howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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."

With a snort, Cullen pushes himself up. "I thought you'd never ask."

Alistair wobbles for half a moment once he's on his feet, but steadies himself quickly enough. Success!

(Well, success in the "standing" bit at least. The "walking" bit remains to be seen.)

He offers a hand down to Cullen, smiling.

He pulls himself up easily, and doesn't let go of Alistair's hand.

"Still not carrying you." Cheerful.

"Would borrowing your shoulder if I need it be acceptable?" he asks, grinning.

"I suppose I can do that much."

"I will sing your generosity throughout Thedas." Solemn.

Turns out that while Alistair remains a bit wobbly on his feet, it's not enough to require use of Cullen's shoulder. (Though he does have to grip his hand more tightly going over rough spots on the path.) He's not too fussed either way, because: worth it. Absolutely worth it.

Cullen is kind enough to take charge of transporting the bedrolls inside the tent. The coals are still warm; he pokes at them, briefly, and adds on more wood. If the fire's banked, they can have tea in the morning.

Alistair, meanwhile, divests himself of the small pack and the weapons he brought along. True to form, he immediately digs out some more rations before flopping onto his bedroll.

The sun's sinking lower, taking on the richer, golden hues that come at the beginning of sunset. He's warm, contented; this was a good day, he thinks.

When he finishes fussing with the fire, he takes one look at Alistair and goes for his pack.

Shortly thereafter, a flask dangles in front of Alistair's face.

"Brandy," Cullen says, cheerful. "If you're interested."

Alistair brightens. "Always," he declares, accepting the flask. "You thought of everything, didn't you?"

He sits up enough to uncap it and take a swig. With a pleased sigh, he offers it back to Cullen.

"I tried," he says lightly, and drinks.

It's a nice sky. They're not facing north, so even the Breach is obscured. Satisfied, Cullen begins to remove his boots.