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The young man steps up to the bar just as Cole is peeling a neat spiral of orange zest for a Sidecar; the spray of orange oil lingers in his nostrils. Oranges smell like sunshine and so, he thinks, will this man — a simple uncomplicated happiness. The light gleams on his brown hair, illuminating a few golden strands, and his lips hold the memory of a smile not long distant.
Cole thinks that he could watch him for hours, like gazing at a flickering candle flame, without growing tired.
(He loves far too easily, he knows this, just as he knows not to speak of love until another person brings it up. And still he loves.)
By the time that Cole has finished the Sidecar and handed it to his customer, the young man is leaning idly against the bar, his hips and his gaze oriented to the stage, to Maryden. She’s singing a softer song now, her voice raw and intimate; Cole can feel her words brushing over his skin like a living enchantment.
Look at me, he thinks at the man, and to his surprise, it works. He turns to Cole. “Hi,” he says. “What do you have on tap?” His voice has a musical quality.
Cole begins to recite the options by rote, then breaks off halfway through. “You’ll like the Warden’s Dagger ale. It tastes like hearing a song that you haven’t heard since you were a teenager, with a hint of the woods after a rain.”
The man narrows his eyes, as if assessing whether Cole’s serious, but then he nods. “All right, I’m game.”
“Good,” Cole says. He takes a pint glass and begins to pour, nodding at Maryden as he does. “She sings here every Saturday night.”
“Guess I’ll have to come back again, then,” the man says, his voice appreciative. “She’s beautiful. I, uh, I mean, her voice is beautiful. I don’t recognize the song, though.”
“She wrote it herself. She’s very talented.”
“Wow.” The man accepts the glass from Cole, then takes a long sip, licking a smudge of foam off his lips when he finishes. He closes his eyes for a moment, then shifts his focus fully to Cole. “You were right. This is really good. How’d you know what to get me?”
Cole shrugs, not meeting the man’s gaze. “I’m good at knowing what other people want. You understand.”
The man cocks his head, the way people do when Cole goes too far. “Right. Well, I’ll see you around, uh—”
“Cole.”
He nods. “Krem. And thanks.” Placing a few bills on the bar, the man nods at Cole, then disappears into the crowd.
Up on the stage, Maryden sings the final words of her song in a near-whisper. “—And words are futile devices.”
❥❥❥.
Krem is back the following Saturday, this time dragging along a bulky Qunari whom he calls “Chief.” Cole pours another pint of Warden’s Dagger for Krem; the Chief asks for a Sex on the Beach with extra umbrellas. “Chicks love the umbrellas,” he explains, deadpan. “And this way, they know I’ve got plenty to go around.”
Plenty to go around. Cole tilts his head at him. “Always generous, always graceful on the tightrope. One day, you’ll have to choose. But they’ll be worth it.”
“Hunh,” the Chief says neutrally, but his eye flashes over Cole in quick assessment. Then he shrugs. “Ready to sit down, Krem-de-la-Créme?”
“Sure thing.” They pay and begin to navigate to an open table near the stage, and Cole lets himself watch Krem walk away, the muscles of his back flexing as he dodges around patrons. (Cole thinks he would enjoy seeing those muscles flex as Krem lifted off his shirt.)
As they reach the table, the Chief looks back and gives Cole a wink, as if he knows exactly what he’s been thinking. Cole feels his cheeks go hot, and he turns to his next patron with awkward haste.
Krem and the Chief stay for the entirety of Maryden’s set, buying more drinks during her breaks. From the smile that she casts Krem when she notices him near the stage, Cole knows that she remembers him from last week. Maryden has her share of fans, of course—part of Cole’s job is keeping an eye on the more sloppy-drunk ones—but they’ve talked together enough that Cole knows most of them don’t catch her eye. Apparently Krem has.
That night, Maryden sings like a nightingale; her voice dances over the notes, lilting and lovely, infusing them with such joy and sorrow that Cole finds it hard at times to focus on his bartending. The Chief leaves halfway through the evening, accompanied by a cute young couple who’d been giving him flirtatious glances, but Krem stays until the end, transfixed. When Maryden finishes her final song, Krem stands up to applaud, and he’s not the only one.
Cole thinks about inviting Krem to stay at the bar while he cleans up; he imagines what it would feel like to have those warm brown eyes fixed on him, the way they were fixed on Maryden. But he’s not what Krem wants right now, and that’s all right.
As he leaves for the night, bundled up in a winter coat, Krem walks by the bar and meets Cole’s eyes. “She’ll be here next week?”
“Next week,” Cole agrees.
❥❥❥
Every Saturday, Krem comes back. Sometimes he has shadows under his eyes and a stiffness to his smile; other times he’s relaxed and free, laughing at Maryden’s funnier songs with loose abandon. Sometimes he’s accompanied by the Chief, whose name Cole learns is the Iron Bull; one time he brings a larger crowd of friends, and they push a couple of tables together to squeeze everyone in. But he’s always there, faithful as the tide, and he always stays until the end.
A few weeks in, as Krem’s on his way out, Cole catches his eyes. “You don’t have to leave yet, if you want to stay.” When Krem hesitates, Cole adds, “Maryden will probably come join us.” She usually stays for a drink after the sets; it’s become a soothing ritual, chatting with her as Cole washes and tidies up. Normally it’s just the two of them, but Cole doesn’t think she’ll mind.
“Well,” Krem says, then visibly gives in. “All right.” He quirks his lips in a small smile. “Mind pouring me a whisky? I’ll need liquid courage for this.”
“You don’t need to worry,” Cole tells him, but he pulls down the bottle of whisky anyway. “On the rocks?”
“Please.”
Krem’s eyes meet his, friendly and grateful, and Cole can envision kissing him, so vividly it’s almost painful. Krem’s lips would be cold from the ice, his breath warm with the whisky, his tongue so tentative. The vision lingers, phantom-like, on Cole’s lips, and he shakes his head to make it dissipate.
“She likes yellow lilies,” he finds himself saying, as he reaches for a clean glass. “They remind her of summer.”
Krem smiles a little. “Good to know. You seem to know her pretty well.”
Cole nods, keeping a steady pour. “We both like making people happy. She has her voice for that; I have to use my hands.”
“Huh,” Krem says. Cole glances over to see Krem watching his hands. “I mean, they’re good hands. Um. You’re good at this, that’s what I mean.”
“Thank you,” Cole says. If he were braver, he’d hand Krem the glass and let their fingers brush against each other.
He slides it across the counter instead.
A few minutes later, Maryden shows up at the bar and gracefully perches on the seat next to Krem. “A glass of white, Cole?”
It’s already poured and waiting, and Cole hands it over, enjoying Maryden’s appreciative smile. She’s already scrubbed off her makeup in the back room, exposing her rosy cheeks and a scattering of freckles that she covers up onstage. Beautiful. Her eyes are bright, and she looks Krem up and down. “So, it’s a pleasure to meet my biggest fan.”
“Oh, I—” Krem begins, and trails off. A flush colors his cheeks, and he looks away.
“This is Krem,” Cole says. “His favorite song is ‘Once We Were.’”
“Ah, so you have good taste,” Maryden says, giving Krem a half smile. “Though I can’t claim credit for the melody; it’s an old Dalish song.”
“But the lyrics are yours, right?” Krem asks. “I love the way you work themes of the Fade and demons into your songs. It takes me right back to the Dragon Age.”
“Sometimes it feels like everything was more real back then,” Maryden says with a smile. “Who do you think you would have been, if you lived in the Dragon Age?”
Krem laughs. “Probably something really boring, like a bricklayer. I work in construction. But I’ve always loved the idea of being a warrior—hefting around a giant maul, smashing up darkspawn. What about you?”
Maryden answers, and they’re soon wrapped up in the conversation, their eyes meeting and glancing off each other in a dance that Cole knows well from the outside. He scrubs down the counter and puts everything in order, feeling a strange, sweet sadness puckering his stomach, bitter and sharp as a lemon rind.
When Krem and Maryden leave together, Cole is happy for them. It’s not even a lie.
❥❥❥
The long gray stretch of winter in Satinalia’s wake slowly begins to thaw into a pale green spring. Krem still shows up for all of Maryden’s sets, often bearing a bunch of yellow lilies; they never fail to make her smile. But sometimes he also shows up to the bar on days that aren’t Saturday, with Maryden at his side. She seems to have become an honorary member of Krem’s circle of friends, teasing and joking comfortably at his side, and Cole loves the times that the whole group shows up at the Herald’s Rest; the warmth of their laughter soaks into him all evening. But even more, he loves the evenings when Krem and Maryden sit up at the bar, including Cole in their conversation.
One day, Cole mentions Skyhold, the center for queer youths where he spends some afternoons, and the two of them light up. “Do they need more volunteers?” Krem asks.
Cole nods. “We could always use more adults. Especially ones with good stories to tell. They like hearing happy stories.”
Krem and Maryden share a warm glance, and Maryden takes Krem’s hand, interlacing their fingers. “I think we can do that,” she says.
And that’s how they end up at an open-house-slash-brunch at Skyhold on a Sunday morning, eating donated pastries and talking to a small cluster of teenagers. Krem tells them about growing up trans in Tevinter, about serving in the army with a forged birth certificate and bribing doctors—and then he talks about finding his chosen family through the Iron Bull, moving to Ferelden, and making a good life for himself. The kids are riveted; most of them haven’t even met someone from Tevinter before, let alone someone like them.
One of them, a firecracker young elf, wrinkles her nose at the end of the story. “But not all of us can have that happy heteronormative life. What about those of us who don’t pass, or who aren’t straight?”
Krem chuckles and, inexplicably, glances at Cole. “Hey, I’m not straight either, even if I am in a straight-passing relationship right now. But I hear your point, and I’m not trying to say that I know it all. It’s not about comparing who has it easiest or whose childhood was hardest—it’s about finding your people, the ones who are going to love and support you no matter who you are or how you present yourself. And believe me, I know how lucky I am to have found that—not just with Bull, but with Maryden and Cole.”
The acknowledgment that he’s part of Krem’s chosen family kindles a pleasant warmth in Cole. His own story isn’t as happy as Krem’s; he still feels like he’s putting the pieces of his life together, even though it’s been years since—since everything with his father. He still feels most content when he’s helping other people and not thinking about himself. But maybe he can have this.
❥❥❥
And of course that’s when things fall apart. Cole lives in a four-bedroom apartment with three Templars; they’re not his choice of companions, but the rent was too good to turn down. He wakes up late one morning, after a long bartending shift, and goes to pull together some breakfast.
There’s something strange in the air in the kitchen; the other three are visibly uncomfortable, glancing between each other and at Cole. Finally, as Cole picks up his bowl of cereal, Denam speaks. “Look, we’ve been sending hints, but I guess we’ve got to be blunt. This isn’t working.”
“What isn’t working?” Cole asks.
Denam sighs audibly. “This. Us living together. We took you in because Delrin backed out and we needed someone fast, but honestly, you’re a terrible roommate. You hide in your room, you leave a mess in the kitchen, and you keep saying weird shit.”
Cole opens his mouth, then closes it. He knows he’s “weird”; Maker knows that enough people have told him. He just hadn’t realized it was this much of a problem. “I can try to clean up more?” he offers.
“No. We’re taking you off the lease.”
Despair is welling up in him, but Cole tries to keep his voice steady. “When do you need me to leave?”
Denam glances at the other two, then looks firmly at Cole. “You’ve got two weeks.”
I really don’t like Templars, Cole thinks to himself, and when Denam’s glare intensifies, he realizes that he muttered it aloud.
“Well,” Denam says in a voice thick with sarcasm, “we don’t like you either.”
❥❥❥
Cole has a shift that evening, so he spends the day alternately packing and browsing Craigslist apartments, then mentally sets it all aside so he can focus on work. But he knows he’s not himself — the faint tremor in his hands and the jitteriness in his voice are giveaways — and Krem confronts him halfway through the shift. “Okay, what’s wrong?”
Cole looks away. He doesn’t want to burden Krem, but he also doesn’t want to lie. But Krem waits patiently, and finally Cole gives in, explaining the whole housing situation.
Krem leans back, his mouth tight with anger. “Your roommates sound like real assholes.”
“They’re not very nice people,” Cole acknowledges.
“Do you know where you’ll move?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve been looking at ads, but everything is either too expensive, or I’d need a car to get to work.”
Krem looks at him for a moment, contemplative, and Cole realizes what he’s about to say a moment before he says it. “Come stay with me until you find a place, then. I don’t have a spare bed, but the couch is comfortable enough.”
Krem’s expression is earnest, and Cole doesn’t meet his eyes. “I don’t want to be in the way. You and Maryden need your own space.”
“Okay, first of all, I’m certain that Maryden won’t mind, especially since we can always go to her place if we want privacy,” Krem replies calmly. “And second, you won’t be in the way. I always have room for friends.”
There’s a warmth in Krem’s voice, but also a tentativeness that makes Cole almost believe him. Sometimes he feels like a spirit, floating through the world without really touching it, but right now he wishes he actually could read minds.
Cole looks up, and Krem is watching him patiently. He wants to do this, Cole realizes, and he exhales. “All right.”
❥❥❥
The next week, Krem hosts a party with a large, hand-painted banner reading “All Templars Are Bastards Welcome Home Cole!” Cole’s never had a house-warming party before, even if this isn’t exactly that, and he’s both touched and overwhelmed by how many of their friends showed up: staff from the Herald’s Rest, other volunteers from Skyhold, and of course the Iron Bull and his misfit family. There’s a new guy accompanying the Iron Bull, too—stylish clothes, dapper mustache—and he looks about as uncomfortable as Cole feels with the rowdy masses of people filling every room, though he hides it behind a charming smile.
Eventually, he and the stranger end up in the same corner of the kitchen, mostly because it’s the quietest spot in the apartment. “Hello,” Cole says. “I’m Cole.”
“Ah, the man of the hour,” he says wryly. “I’m Dorian. Enjoying your party?”
Cole shrugs. “Not really. But Krem and Maryden had fun preparing for it. And it’s nice to see my friends making new friends.”
“Well,” Dorian says, “I wasn’t expecting an honest answer.”
Cole nods. “You’re not used to them. I understand that.” Then he looks over at the Iron Bull, who’s currently chugging a beer. “You think he’s safe because you know not to trust him. But that’s not why he’s safe.”
“Ah... right. Not one for small talk, I take it?”
“No,” Cole says. “I’m glad you’re here, though. The Iron Bull deserves someone kind.”
“Yes, well.” Dorian shifts in place awkwardly. “So what about yourself? Any lucky young ladies for you? Or lucky young men?”
Cole shakes his head, but his gaze instinctively flickers over to the entrance to the living room, where he can see Krem and Maryden standing next to each other, her hand resting in the hollow of his back.
“Ah, so it’s like that,” Dorian says knowingly. “Which one?”
That makes Cole smile, just a little. “How could I choose?”
Dorian’s eyebrows rise. “I see. You’ve got hidden depths, my friend.”
Cole shrugs and tries not to let himself think about all the “depths” he’s hiding, all the memories that threaten to drown him some days. But just at that moment, Maryden glances backward, looking right at Cole, and her lips quirk in a small smile. The sight is so warm and familiar that it disrupts the spiral of thoughts before they can go anywhere.
So Cole blinks away the memories and looks over to see Dorian watching him. “You going to do anything about it?”
“No,” Cole says firmly. “What they have is delicate — two sets of leaves, unfurling in each other’s sun. If I can help them make each other happy, that’s enough.”
“Perhaps you’re right. But I’ve always thought that we should strive for more than just ‘enough,’” Dorian says.
And Cole can’t quite say that he’s wrong.
❥❥❥
Days and then weeks pass, living in Krem’s apartment. The couch is surprisingly comfortable, and Krem’s a good housemate; he even cooks for the two of them, though his spice tolerance is much higher than Cole’s, so Cole always has to keep a glass of water handy. Cole tries, for his part, to be a good guest; he makes an effort to clean up his clutter, and he tries his best not to be “weird.” (It’s hard, though, because he can’t tell when he’s being too weird; no matter what he says, Krem always accepts it with a warm smile.)
Monday nights, when the Herald’s Rest is closed, become an informal movie night; there are a thousand “classic” movies that Cole hasn’t seen and Krem argues he can’t live without, so they end up on the couch, eating microwave popcorn and watching everything from Die Hard to The Breakfast Club. Sometimes Maryden joins them; sometimes it’s just the two of them, laughing together at the jokes and throwing popcorn at the screen at the cheesy parts.
One Monday night, the credits are rolling at the end of Kill Bill 2, and Cole turns to Krem, sleepy but curious. “Why do you know so many of these movies, anyway? Did they show up in Tevinter?”
Krem chuckles at that, a note of bitterness in his voice. “Nah. Tevinter movies are all shiny special effects and patriotic messaging. We had bootlegs that floated around, a few Ferelden comedies and a lot of Orlesian softcore porn, usually with really crappy quality. But when I got to Ferelden, I wanted to get rid of my Tevinter accent, so I started checking movies out from the library, anything they had, and watching them at night. Then I’d talk about them with Bull and the others, and they’d tell me what to watch next.”
“You have good friends.”
“Damn right I do. Present company included.” Krem elbows Cole gently and gives him a warm, tired smile. They stay like that, comfortable and quiet, for a long moment, until Krem lets out a jaw-cracking yawn. “Ugh. I should really get to bed, but I do not want to move.”
“Then stay,” Cole says, loose and reckless with sleepiness.
“‘Kay,” Krem says with another yawn. He tugs the afghan from on top of Cole until it covers both of them, closes his eyes, and is soon breathing the deep, even breaths of slumber.
Cole doesn’t want to sleep—he’s too busy watching Krem’s face at rest, and resisting the urge to smooth a stray lock of hair off his forehead. But all too soon, he finds himself sinking into warm, gentle dreams.
❥❥❥
If there’s one downside of living with Krem, besides the perpetual proximity to the people he yearns for, it’s this: the walls of his apartment are thin. It takes a while for Cole to notice, because Krem and Maryden are considerate; Cole knows that they have sex at Maryden’s place, but at Krem’s house, they head to bed in a trail of sleepy kisses and lingering hands, then go quiet.
At least, at first.
But one night, after Krem and Maryden have gone to bed, Cole can’t sleep. His mind is stuck on memories of the past, replaying what happened in the before-time. So he lies awake, trying to think of anything else, until the ticking clock has begun to drive him crazy with its incessant rhythm, and he’s starting to wonder if he should just turn on the TV and watch a movie at low volume.
Then a low sigh, a throaty ahhhh of pleasure, comes through the door of Krem’s room. It’s too muffled for Cole to tell who it came from, but the high gasp that comes next is definitely Maryden. There’s a muffled, low sound of Krem asking a question, and then another cry of pleasure from Maryden.
It’s torture. Sweet, perfect torture. Cole can only imagine what they’re doing with each other, whose fingers are stroking which sites of slippery sensitive skin, but the groans and bitten-off curses and cries of yes, more, right there, they layer on top of each other like waves of water drowning him in thick desire. He’s hard, yes, but he’s also aching with a gut-twisting longing to feel those fingers on himself, over himself, in himself.
He lies on the sofa, resolutely not touching himself, for what feels like hours, until the cries climax and then quieten down. Tomorrow, he thinks to himself, tomorrow I’m going to start looking at apartments again. Then he curls up under Krem’s blanket and tries not to cry at the thought of losing somewhere that feels so much like home.
❥❥❥
The next day, after Krem leaves for work, he spends the afternoon looking at apartment listings. He goes to work that evening feeling drained, brittle, and when Maryden shows up at the bar alone before her evening set, Cole’s tongue feels heavy in his mouth.
“Hello, Cole,” she says warmly, then pauses at whatever she sees in his face. “Oh. We were too loud last night, weren’t we.”
Cole shrugs and tries not to remember what her voice sounded like as she came. “Yes. I didn’t mean to listen, but I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Feel free to knock on the door next time we’re keeping you up,” she says, then pauses, looks down, and looks back up at Cole. “Or join us, if you like.”
Cole flushes and focuses on wiping down the bar. He has no idea how to respond, no idea what to do when everything he wants most gets offered to him, easy as anything. His secret is out, and he’s terrified.
“Oh. Was that too soon? Krem said we should give you more time, but I thought you might —” Maryden cuts herself off and reaches over toward Cole’s hand, so careful and tentative that he could pull away if he wanted to. He doesn’t. “We want you in our life,” she says at last. “However you want to be there. And I hate seeing you this sad. You’ve been sad ever since you moved in with Krem.”
Cole tilts his head, confused. “I’ve been the happiest that I can remember.”
Something bittersweet twists her lips. “Dearheart, those two statements aren’t a contradiction. I know I’ve never seen you truly happy. But if you let us, Krem and I would like to try to help you find your way there.” Maryden runs her thumb over Cole’s hand, cradling it gently, so tentative and so tender.
“I take care of other people,” he says at last. “I don’t know how to do the rest of it.”
“Then let’s find out together,” she replies simply.
They don’t stop holding hands for a long, long time.
❥❥❥
When Cole heads back home after his shift at the bar, he finds the lights still on and Krem sitting at the kitchen table. In front of him is a vase filled to overflowing with yellow daffodils.
Cole closes the door carefully, focusing on the cool metal of the lock instead of the emotions churning inside him. Krem wants this, or so Maryden said, but Cole mistrusts good things happening to himself, and this is—this is too much, too good.
“They’re for you,” Krem says. “The lady at the flower shop said they symbolized beginnings.” His eyes are bright and hopeful. “But I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, especially since you’re relying on me for a place to stay. You know you can say no, right?”
“I know,” Cole says. He closes his eyes for a moment, tries to think through the fog of swirling feelings. “I don’t want to say no, though.”
“Okay. Good.” Krem smiles, then, broad and a little giddy, and it’s like sunrise and citrus zest and unexpected laughter. He stands up, the chair scraping loudly on the floor, and takes a step toward Cole. “How would you feel if I kissed you?”
Cole tilts his head to the side and considers. “I think I’d feel very happy.”
So Krem cups Cole’s face between his hands and presses his lips against Cole’s, and his mouth is warm and faintly mint-scented, and as it turns out, Cole’s prediction was right: he is very, very happy.
❥❥❥
It’s a Monday night, and three people sit on a living room sofa.
Maryden strums a guitar, just like her father taught her, and hums melodies too delicate to have coalesced into songs yet, testing new possibilities with her voice.
Krem sits next to her, leaning against her side, so that he vibrates softly with each new chord. His calloused fingers nimbly crochet the wings of a small flying nug, weaving in the loose ends of yarn, just like his father taught him.
Cole lies with his head on Krem’s hip, curled up in a ball like a kitten, and listens to Maryden’s drifting song. He can feel his heart beating in his chest, the breath passing through his lungs, the vulnerability of his position. He loves these two people so much that it’s painful, but the pain is superseded by the joy. So much joy. It’s everything, everything that his father never taught him.
Three people sit on a living room sofa, and together, they build something new.