howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"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.

Which he does, a little reluctantly.

(Though he does his best to hide it.)

He trails his hand up to Cullen's hair, carding his fingers through. Alistair tries for a smile.

Then he leans in to kiss him, just as gently. (And, perhaps, a bit apologetically.)

Immediately he tightens his arm around Alistair. The thumb of his free hand brushes along Alistair's jaw; he likes the feeling of stubble against his skin.

Oh. Well, in that case.

His fingers wind deeper into Cullen's hair and hold firm. The kiss isn't so gentle any longer; for days they've had the barest modicum of privacy, and now -- it's like drinking your fill after a drought, coming home to a banquet after weeks of rations.

Surely they can put off finishing their campsite for a bit longer.

If it distracts Alistair --

It's not like it's unpleasant.

Cullen slips his hand down Alistair's back, pulling at the hem of his shirt until he can find bare skin.

He'd be lying if he said it wasn't a relief to go unobserved. It's been -- too long. Much too long.

A small, appreciative hum; it fades into a soft laugh. "Down to business, then?" he murmurs.

He shifts -- above Cullen, now, rather than beside him -- and picks up the kiss again, one hand planted in the dirt. The other traces a path up Cullen's side.

Which tickles. Cullen tries not to squirm too much.

"I'd hope -- " Between kisses. "Business can -- wait for a bedroll."

(There's definitely a rock digging somewhere it shouldn't be.)

"So practical," Alistair sighs once the next kiss breaks. (It's closer to laughter than actual disappointment.) "All right, fine."

One more kiss.

...Okay, one more kiss after that one, too.

"Can I say," he adds, "that I am exceedingly glad I don't have to go without this for six weeks?"

Cullen smirks.

"Yes, I'm well aware you're only after one thing."

"More than that, I'd say," Alistair protests; his voice stays light. "It's a very nice part, yes. But only one part."

"Thank you for calling it a very nice part." Stifling laughter. "That's something, I suppose."

Alistair snickers.

So very sweetly: "You're welcome. Always happy to provide compliments as needed."

Cullen rolls his eyes, and doesn't say, They're never needed, or anything remotely like it.

(He's thinking it, though.)

"Noted." Dry.

His smile goes more lopsided. Alistair strokes Cullen's hair again, back to the uncertain care of before.

(He might have some idea of what Cullen's thinking.)

Quiet: "Do you want me to go find bait?"

"It's either that or cede some of your jerky for the cause."

Alistair snorts, catches Cullen's mouth in another short kiss, then pulls free. "I'll return with the best supply of worms and bugs a man can find, then."

And maybe once Cullen's had some time to himself, his spirits will lift back to where they were before.

Cullen wrinkles his nose as he sits up.

"How... touching."

"Only the best for you, my love."

That statement might be a smidge more effective if Alistair didn't start laughing by the end. He heaves himself to standing, claps a hand to Cullen's shoulder, and wanders closer to the trees in search of appropriately crawly things.

Cullen laughs too -- not much, and not for long, but it's something.

He returns to pulling up grass for the fire, and when that's done, he goes in search of fuel. If they're going to cook fish over coals, the fire needs time to burn.