howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

Alistair sighs -- it sounds good-humored enough, fortunately -- and leans his head against Cullen's.

"I'm putting it on record right now," he murmurs, "that I love you more than any mabari. And always will."

(Somewhere, ten random Fereldans just gasped in horror and didn't understand why.)

Cullen almost says a likely story, or until we actually have one, that doesn't count.

But then he remembers what happened the last time Alistair told Cullen he loved him, and Cullen thought he was joking.

So he doesn't say anything.

Alistair turns his head to kiss Cullen's temple.

"What was it you said once?" His smile grows. "Plenty of mabari, only one you?"

That forces a smile out of him; he colors, a little.

"Something like that." Quiet. Warm. "All right."

Alistair chuckles. His hand moves to the back of Cullen's neck; he draws his thumb along one of the spots that's prone to cramping.

Soft: "What do you need from me tonight?"

Cullen lowers his head -- this time because it feels good.

"Mm."

Pause.

"Don't steal the blankets."

"Done."

His other thumb joins in the massage.

"And should I accidentally do it in my sleep, I grant you permission to shove me and steal them back."

"You know I won't." Smiling. "I'll suffer in silence. With my frostbite."

"I despair for you sometimes," says Alistair, gentle and fond. His thumbs keep working. "But I love you."

"Only sometimes?"

His eyes close. A little more absent: "Means I'm improving."

"Mm-hm," agrees Alistair. "A bit more each day."

"Ugh," is Cullen's cutting reply.

He shifts away, then -- but not too far. Enough to flop on the bedroll on his stomach.

"What?" Alistair's starting to laugh again. "I'm agreeing with you! And improvement's a good thing!"

He stretches out next to Cullen.

"Relentless positivity is not an attractive trait in a blanket-stealer," he says, muffled.

Then, smaller:

"Could you -- "

He shakes his head, and doesn't look up. "Never mind."

Alistair's smile dims, a little, as he regards Cullen.

Quiet: "What is it?"

You spend your adolescence and adult life absorbing the message that your needs aren't relevant, and you don't shake that without conscious effort.

Cullen doesn't want to be any trouble.

"Never mind. It's fine."

Alistair lets out a breath.

In silence, he rests his palm between Cullen's shoulder blades. Doesn't move beyond that.

"It's fine," he insists. "I'm tired, you're tired -- it's fine."

"...All right."

Quiet. A little unsure.

"Can I -- " He moves his hand, very slightly -- more to indicate its presence than anything. "Do this much, at least?"

"Yes?" Uncertain. "Do -- whatever you'd like."

Alistair tries not to cringe. (It's never a good sign when Cullen says that.)

But: he likes touching Cullen. There isn't always hedonism behind it; if anything, the quieter moments hearken back to his days of constant searching for proof everything was real. It's about reassurance. Simple physical closeness.

Several moments pass before he moves closer, sliding his arm along Cullen's back to embrace him.

Cullen's with him there, for much the same reason.

He turns his head in Alistair's direction, giving him a faint, warm smile.

(It's close to what he'd wanted to ask: could you keep rubbing my neck? But he doesn't want to be a nuisance. Alistair is here with him, not for him. Not ever.)

Alistair returns the smile. They're only inches apart; he doesn't have to lean far to kiss him, brief and light, like a greeting.

"Want me to keep blathering on, or would you prefer quiet?" he murmurs.

"That depends -- are you going to be hurt if I fall asleep in the middle of your monologue?"

A soft laugh. "Not at all. In fact, if you'd like me to tell you a thoroughly boring story to help you fall asleep faster, I'd be happy to."