howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"All right."

That gives them -- well, this. Time to be lazy in the sun, at least.

He presses another soft kiss to Cullen's forehead.

It's about Fiona, like as not. Cullen shoves down an uneasy feeling, and concentrates on breathing slowly.

It doesn't take him very long at all to drift off.

On occasion, like now, Alistair thinks of the unsent letter Cullen wrote months ago. The one where he called himself monster; where he commanded his sister to put him from her mind.

There has to be some way to impress upon Cullen that -- that what? That he should let his siblings decide those things for themselves? That there can be a middle ground in communication, somewhere between laying every fault bare and a terse one-sentence note?

That Alistair would've given his left arm to get letters like that from Cailan, or Maric, or Fiona?

(It keeps coming back to that, doesn't it. The pure, selfish wish that he could have what Cullen has. And that's no foundation to build an argument on.

Maybe he should just keep his mouth shut for once.)

Alistair closes his eyes, trying to follow Cullen into a doze, but finds himself stirring awake before long. They're out in the open, and the lake -- it looks safe, but he doesn't know. Not like Cullen might.

Better just to keep watch. No reason he can't stay awake while he's lounging in the sun.

It's less than an hour before Cullen stretches -- not unlike a cat -- and rests his chin on Alistair's shoulder.

"Fish?" he asks, quietly.

Alistair stirs from his thoughts. Smiling, he tips his head enough to regard Cullen from the corner of his eye.

"Fish," he agrees, just as soft. "Let's hope they haven't ruined their appetites before we get to them."

"I don't think fish work like that," Cullen says, and eases himself up.

The fire's nearly burned down enough; Cullen feeds it just a little more before sitting on the dock again. Four fat trout fall prey to Alistair's hard work with the bait; Cullen digs a little salt out of his pack, and picks some woodsorrel for the sharp, sour taste.

He does rather look abominably smug as he pokes at the gutted fish with his knife; they're cooking directly on the coals, skin and all.

He has every reason to be: the fish smell wonderful, especially when you're running on a meager breakfast and a single piece of jerky. Alistair's mouth waters as he inhales the scent.

When he can't bear to wait any longer, he rummages up some more jerky from his pack, nabs a strip, and offers another piece to Cullen, eyebrows lifted inquiringly.

Cullen laughs quietly and takes it. "Thank you. Nearly done."

One by one he hooks his knife into the fish -- carefully, so as not to disturb the seasonings inside -- and turns them over to cook on the other side.

"What do you think? Will this leave enough for breakfast?"

"It should, I think," says Alistair, once he's swallowed a mouthful of jerky. "Add in some of the rations and we ought to be fine. Maybe hunt up some eggs if we really want to be fancy."

"...I'll leave that up to you," Cullen says cheerfully. "As I'd prefer however much of a lie-in we can get away with."

Alistair wrinkles his nose in thought. Solemn: "When you put the decision like that...hm. Eggs or Cullen. That's a difficult one."

Or, if his tone's anything to go by, not so difficult at all.

"Not so difficult," he says, equally solemn. "Eggs are far more beneficial."

Alistair digs a gentle elbow into Cullen's ribs, laughing.

"Oh," he says in a burst of sudden inspiration, "we could keep an eye out for nests while we're exploring. Eggs and Cullen, then."

"Hurray." Dry.

"I agree." Cheerful. "It is cause for celebration."

He polishes off his jerky and leans back on his hands.

Cullen makes a face at him, and starts spearing the fish onto a nearby flat rock, where he then slices them open the rest of the way.

"Ware the bones," he says, poking it. "But that looks done to me."

"Wonderful." He beams, and immediately sets upon one of the fish.

The only reason he doesn't scarf the whole thing down in one go is the aforementioned bones. Plus: Cullen put some work into preparing their meal. Savoring it a little, in a show of appreciation, would be a kindness.

Cullen does not feel himself to be under any such compulsion. He methodically debones his fish, section by section.

"Exploring, early to bed, and then depart just after sunrise?"

"Sounds like a fine day," says Alistair. Cheerful: "And a fine night, for that matter."

He polishes off another section of fish.

Cullen huffs. (He's grinning.) "Only after one thing, as usual."

"Ah, yes, that hard rock-moving labor you were talking about earlier." Serene. "How could I forget."

"You're the one who suggested going swimming."

Laughing: "I seem to remember taking that suggestion back when you brought up snow melt."

"And you rejected my genius plan to make the lake an acceptable temperature. your point?"

"My point," says Alistair, leaning closer, "is I think we could show a bit more creativity in how we spend our evening, hm?"