Lavellan grunted. "You aren’t kidding." It was partly a joke, given the shit-eating grin that was currency gracing his features. In truth, he had no clue what, specifically, had been the last straw for Dorian. They’d had at least two very heated arguments, and one in particular had drawn the attention of the whole tower, though he suspected that was more out of curiosity than concern. Regardless, neither of them had handled any of that well. It sorted itself out, though, mostly because seeing Dorian trudge through Crestwood had been too hilarious not to forgive him later. It was that or smacking him with books.
The (totally not broody) elf was busy admiring the view when Dorian laid down, and he was perfectly content to sit there if it meant the mage continued looking at him that way. Except he’d used his true name, which was totally cheating, and didn’t hearing that make Lavellan shiver. He tried to hastily join him in some attempt to hide the fact that his ears were bright red. Again. This was really starting to become a problem. Lavellan pressed his nose against Dorian’s chest, burrowing there with a private little smile.
When his face was no longer on fire, he propped himself up a bit by leaning on his elbow. "Ar lath ma, vhenan," he repeated, emphasizing the second word over the rest. There was a cadence to the language, a sort of melody that was as intrinsic to conveying meaning as the actual phrases were. He was smiling like Dorian had gifted him with something truly precious. "Can you guess what it means?" He traced the vallaslin markings of Sylaise over the mage's face again, gentle, patient.