The wine you stole—purely for the sport of it—tasted like utter shit. Truly. Thin, sour, sharp in all the wrong places. The kind of wine that made you wonder if the grapes had been offended sometime during production. And yet… with good company, maybe the sun really was brighter.

Still, you almost wished for something better.

Skyhold’s lesser wine cellars were exactly that—lesser. More armory than indulgence, more necessity than pleasure. Which made sense, really. When the world was constantly threatening to rip itself apart at the seams, priorities shifted.

The guard stationed near the cellar watched you with open amusement as you slipped inside.

Didn’t stop you. Didn’t even pretend to.

He actually cleared his throat and asked, politely, if you wanted him to open the door for you.

You waved him off, muttering something about “half the fun being the theft,” and he let you have your moment. Because it was an unspoken rule, written somewhere in the air between reverence and exhaustion: the Inquisitor was elite, yes, savior, herald, whatever title stuck that week—but also a person. And people needed to do stupid, childish things now and then just to keep the despair from settling too deep in the bones. So… thank you, Solas. Probably. Somehow.

The library was warm when you finally retreated there, sunlight weak but perfectly angled, catching dust motes in a lazy, golden drift. It hit just right as you sank into one of the plush chairs near the hearth—the kind that creaked and sighed with every movement, as if it had opinions about being disturbed.

Dorian was close by, naturally. He held the wine bottle up to the light, squinting at the label with theatrical skepticism, one hand lazily rolling his glass so the wine sloshed against the sides.

“Oh, darling,” he said, already wounded. “You didn’t steal this. You rescued it from dignity.” The library smelled like old books and dust, faint smoke from the hearth. At first, the wine was just what you needed. You and Dorian talked the way only friends who had stared down the end of the world could—light at first, joking, carefully skirting the edges of responsibility. Just a little bit. Enough to remind yourself you were still a person before you were a symbol.

Then the wine warmed your cheeks. The stories drifted further from strategy and closer to survival-by-laughter. The idea of the world ending became absurd instead of crushing. Trauma still ached low in your belly and behind your eyes—but you laughed anyway, because sometimes that was the only thing keeping madness at bay. And of course, with Dorian, guards dropped. He wouldn’t judge. …Much.

Secrets spilled. Embellished slightly. Then came gossip—real gossip. The kind that had you clutching your stomach, breathless with laughter, because Dorian Pavus had opinions and absolutely no internal filter.

You snorted wine through your nose.

“And then there’s the Maker,” you said, half-laughing, half-serious. “Speaks to no one, but somehow everyone knows exactly what He wants.”

Dorian raised his glass. “He’s not cruel,” he said sweetly. “Just devastatingly logical.”

You clinked glasses.

“Clergy who contradict themselves?” you added.

“Toasted.”

Dorian tilted his head, eyes narrowing with wicked delight. “Oh, no, no—be honest. We’re among friends, and the wine has clearly absolved us of sin. Bull… or Cullen?”

You didn’t even pretend to think long. “Bull knows exactly what he’s doing.”

Dorian hummed approvingly. “Oh, absolutely. That man flirts like a siege weapon. No subtlety. Just—impact. You can practically hear the consent forms screaming.” He took a sip, then flicked his wrist dismissively. “And Cullen—sweet, tortured thing—spends half his time pretending he doesn’t notice when people flirt with him and the other half blushing like the Maker personally walked in on his thoughts.” You snorted.

“So,” Dorian concluded, “Bull would ruin you on purpose, and Cullen would apologize profusely while doing it by accident.”

He leaned back. “Maker help us all.”