The elf remembered that day very well. It had been the turning point, really, an experience that marked the moment Lavellan realized they were more alike than he’d cared to admit. Dorian might not have known what elves faced, but he did know what it was like to be derided and dismissed. For the mage’s own kin to turn to blood magic—just thinking about it made Lavellan queasy. The Dalish were free with their love, at least among clanmates, but even outright disapproval wouldn’t inspire something that horrific.
"You’ll always have me, amatus." He kissed him to seal the promise, one that he knew was well within his power to make. Whether it was in this world or the next, Lavellan would stand by Dorian. He’d always choose him. "The others care about you too, you know. We’ll all make a trip to Tevinter." The glint was back in his eyes, mostly because he trusted that Bull and Sera in particular would raise hell with him there. They had always made an interesting picture at parties. "We can stand next to you during meetings and look intimidating."
Partly a joke. Partly.
Lavellan settled on top of the mage fully, then, nuzzling at that mustache a bit. He enjoyed the feel of it, but more so the unhurried exploration that came with how new this was between them. "I’m glad. Because the choice brought you to me."