Chapter Text
Lirio has dreams of flying.
Free as a bird, weightless and floating. Lirio has dreams of diving through briny water, and somehow never needing to take a breath. In his dreams, he seeks out red coral, which is lucky, and oysters, which are expensive. He shucks them and finds pearls inside.
“How do you feel when you wake up from those dreams?” Harding asks him.
He thinks about it for a moment, then sighs as he rests his arms on his knees. “Like I’ve lost something.”
“That… sounds so sad.” Harding blinks at him. “Even your nice dreams leave you feeling wistful. I’m starting to suspect there isn’t a truly pleasant dream at all.”
Lirio laughs and shakes his head.
They are in her quarters. True to his word, Lirio has taken to sleeping a chaste distance from her bedroll, ready to wake her with a gentle word when her dreams get restless. Though currently, she’s splayed out upon pillows under her tent. He’s sitting by the pond, feet in the water, watching little fade frogs swim beneath the surface.
“I do feel sad, for a moment, waking up from a good dream,” he says. “Sometimes I wish I could hang onto the feeling from the dream… but my point is, there’s good dreams and bad. We just need to figure out how balance yours out. Minimize your nightmares so you can have nice dreams, too.”
“I’d settle for neutral,” Harding sighs. “Neve says she rarely remembers her dreams. But I can’t seem to shake mine. They stick to me the entire day.”
“Well, it’s all new to you,” Lirio says. “And you’ve had your share of worries even while awake. Have patience, Lace Harding. It will get better. I’ll be here until they do.”
“Only until then?” she asks, sitting up with a smile, and he laughs.
“You will still need me close by then,” he says, “to make sure the nightmares don’t return.”
She smiles and blushes at that. And he’s right.
That night Lace dreams that she’s back at Skyhold, in the temporary quarters she would lodge in when not traveling for the Inquisition.
The air is cold, even with a fire in the hearth. That part is the same. What isn’t the same is that somehow Lirio is there, too.
In the dream they are both as they currently are, and they know each other as they currently do, except she slides over the armrest of his chair to settle in his lap as naturally as if they were saying hello to each other.
His arms encircle her. Without hesitation, his hands slide over her back and come to rest at her hips, and they kiss, in this dream of impossible timelines.
With shocking detail, the dream paints for her the heat of his breath, the rough texture of the scars which frame his lips, the rasp of his voice saying her name against her mouth. All things she’s never experienced, so how could the dream know to replicate them?
And there is something hazy about the dream, like a gesture drawing depicting only loose shapes and motions–possibilities of what they could do to each other. A touch at her waist, fingers ghosting up her spine. Buckles unclasping under sure and steady fingers. Desire, and not a hint of restraint.
She wakes with a start.
The Fade has no semblance of time, but her quarters are dark and bathed in cool and silvery light, as if moonlight were shining through the high alcove windows. A few feet away, sleeping on the chair beside the pool, Lirio snores quietly.
“Holy shit,” Harding whispers, her mind reeling. Better than a nightmare, to be sure. However, this is something she will most definitely need to address in the morning.
The following day, Lirio finds her in the library.
“Doing some light reading?” he asks.
“Research,” Lace says, finding it hard to look him in the eye today. “Reading about different types of dreams.” She clears her throat and buries her face in the pages.
“Smart idea,” Lirio observes. “And perfect timing, given the topic. I brought you something.”
Lace looks up at him. He’s stepped closer to her, holding something out in his hand. It is a necklace, with a small red charm dangling at the end. She takes it, cautiously, already blushing.
“It’s called a cornicello,” he says. “It’s carved from red coral. It protects against bad luck.”
“It’s really pretty, Lirio,” Lace manages, heart racing for no discernible reason. “For my bad dreams?”
“Figured anything was worth a try. Plus,” he says with a grin, “it’s the same color red as your hair. Made me think of you.”
“You’re sweet!” Lace covers her smile with her hand. “Thank you!”
He beams at her, and something tells her she will have more dreams to contend with.