howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"...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."

"Then who'd tell you a boring story so you could fall asleep?"

"No need," he says. "I'll just count as high as I can. It's like I'm telling myself a boring story."

"...you're not going to count at me, are you?"

"Of course not. You'll get..."

Hm.

"The very unadventurous adventures of Ser Bovine, who stayed in his pen all day and ate nothing but grass. How about that?"

"It's not a story unless something happens."

"I'd argue that it's still a story," says Alistair, lifting an eyebrow. "It's just not a good story. Which is rather the point if I'm trying to make it as boring as possible."

"If you were hoping I'd fall asleep with my hands over my ears, that's the way to do it."

Alistair huffs out a laugh.

"I could also argue that something does happen," he says. "Ser Bovine eats his dinner. That's a something."

Cullen glares at him.

And turns his back to Alistair, clamping his hands over his ears.

After a moment, he reaches for the thin pillow, and pulls it atop his head.

Alistair bursts into laughter.

"What," he manages, "don't you want to hear all the minute details about exactly which blades of grass he chewed?"

He wraps his arm more firmly around Cullen's middle as he scoots closer.

"I seem to remember," Cullen announces to the tent, "that Alistair liked to walk in front so that all the traps would fall on him. What a good thing to know as we enter a land full of spiders and gurguts and enemy Avvar and bogfisher dung."

Affronted: "Hey."

(He'd sound much more affronted if he could stop laughing.)

"It's important to use all information to one's advantage."

Alistair grumbles. "See if I tell you any more stories from the Fifth Blight. You're definitely getting nothing but Ser Bovine stories from now on."

"I'll just go back to reading for my entertainment." Lofty. "Kordillus Drakon is a better storyteller anyway."

Alistair gasps, with all due melodrama. "No. I never thought you capable of such a grievous insult, Rutherford. I don't know if I can forgive you."

He lets go of Cullen, rolling onto his back.

"Well," Cullen says, following suit, "when you give me Ser Bovine as evidence of your storytelling prowess, you can't blame me for reaching the logical conclusion."

Alistair holds up a finger. "The opposite of storytelling prowess, thank you. A story deliberately designed to be the worst possible."

Beat.

"That can take just as much skill as telling a good story, you know."