howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"What?"

...actually, it sounds more like whmph?, thanks to the jerky Alistair immediately dug from his pack once the tent was set up.

"Good." Darkly.

Now he does turn around -- and tries hard to hide his amusement.

"Couldn't wait? More fish for me."

Hastily, Alistair swallows his mouthful of food.

Sheepish: "I was hungry."

And apparently, those months of relative idleness in Skyhold have fully restored his appetite to its pre-Fade days.

"Not as though we've been riding since daybreak or anything," he observes, shrugging out of his coat. "Or that it's midday -- " And breastplate, and pauldrons. " -- and time for lunch."

Cullen flops on his back, then, tucking his arms behind his head, turning his face to the sun.

He closes his eyes. He couldn't stop smiling if he wanted to. (He doesn't.)

"Ah, yes. All those minor details."

Alistair polishes off the jerky; he studies Cullen for a beat or two, an unconscious smile tugging at his lips.

Then he drops onto the grass next to him, stretching out alongside, and leans his head on Cullen's arm.

"I'm being attacked," Cullen announces, and wraps his arm around Alistair. "Oh dear."

"Oh no," says Alistair, snuggling closer. "And now it seems it's attached itself to you. However will you fend it off?"

"I could point out that if it doesn't cooperate, we can't very well do any fishing."

Struggling not to laugh, "I'm sure it would cooperate as long as it gets its share of the fish."

Cullen pats Alistair's head. "I'd never intended to do anything else."

"Oh, good." He closes his eyes. "The beast is appeased."

Beat.

"Though it's still not letting go of you any time soon." He suits action to words and drapes an arm around Cullen's middle.

Cullen laughs quietly.

"Not even if I point out there's still work to do before the fishing can commence?"

A small, grudging sigh.

"I suppose it might let go in that instance. After a few moments."

"A few moments I can allow."

He sinks his fingers into Alistair's hair.

Softer: "Good."

The sigh that follows is far more contented.

"Thank you for bringing me here. It really is lovely."

Cullen huffs a breath. "I'm just glad it's still worth looking at."

(Yes, his strategy is still going to be 'pretend things that are hugely important have little value lest someone suspect me of having strong feelings.')

"That's a long way to come for disappointment that could've been easily avoided."

"Mm."

To Alistair's credit, it's only a little dry -- and outweighed heavily by affection.

"Yes, very fortunate, then, that it's like you remember."

"I should write my sister."

Quieter. A little absent.

"She'd like to know, I think."

Alistair's eyebrows rise.

No louder -- his smile's grown a bit, somewhere between pleased and proud: "I think that sounds like an excellent idea."

"They wouldn't want to come back," he says, alarmed. "Nothing like that. They've got -- they've built -- they're fine. In South Reach."

"No, I know," he's quick to say. Cullen gets a small squeeze of reassurance. "I think you're right, is all. She'd like to know."

More importantly: if Cullen's talking of voluntarily writing his family, Alistair's going to encourage it with all he's got.

(Cullen actually has siblings to write, after all.)

Cullen raises his head long enough to give Alistair a suspicious look.

How would you know? he almost asks -- but doesn't.

This isn't the time to get in a contentious conversation. They don't have enough time here for that.

He wouldn't know -- but he can make assumptions. Mostly assumptions of the she writes you all the time, ergo she'd probably enjoy a letter in reply variety.

He's absolutely going to ignore that suspicious look, though. His thoughts run a similar path: this is the happiest Cullen's looked all day; he won't ruin it; he won't ruin this.

It would be better -- safer -- if they'd just pretend he didn't make it out of Kinloch. Or Kirkwall. Or died along with their parents. They don't know him. They've gotten along just fine without him for fifteen years.

What Alistair doesn't understand, he thinks, is the way misery and violence come to everyone around him. At least with Alistair it's a given, what with being a Warden. But it wasn't what Cullen thought he'd signed up for. It wasn't what his parents agreed to let him do.

If his siblings have built a life for themselves -- and they have -- the best thing he can do for them is stay away.

Cullen turns his head away from Alistair, and lets out a breath. Alistair's got to let him get up soon, he thinks, and then he can just -- stay busy.

Several long moments pass in silence.

Alistair's hand shifts higher; he rests it on Cullen's cheek, pressing gently, hoping to guide Cullen to look at him again.