Chapter Text
Dorian's corner of the library was far too small to do proper magical experimentation. Too little space and too few appropriate books. Not to mention the complete lack of the proper equipment! As fun as it was to insult the Inquisitor's library, he imagined the rebel mages were as incensed as he was. At least, those who cared to continue research.
So it wasn't truly a surprise that there weren't enough texts on veil manipulation and fade architecture. Or any proper books on demons, spirits and their hierarchies. As incredible as his memory was, he really could use a recent issue of some academic journals. What he wouldn't do for a recent issue of Fade Reviews. Or Architectural Arcana. Void, he'd even settle for the drivel from The Necromancer, as biased as their publication was.
But no, the only issues of Fade Reviews kicking about were from late Blessed and he personally had contributed to a paper contradicting the findings in the issue they had. Also, its previous owner had horrible handwriting, so he couldn't even assess how entertaining the scratchings in the margins were.
Felix had the memory for this sort of thing. The younger Alexius learned those formulae by rote. If only he could spew them up now. And approximate values for those constants. He etched a series of numbers as an estimate into the margins of his notebook. Without knowing the correct figures, it wouldn't be safe to even cast it. With a groan, he ran his fingers through his hair.
"What's got your feathers in a ruffle, Pavus?" called a gruff voice. There stood Krem, leaning against the bookshelf with a warm smile on his face. A welcome diversion at the least. He carefully placed a ribbon on the open pages and snapped his notebook shut.
Dorian purposefully looked anywhere except at Krem's face. He knew if he started admiring him, he'd want all that armour off. The library wasn't really the place for it. Even if Southerners rarely studied as they did up north, he, at the very least, respected the sanctity of the library.
"If you're looking for some sappy romance novel or an historical tome on Orlesian history, this is the place. I can only assume Southerners use any papers about arcane incantations and fade research to wipe their arses," he complained, sauntering over to a nearby shelf. He trailed a finger over the spines of a few books until he plucked out a large, leather-bound tome with singed edges.
He waved it in Krem's face, though if he stood a little too close to Krem, neither of them mentioned it. "All I have is a grimoire from the end of the Blessed Age. Why would it have proper formatting and citations? You would think that the threat of Corypheus would revitalise academic magical pursuits, or even garner interest in it. But no, that would be too convenient" he continued to gripe.
His fingers danced over the pages, looking for a prime example of the inadequacy of this grimoire. "Here, look. No citations. I think this bit here is a cookie recipe which doesn't include any sweetener. The lines in the sigil aren't straight, and the incantation is rudimentary at best. The mages down here need some discipline," he continued to rant.
Krem placed a hand on the book as he began flipping to another example. His eyes traced the outline of Krem's leather-gloved fingers, up the gauntlets and to his bare upper arms. Kaffas, they deserved to be kissed. Bitten, if he was into that. At the very least someone should strip his armour off him while whispering sweet nothings because he acted like he didn't see people flocking to him, wanting to taste him.
Maker's breath, he really needed to get laid. Krem was attractive, sure, but letting his imagination run like this wasn't healthy. Krem saved him from saying something that was incredibly flirtatious or horribly rude by sharing his own thoughts: "So, what I'm hearing is that the cream of the Tevinter crop has been defeated by a book with no demons in it and papers he can't read. Here I thought all altus had to be attractive and incredibly intelligent. I'll inform the Magisterium right away."
Dorian smiled and shook his head, feeling warmth pool in his cheeks. "I am perfectly intelligent, thank you very much. Besides, anyone with eyes knows that first part to be true," he teased in return. Holding Krem's hand, he extracted the grimoire and close it, setting it on a nearby shelf. "Though I imagine if I inform Vivienne of this travesty, she'll help me petition Cadash. What a sorry state of affairs." When he looked back at Krem, his face felt so much closer. And they were still holding hands. Maker's pendulous ballsacks.
"Heard a rumour that the Boss is sending us out to the Hissing Wastes while they deal with something on the Storm Coast and in Crestwood," Krem whispered, squeezing Dorian's hand. "If you fancy being hot and sweaty instead of damp and cold, I bet you could come along."
Dorian swallowed, daring to meet Krem's eyes. He wished he was a stronger man, because Krem being even vaguely being aware of Dorian's preferences was doing something to him. What a weak, weak man he was. "Hot and sweaty with you? I'm quite flattered," he crooned.
Distressingly, that came out much more honest than he intended. He was supposed to be suave and charming, not forthright and sappy.
Krem released their held hands and grabbed his face. This was quick — not that Dorian minded. He mentally prepared himself to be dragged into Krem, but instead his soft gloved thumb wiped at something on his cheek. "Stray hair. Don't be a stranger, Dorian. Chief and I like having you around," Krem mumbled, before backing away and scampering away.
Dorian let out a breath he hadn't noticed he was holding. He was also harder than he should be after a little bit of attention and care. Andraste's pyre, he should be better than that. Krem was equal parts infuriating and attractive in a fatal concoction designed just for him.
He swiped the grimoire back up and placed it in its proper place. Dorian was civilised in his library etiquette.