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His toes are numb with cold as he grasps at the first hazy threads of consciousness, shuffling around underneath the covers to bury his face in the warmth of the other body that he so desperately craves. He breathes a breath of deep, unfurling satisfaction at the touch of a hand through his hair, scratching gently at his scalp with a tenderness he’d long pined for. He inhales the scent of the other man’s chest, eyes still closed.
Cullen barely registers the word at first.
"Sleep, amatus," he hears, gentle and soft.
The word slips out of Dorian’s mouth in the same easy way that sunlight slips out from below the horizon, spilling naturally onto the landscapes and people with grace. It embeds itself in Cullen’s sleepy mind before he does as told, Lyrium-ravaged body succumbing to the suggestion of more sleep.
-
The word doesn’t circle back to the forefront of Cullen’s mind until later that day. His hands are spread out on vast maps, brow scrunched in consternation, and it’s in between supply routes and spy networks that the word tickles him like a breath at the back of his neck; neither demanding nor insouciant. It merely piques the Commander’s interest such as a row of delicate daisies might beside a brazen and bloodied battlefield. As he repeats the word out loud, the syllables feel thick and foreign as they roll off his tongue with varying speeds.
"Amatus," he says under his breath. "Amatus," he repeats, a touch louder. "A-ma-tus!"
A crow screeches its discontent at his volume and flaps away, startling the Commander into quieting down. He flushes and scans the room. Blessedly empty still.
The word doesn’t do anything for Cullen though. He wracks his brain for meaning, but it comes up empty like a missing book on his shelf. He resolves to fix this, to find meaning in the word Dorian had gifted to him this morning. Cullen straightens himself out and flattens the maps.
After he finishes his work, of course.
It’s a little past midday when Cullen allots himself some free time. Skyhold has had its chance to start the gears of its routines; people mingling, eating, washing, working. They’re a self-sustaining system and it never ceases to bring a sense of pride into Cullen’s step as he walks around the establishment. So much has happened in such little time. And he was a part of it. Is a part of it.
As he rounds the corner of the upper levels of Skyhold, he finds the reading nook where Dorian usually situates himself empty. Cautiously he steps into the area as if treading in somebody else’s home without an invitation and immediately starts scanning the shelves. He runs his finger over the tomes and novels and everything in between, eyes squinting. Nothing immediately pops out at him, though after careful searching, a couple of books on Tevinter reveal themselves to him.
Cullen eagerly slips them out of the shelf and scurries away back to his office.
-
They prove to be fruitless. The Commander leans back in his chair with a frustrated groan and shoves the second book onto his desk. The closest he’d gotten was the word amaxites, which, unless Dorian had been calling him a waggoner, he was certain was not the correct end to his search.
By now the sun has begun its decline in the sky, burning bright despite the chilly temperatures of the mountains that surrounded them. Cullen pulls his cloak tighter around him and tucks into the hefty pile of reports that sit on his desk with a grimace. No use in letting things pile up. Cullen lights a candle and then dips his quill in ink.
He’d have to come up with a new strategy.
-
Its dusk when Cullen’s second idea smacks him in the face in the courtyard. Literally. He stumbles back as he brings a hand to his face, cursing loudly and very out of line.
"For Maker’s sake, watch where you’re swinging that thing!" The Commander blinks away the blurriness in his vision and squints in the waning light of the evening. He rubs at the blooming pain on the side of his nose that will no doubt leave a bruise.
"I’m sorry, Commander!" A young voice pipes up full of concern. It takes Cullen a full moment to place who it is as he finally focuses on what’s going on.
A sigh.
"It’s okay, Krem. Just… be more careful with that," Cullen warns as he warily eyes the large wooden training staff. He sniffs and winces. Definitely a bruise.
"Will do, Commander. My apologies." Krem nods, turning to leave, but Cullen catches him by the shoulder.
"Wait, I was actually looking for you."
"Me, sir?" Krem gives Cullen a curious look.
"You’re from the Imperium, are you not?"
Krem nods.
"Born and raised- for what it’s worth."
Cullen’s chest flutters at the anticipation of finally receiving an answer.
"Do you know what, uh, the word amatus means by any chance?" He fights the urge to fidget. Suddenly the idea that Dorian might’ve been calling him something salacious or sexual pops into Cullen’s mind and he almost immediately regrets the decision.
Krem outright grins.
"Why Commander," he says slowly, "it sounds like somebody is sweet on you."
Cullen has to bite back a laugh at that. Krem is no idiot and they both know that there’s only one other Vint on the premises of Skyhold. Not everybody went around slipping Tevene phrases into casual conversation. But Cullen trusts Krem. He knows this exchange won’t leave this space.
"Don’t worry, I won’t let word get around, Commander," Krem winks before dropping his voice to add more sincerely, "Amatus means ‘beloved one’ in Tevene. Seems like you’ve got someone special there."
Cullen nods for lack of anything better to do and folds his arms behind his back. “Thank you, Krem. I- I have some work to do, but,” he nods at the staff in Krem’s hand, “again, watch where you’re swinging that thing.”
Krem gives him a salute, eyes glittering with amusement.
-
Night finds Cullen with his legs wrapped around a waist, head thrown back in ecstasy as the bed rocks and his hands grasp at skin, sheets, hair, anything he can hold on to to make this last. Dorian’s face is buried in his neck, biting and licking and whispering words of encouragement, pushing Cullen closer towards orgasm as his thrusts turn sharp and fast; quick snaps of the hips that leave Cullen breathless and dizzy like he’d just climbed a mountain and was struck with the beauty of it all.
Dorian pulls his face back to kiss Cullen, biting at his lips with a fierceness as his rhythm stutters and he comes with a loud groan into Cullen’s mouth. The Commander isn’t far behind as Dorian works him to completion with a few strokes of his flushed, leaking cock, and his toes curl as he lets out a string of curses in a hushed, awed voice.
For a moment, all Cullen hears is the pounding of his heart, but he watches Dorian’s lips move as he kisses him and slides off, curling into Cullen’s side.
"I know what that means," Cullen says smugly, still a little breathless.
Dorian stiffens just slightly.
"Oh?" He lifts his head to look Cullen in the eyes, a challenge almost. "And what does your Ferelden tongue think I’m saying?"
"Amatus," Cullen says clumsily, the word still not sounding as perfectly formed as when it came from Dorian’s mouth. "You’re saying ‘beloved one,’" Cullen boasts, like he was a Mabari who’d just brought their owner a dead bird or nug as a surprise. If Dorian’s reaction was anything to go by though, it might as well have been some sort of small dead animal.
"Yes, well," he looks away. "I suppose now you know, don’t you?" Dorian smiles sadly, and what feel like gentle thorns squeeze around Cullen’s heart at the sight. "I’m rather fond of you." The foreign undercurrent of shame in his tone spurs Cullen into action.
He guides Dorian’s face towards his and presses a chaste kiss against his lips, though it falls apart halfway through as he smiles and a chuckle escapes. “Dorian,” he says, “Dorian,” he says again, scrambling to find the right combination of words to convey what he feels. “I love you,” he settles on. “I love you… a-ma-tus?” He adds the word with a raise of his brow. “Am I using that correctly?” he asks as Dorian snorts- no doubt at his overly cautious pronunciation.
Dorian kisses him firmly. “Your accent is horrendous, but…” he pauses, and Cullen can see him willing away the uncharacteristic shyness bred from years of doubt and prejudice, “I suppose I could give you a few lessons, if you’re willing.”
"I would love that," Cullen beams.
He buries them both under the covers, and he rubs his toes against Dorian’s, willing away the cold.