Lavellan was pleased to hear Dorian’s laugh, but especially to see the way he lit up like the spark of a warm, crackling campfire, burning bright in the dark. He was beginning to understand what the mage had meant about there being different versions of the same person. That maybe, however their stories unraveled, there would always be an Inquisitor somewhere, just as there would always be a Tevinter mage.
Magister now, though. It was still strange to think about, but a little fun, too. He had every confidence that they would all fit into Dorian’s new life—that, and Tevinter would have to make room for the resulting shenanigans. "I can imagine," he grinned, all teeth, before reaching for the mage’s hands again. The gentle touch was at odds with the elf’s expression, which looked a bit too crafty to be trusted. Varric had once picked out the tell when Lavellan had tried cheating at Wicked Grace. In his defense, it was in an effort to help Cole win. Really.
"Is that a challenge? I think we could last until lunch, at least." Lavellan pressed Dorian’s wrists against the floor the same time he lifted his hips away, denying the mage any friction. Despite the wicked look, his tone remained completely neutral. The elf hadn’t survived Halamshiral for nothing. "Maybe even longer. Some of us have patience, you know."