howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

He's in good company.

Alistair's loath to admit how difficult this has been. Skyhold had plenty of open space, but it always had walls, or alcoves he could duck into, or rooms where he could hide altogether until his heartbeat backed down. He can keep it together when they pass through forests or villages. Open land, wide open sky...well, that's when he starts drumming his fingers until he's safe in their tent for the evening.

Still, though: it is good to have a sword at his waist and a shield on his back again.

(And considering the alternative would've included no sword, no shield, and at least six weeks away from Cullen, he will damn well make sure he keeps it together for the duration.)

Dinner's winding down. Seated shoulder-to-shoulder with Cullen, Alistair scrapes the last bit of meat out of his bowl; when he feels Cullen's foot jittering next to his, he gives it a gentle nudge.

"Sorry," he mutters, and stills, head lowering.

(He's not so finicky that he didn't finish dinner -- they're traveling, after all, and anything that isn't trail rations is a luxury -- but he also didn't put much in his bowl to begin with.)

Alistair shakes his head. "It's all right."

He sets his bowl aside. Lightly, he touches the small of Cullen's back.

"What can I do?"

"I'm fine." He stares at the fire. "Just... have to wait it out until we can turn in."

Beat.

"We should -- talk. About tomorrow."

When full dark comes on, it's easier to pretend they're just in an enormous room somewhere -- especially if Alistair ignores the stars in favor of literally anything else. It's easier to put his own nerves aside in favor of soothing Cullen's.

He glances over. Briefly, he's caught by the sight of Cullen's profile lit by the warm, shifting glow of the fire; he settles his hand more comfortably against his back.

"Mm?"

Even more quietly -- though it's not like anyone's trying to hear them -- Cullen says:

"I don't want to go looking at where the village used to be. Or -- anything else. Just the lake."

Oh.

Alistair breathes out. "Of course," he says, as quiet as Cullen. "That's fine."

"And if it's -- changed -- "

He figures Alistair can surmise what he means by changed.

" -- I don't want to stay."

Alistair nods. He follows Cullen's gaze back to the fire.

"We won't. You don't have to worry about that."

Cullen's head lowers again. It's his turn to nod.

He -- doesn't want to do this. But if his brother and sisters lived through it, the very least he can do is go see.

The fire pops, scattering a few sparks into the air.

Hesitant, Alistair says, "If you'd rather not go at all..."

(He's not sure how much of the side trip is for Cullen's benefit, and how much is for Alistair's. If it's all for Alistair's -- and if not going would soothe Cullen's visible unease about the whole thing -- )

"We're going."

It comes out harsher than he means; he flinches, shoulders coming up around his ears. "Sorry."

Alistair's hand twitches; resettles, after a moment, and presses out a gentle circle into Cullen's back.

"All right." Still quiet. A beat passes before he goes on, "Is there anything you need to do before we turn in?"

Retreating to their tent might be the better part of valor right now, considering Cullen's state. (And his own.)

"Wash up." Dejected. "Give me your bowl, I'll take care of it."

Silently, Alistair retrieves his bowl and passes it to Cullen.

(He doesn't sigh, though it takes some effort.)

Cullen shifts to his feet, stacking their dishes in one hand.

He brushes Alistair's shoulder as he passes, hand lingering.

Alistair looks up, shaping a faint smile. Before Cullen's hand slips away from his shoulder, he catches it, gives his fingers a quick squeeze, and lets go.

Once Cullen's departed, Alistair pushes himself to standing and stretches his arms high overhead. The extra weight of sword, shield, and proper armor has been a bit of a readjustment; old aches sometimes pop up that he'd nearly forgotten. Fortunately, his shoulder isn't among them. Maker willing, it'll stay that way.

He pads toward their tent.

Cullen means to wash their dishes himself, but the cook's assistant takes them from his hands before he can protest.

Well.

Now he's... out here. Standing.

They've traveled enough that the thought of a walk doesn't seem as helpful as it normally would. Means it's time to go hide.

Cullen rubs the back of his neck and heads toward the tent.

Hiding does have the advantage of more privacy. It's a big part of why Alistair suggested it.

He's seated near the back of the tent, leaning (with care) against one of the support poles as he scribbles something in a leatherbound journal. As soon as Cullen walks in, he looks up, offers a small smile, and holds out his hand.

"Come here?"

Cullen toes off his boots by the flap.

Without another word, he goes and sits at Alistair's feet, leaning his head against Alistair's knee.

Alistair sinks his free hand into Cullen's hair, kneading gently. He sketches a few more lines in the journal.

And then he turns the book so Cullen can see and says, "What do you think? A decent likeness?"

It's a stick figure nug in a lieutenant's helmet, a long, droopy mustache falling all the way to its feet.

"...a self-portrait, is it?"

(At least he's smiling.)

"No, hang on, that's this one -- "

Alistair flips back a few pages and presents Cullen with another stick figure nug. This one's astride a stick figure gryphon, a sword in one paw.

Cullen starts laughing quietly. "There it is. Perfect."

Mission accomplished.

Alistair beams, ruffles Cullen's hair, and leans to kiss the top of his head. "I may not paint royal portraits any time soon," he says, "but royal caricatures I can do just fine."