding back on the table. He missed, and it clunked to the floor but thankfully didn't shatter. He looked down at it, then up at Cullen. “Oops.”

Cullen sighed. “You're entirely too old to not know your limits. You know that, right?”

“I know my limits,” Dorian replied archly, though the words were a little slurred. “I know... I'm pretty sure I've just hit it.” He smiled the genial, vapid smile of a drunk man who wasn't quite aware of how drunk he actually was. “Cullen?”

“Yes?”

“Could I stay here tonight?” Dorian asked, and flopped onto Cullen's bed before he could answer. “Or do you expect the Inquisitor will be showing up any minute to warm your bed?”

Cullen felt a hot flush instantly ignite on his neck and flare up to his cheeks. “What? No. No, no. She and I, we're not...”

“Really?” Dorian lifted his face from the bed to look up at him, incredulous.

“No! I've never even kissed her.” It felt oddly like an admission rather than a simple truth.

Dorian's eyebrows crawled even further up his forehead. “Really? You disgust me,” he said, though there was no vitriol in it. “Any man who's got a good woman looking at him the way she looks at you ought to do something about it. Any other man would have long ago.”

Cullen crossed his arms over his chest. “Would you, Dorian? If she looked at you the way you say she does me?”

Dorian snorted out a laugh. “You know exactly what I mean. I've also seen the way you look at her. Don't pretend you don't want it, too.” Dorian yawned dramatically. “She wants you, you clearly want her, but you're still sleeping alone. It's pathetic.”

“I'm not sleeping alone,” Cullen replied simply. “You're here.”

“Does that mean I can stay?”

“Fine, yes, you can stay. I suppose you probably shouldn't be trying to climb down a ladder in your condition, anyway. I'd rather not have to inform the Inquisitor of your untimely death in my office. But I'm getting you up at dawn tomorrow to run drills with the soldiers.”

“Your soldiers run laps shirtless,” Dorian mumbled around another yawn. “That's not the threat you think it is.”

Dorian's feet were hanging over the edge of the bed and Cullen knelt down to pull his shoes off. Dorian stretched languid like a cat, then rolled over, pulling his feet onto the bed.

Cullen snuffed out the candles on the table and returned to the other side of the bed, stripping down to his tunic and smalls. He prodded Dorian's shoulder with a finger. “You can stay, but you can't sleep sideways across my bed.”

Dorian begrudgingly moved, reorienting his feet toward the bottom of the bed and shuffling under the covers. Cullen blew out the last candle and slid in next to him. Dorian moved closer, his head coming to rest on Cullen's shoulder and one leg draped over Cullen's shins. When Dorian's foot brushed Cullen's he nearly yelped.

“Maker, how are your feet so cold?”

“It's this blasted, frigid castle. Everything is cold here,” Dorian said while pulling himself a little closer. “Except you, apparently. You're very warm.” Dorian drew in a deep breath. “This is nice.”

Cullen didn't argue. He found, somewhat surprisingly, that he didn't really want to. He'd never entirely gotten used to sleeping alone. As a child, there was one bed for all the Rutherford children. As a templar, there was a dormitory full of the sounds of life, a raucous group of boys and young men snoring, arguing, playing cards, drinking. Here at Skyhold, there was just a bed in a very quiet room, devoid of any other signs of life. He'd never thought of it that way, but lying alone in a room so quiet he could hear the distant cries of Leliana's ravens wasn't a type of luxury for him, but a type of loneliness. And whether he'd admit it or not, Cullen knew enough of Dorian to know he probably felt his own creeping sense of loneliness some nights.

“This is... not bad,” Cullen said after a moment.

Dorian breathed out something between a laugh and a disgruntled noise. “I usually get better reviews than that from the men I sleep with.”

“They're all flattering you to get what they want.”

Dorian acknowledged the comment with an indistinct noise. Sleep and alcohol seemed to be tugging at the edges of his consciousness and he settled more firmly against Cullen.

“Dorian, your feet are still freezing,” Cullen said. “I'm making you wear stockings next time.”

But no reply came but the soft, even sound of Dorian breathing as he faded into sleep.