p: ever changing, always the same
Starter for @amatuss
When it came down to the matter of Dorian Pavus, The Iron Bull could admit he had a bit of a blindspot for the Mage. {{ And No, not the literal blindspot hidden behind his eyepatch, a hypothetical one, unseen and far more problematic }}
It wasnât that the Qunari deliberately ignored signs of his evolving relationship with the Tevinter man. Bull was a Ben-Hassrath, trained to notice even the slightest changes in attitude and circumstance. No,  it was simply a matter of timing. Or⊠lack thereof.
Even on his best days, Dorian wasnât keen to talk about his feelings. And Bull, being what he was, had no previous experience on how this whole ârelationshipâ crap was meant to work.          {{ If itâd just been about sex, the merc could have          handled expectations with ease. Sex was simple,          it had finite rules that every participating member          followed without question.  }} But Relationships? Love? Shiiit. That was like a damn Sunday stroll through a mine-riddled fade  rift, where the rules of reality constantly changed.          {{ And despite the uncertainty of it all, Iron Bull          could admit that he was happy like this, so long          as it meant Dorian at his side, in his bed, and          always sticking his Vint nose into Bullâs business. }} So⊠right. Blindspot. Bull could admit to that much. Especially when he found himself standing in the middle of his rooms at Skyhold, faced with the evidence that Dorian Pavus had moved in right under his nose. The Qunari stared at the dressing table {has he always had that table??}, crowded with fragrant oils and eyelid stains, and wondered how he had fallen so far from his role as the Qunâs greatest spy.Â
ââey, Dorian?â Bull called over his shoulder, his tone just slightly bewildered by this revelation. He picked up a small pot of kohl off the dresser, eyeing it critically.          âQuick QuestionâŠ.are we living together?âÂ
The fact of the matter was simple: Dorian was a fool.Â
Not the dull kind that could not tell what a book was if it hit them in the face. That would have been so much more easy to come to terms with compared to the conclusion that Dorian currently found himself at.
Dorian was the worst kind of fool: a love-struck one.
A dull fool would only take a matter of pride to overcome and accept. A love-struck one, however, had almost no cure whatsoever. {The cure was, of course, impossible to come across. He dared not even utter it.}
Dorian had thought of fixing it the easiest way, which was to just stop. {But of course, when was Dorian ever an unselfish man?}
So he decided to just ride it out, so to speak. Mention nothing and enjoy whatever it was they had until it eventually came to an end.
     It always came to an end, eventually.
Which was exactly what Dorian was thinking as Bull brought up the subject of their current... arrangement. It was true, truer than true. There were now two chairs near the hearth instead of just the one before and the extra dressing table {which did not include the couple of drawers out of Bullâs dresser that had been cleaned out and occupied by Dorianâs clothes}.Â
The roof had even been fixed, and there was now a plush carpet near the door and a fur rug in front of the fireplace. The room was cozy and well lived-in and wonderful. Dorian loved it. It was theirs.
âI do still have my room,â Dorian reminded the Bull, trying for a nonchalant tone. He licked his thumb and turned the page of his book. âI sleep there. Sometimes.â
