“So, what does he call you?” Varric asks one evening, in the tavern. When Dorian raises a questioning brow, Varric explains, “You’ve got that whole name… endearment… thing going on. What does he call you?”
Dorian answers matter-of-factly: “Dorian.” Then he takes a swig of ale.
Well, that doesn’t quite cover it. Dorian, said pleadingly, said sleepily in the mornings. Said with a laugh and a hint of exasperation. Shouted on the battlefield. Said brightly at the sight of him, as if his continued existence is always a marvellous surprise. Whispered into his ear at pointless formal events. Said like a curse or a prayer in their bed. Said tiredly, with a shoulder leaning against his, as a quiet request for company. Said with such obvious, terrible love. He’s never heard his name sound so unnecessarily complicated, or so good.
He pauses, and thinks. “Oh, and ‘bloody idiot,’ once.”