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Dorian could feel his heartbeat in his fingers and in his ears as he thundered down the front steps of Skyhold, and he wasn’t the only one in upheaval. The word had spread through the keep like a stench that the Inquisitor had taken on a dragon and died, or something very close to it, and only Solas’s magic had pulled him back. It hadn’t taken long for the news to reach the library and Dorian had never felt an emptiness that deep before. The idea of Emrys never again cresting the library stairs, never smiling at Dorian like his troubles had been solved just by seeing him, had buzzed so loudly in his ears that he hadn’t heard of Emrys’s survival at first. Leliana had taken him by the shoulders and rattled him, saying over and over that Emrys lived until it finally stuck and the pain in Dorian’s chest had eased enough for him to breathe. Then the bell had rung from the ramparts, announcing an arrival, and Dorian had run for the stairs on shaking legs.
The returning party had been sighted in the valley, too far to distinguish individually, but one of their number was purportedly leaning quite heavily on another. The call to open the gates was made just as Dorian arrived in the courtyard and the doors opened, their creak magnified in the bated silence of the crowd. Emrys crossed the threshold -- blessedly not dead -- and Dorian was seized with a relief so palpable he was almost dizzy. He was more pallid than Dorian remembered and quite clearly favouring his left side, but he lived, he breathed, he was himself enough to quirk his lopsided smile at the cheer that erupted around him. His eyes roved the crowd with intent until they fixed on Dorian. Emrys’s smile grew wider.
Dorian was moving forward before he had even registered the possibility of doing so. He took ahold of Emrys by the front of his robes and pulled him close, heedless of their audience, who went suddenly quiet. Their noses were almost touching and Dorian could see the fine layer of freckles on Emrys’s cheekbones, every minuscule fleck of brown in his very alarmed blue eyes. He was warm and solid under Dorian’s fingers. Dorian could feel his heartbeat against his forearm.
Dorian shook him, just a little and just once, forcing words past the knot in his throat, “You are not ever doing that again, understood?” Before Emrys could even begin to reply, Dorian pulled him the rest of the way forward and kissed him, spectators be damned.
For a split second, all Dorian could feel was gratitude that Emrys was still here to kiss, but it wasn’t long before dread replaced it. What rumours would spawn from this display he could hardly guess, but he needn’t overtax himself all that much to imagine the look on Mother Giselle’s face. The joy at seeing Emrys alive had made him forget himself, but the heat of the moment had passed and Dorian knew regret would be just at its heels, as it always was.
Just as he was about to pull away, Emrys came to life against him, apparently recovered from whatever shock Dorian’s gusto had given him. One hand went to Dorian’s hip, the other wound itself into his hair, and Emrys pressed himself as close to Dorian as he could get. Their lips parted, but only just, and Dorian could only stare, awestruck, at the curl of one corner of Emrys’s mouth, the shine in his eyes. Dorian knew that shine intimately; it was the Emrys he only saw in stolen moments, the spark of something Dorian couldn’t stop looking for, always hidden under the calm facade of the Inquisitor. There was no Inquisitor here right now, only Emrys, who finally found purchase at the back of Dorian’s head, tilted it -- and his own -- just so, and kissed him.
Dorian thought he knew what a good kiss was. He’d been wrong. Their mouths met and for a moment they were both still, like the deep breath before a confession. Then Emrys sighed, a serene wisp of breath that Dorian’s felt more than heard, and slid his hand from Dorian’s hip to the small of his back. His lips parted, the tip of his tongue brushed the seam of Dorian’s mouth, and all thought left Dorian’s head. He forgot where they were, how many people could see them, why exactly he’d denied himself this experience before now. He forgot everything except how full Emrys’s bottom lip was, the push of his chest against Dorian’s hands as he breathed, the stirring drag of his fingers against Dorian’s scalp. His eyes were closed, he realised, and he didn’t remember closing them. As Emrys’s tongue touched, feather light, to his he found he no longer cared. It was overwhelming for all that it was slow; meet and release, meet and release, again and again, an inexorable tide of a kiss that swept him under. Dorian felt savoured, celebrated with every sweep of lips against his, and his hands went to Emrys’s back, clutching him desperately close. Someone whimpered and Dorian was almost positive it was him.
Emrys pulled back slowly and Dorian followed; for all that he had no idea how long they’d been standing there, he was certain it wasn’t long enough. Emrys kissed him gently one more time, a suggestion of lips on his at best, and drew away again. His lips were swollen and glossy and very distracting, and he was as breathless as Dorian felt. Emrys’s hand unwound gently from his hair and drifted forward to cup his cheek. He touched the pad of his thumb to Dorian’s mouth with a look of such tenderness on his face that Dorian’s breath seized in his chest.
Emrys smiled at him. “Understood.”