Work Text:
Allassan Lavellan was no stranger to pain. Life as the Inquisitor involved getting hurt every day, whether as a result of magic, a bear attack or a particularly nasty confrontation with a group of bandits; he was one of the healers' most frequent visitors.
But what he was feeling now, blinking awake in his room at Skyhold, was a different sort of pain. Bone deep in his thighs and back, burrowed into the very fibers of his being. His limbs felt as though they were sandbags, turning to his side to see out the window an impossible task.
Allassan knew he pushed too hard. He knew he should have heeded the warning signs in the previous days.
The way he could not keep up with the rest of his party while climbing the hills of the Storm Coast, the way he had to lean on Dorian for support in the quieter moments, much to the other's concern. The way it got harder to think of solutions, to make decisions, the way his daggers felt like longswords in his hands.
His body had been screaming at him, raising red flag after red flag, but there was no time to rest. Not with the Veil ripping apart at the seams, threatening Thedas' reality.
And yet, there was no chance Allassan would make it to his morning meeting. Or the one at lunch, or the one at dinner. This brand of pain and exhaustion would not allow it.
The first time he remembers feeling this way was not long after his eighteenth birthday. Short of breath, heart and head pounding, he gave up on following his fellow hunters, reduced to a boneless mass in the shade of a tree.
The others had to carry him back to camp, and Allassan was bedridden for weeks – too weak to move, with no amount of sleep being enough to stave off the exhaustion.
The condition liked to come and go. Always with a warning, but otherwise following no set rhythm.
Back at Clan Lavellan, it did not pose as big a problem as it did now, however. As though the leaden weight of his body was not enough, he felt that of guilt settle on his shoulders. The guilt of resting while the world was on fire, but physically not being able to do anything about it, of letting people down..
Allassan let out a quiet groan, rubbing his eyes with a bony hand before letting it fall back down. He was parched, but the glass of water on his nightstand proved to be too far to grab at the moment.
Frustrated, he closed his eyes again, praying for the Creators to give him an ounce of strength, or at the very least pity him enough for somebody to come look for him, lest he decompose.
Apparently, the pity won out, and knocking snapped him out of his haze — two short, one long. Dorian.
Allassan's lover knew about his condition, of course. It would have been difficult to keep it hidden from somebody so clever he spent so much time with. But this was his first full flare since telling him about it. Dorian has never seen him in such a bad state. What if–
The mage did not wait for an answer, the door creaking open before him. An unpleasant reminder of having to fix those hinges, the shrill sound went straight to Allassan's pounding skull.
"Amatus, you–" he heard Dorian begin before his footsteps came to a halt near his bedside.
Allassan willed his eyes to look in Dorian's direction, who was staring back at him with badly-concealed concern.
" – you look like death." he amended whatever announcement he was going to give. Allassan huffed a short breath, the closest he could manage to a laugh in his current state.
He saw Dorian kneel next to the bed, eyes searching his face, then looking over the rest of his form under the blankets for any sign of what may be wrong. As if remembering, Dorian's eyes focused on his again.
"Is it your...ailment?" he asked, reaching out a hand to move a few white strands of Allassan's hair behind his ear, touch lingering to slowly caress his head.
Melting into it, Allassan nodded slowly.
He cleared his throat before trying to speak.
"Don't worry yourself, love, I'll be down in a bit–" even his tongue felt heavy, and he knew he was not being honest with either of them.
So did Dorian.
"And I am Divine Justinia," he quipped, an uneasy crease between his beautiful brows. "How can I help, amatus?"
Allassan did not know the answer. Whenever he was hit with these waves of fatigue, the only thing he could do was wait it out. As brilliant and talented (and incredible, did he mention incredible?) a mage Dorian was, he knew healing magic would not make him feel better. Creators know he tried. Asking him to take over his duties was out of the question, and he did not want to burden him by throwing him into the role of caretaker when he already had his own struggles to address.
And what of the Inquisition? And Josephine, Cullen, and Leliana waiting for him? He must be late by now–
As if seeing the gears of rumination turn in his brain, Dorian adjusted his gentle touch, his hand now cupping Allassan's face. It felt soothing, somehow, the warmth of his palm on his ice cold cheek. Would it be so bad to listen to his body, for once?
"Stay?" Allassan asked, hopeful, barely a whisper. "And hand me that glass of water. Please."
Dorian gave him a small smile before obliging, stroking his cheek with his thumb. "Gladly."
A few gulps of water later, Dorian kicked his boots off and climbed into bed next to Allassan, still lying on his side. The warmth radiating off his lover was pleasant against his aching body.
Dorian snuck an arm around Allassan's chest, resting his forehead against the base of his neck. Allassan appreciated the small distance Dorian left between them; he was not sure whether he could bear his lower back being touched at the moment.
"Thank you," he murmured, just for the two of them, not to leave their nest of blankets.
"Always," Dorian replied. "I only wish you would not push yourself this far, amatus. All the world isn't worth you hurting so.”