howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

Oh. Well then.

Alistair's eyes widen slightly. His throat bobs; one hand settles on Cullen's shoulder, the other sliding to his hair, cradling the back of his head.

"All right?"

Quiet; smiling, now. Asking permission.

Alistair nods. It takes a moment to find his voice; when he does, it rasps a little.

"Yes." His fingers curl more firmly into Cullen's hair. "Please."

As he works on Alistair's trousers, he murmurs, smirking again:

"Cultivating mayhem leaves very little time for this sort of thing, Alistair. You ought to know that."

"I wasn't cultivating," Alistair protests, hoarsely. "I was preparing. Just in case."

His thumb strokes along Cullen's temple.

"Hmph," Cullen says, and then sets to with a will.

(Where the regret comes in: Cullen fully intends to both a) make sure Alistair can't walk straight after, and b) refuse to carry him back to camp.)

Alistair's had a lot of thoughts circling around his mind -- not all of them pleasant -- since they made camp, and a few more joined in once they started walking.

This? This is the best way possible to make all of them shut up.

Everything fuzzes out, like a mirror fogging up under hot breath. As in all things, Cullen's very diligent in this work; Alistair digs in the hand at Cullen's shoulder to steady himself, gasping. Sometimes it forms into words: Cullen, and please, and yes. A few curses slip in.

The world's small again, focused on the point where they meet. He doesn't have to think about anything else.

And he does indeed have to brace himself on the nearest tree trunk when it's over, laughing weakly, lest his knees give out entirely.

Cullen gets to his feet, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

He looks unbearably smug.

"All right?" he asks again.

"Very," manages Alistair. Fumbling a little -- his legs aren't the only thing feeling pleasantly shaky -- he gets his trousers fixed back up. "No more mayhem. Promise."

Beat.

"I need to sit down," he says, the weak laughter starting up again, and proceeds to do just that.

"I told you there would be consequences." Cheerful. "And I'm not carrying you."

"You monster."

That would be a way more successful deadpan if he could keep the dazed, happy grin off his face. Alistair tips his head back until it hits the tree trunk with a small thud.

"Come sit with me, then?"

That's a reasonable request. Cullen's happy to comply. Alistair's back is to the trunk; Cullen, in lieu of a backrest, flops on the ground on his back, stretching.

Alistair sighs, with deep satisfaction. He stretches out his legs so he can nudge Cullen with one boot.

"I love you."

"I know." Peaceably.

He lets out another tiny snort of laughter, turning his attention back to the canopy. Alistair laces his hands together and settles them, loosely, atop his stomach.

He's still pretty incapable of thinking coherent thoughts. The inside of his mind's nothing but wordless contentment, like a purring cat; every limb's nearly boneless.

This is good. The best.

No mayhem required.

The quaking leaves sound like their room at Skyhold. (Their room at Skyhold sounds a little like the trees when he came to the lake as a child.) He's not sleepy, but Cullen closes his eyes anyway, the better to listen.

Eventually, Alistair pushes himself away from the tree trunk and stretches out next to Cullen with another small, contented sigh.

(He's definitely sleepy. The best kind of sleepy. And while he's got no intention of actually falling asleep, going horizontal seems like a good idea right now.)

Cullen cracks an eye open.

"Camp's that way," he says, pointing across the lake.

"Camp's right here for the next ten or fifteen minutes, at least," counters Alistair, peaceably.

He mussed Cullen's hair rather a lot in his earlier search for a handhold. Now he lifts a hand just enough to muss it further, gives up after a couple seconds, and rests his palm atop Cullen's head.

Cullen heaves a very put-upon sigh, but doesn't comment.

Not like anyone's around to see.

After a few minutes, Alistair takes to idly winding bits of Cullen's hair around his fingers. It's too languid for fidgeting, but maybe borne of the same place: if he can't walk and can't keep running his mouth, at least he can keep something moving.

Besides, it's fun.

He turns his head, watches dim patches of sunlight shift across Cullen's face. (Maker, he's beautiful.)

One moment wishing for his bedroll -- it is much softer than the ground -- but that's all Cullen allows himself.

The water's right. The birds are right. The wind in the trees is right. Nothing ever quite managed to replicate it, just so -- not Kirkwall, not Val Royeaux, not even Haven. (Too much snow, too many rocks.)

He doesn't think he could stay here. He thinks it would be a very bad idea to go look for traces of the farm, the village. He thinks he'll be glad to move on tomorrow.

Until then, it's much easier to focus on all the things he can't see, and to be still.

Alistair's fiddling drifts back to idleness, eventually. Sleep still feels like an excellent idea, but he's forced to admit that it may be slightly more comfortable back at camp than along a hart trail. And he's pretty sure he's recovered enough from Cullen's work to start walking. Maybe.

Worth testing it out, at least: he scoots a couple inches closer, just enough to brush a soft kiss over Cullen's temple, then pushes up to sitting.

"Going somewhere?" he murmurs.

"I think my legs may be working again." The thread of laughter returns. "Thought I'd test them out, if you'd like to come along."