howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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.

As he does, Alistair steals the flask back for another sip.

Idly, he taps the thumb of his free hand against the ground.

He glances at Alistair.

"Anything else you want to do before we turn in?"

"Aside from this?"

He wiggles the flask from side to side before handing it back. One corner of his mouth curls up.

"I had a few ideas."

"No mayhem," he warns. "If you try, I'll go to sleep right now."

He leans closer.

Serene: "I wasn't thinking mayhem so much as revenge."

Cullen's expression freezes.

To his boots: "You shouldn't -- don't feel obligated. I didn't mean to, to make things -- difficult."

It's easier -- much easier -- if he can just... be still, and take care of Alistair. That's all he wanted from this break.

(This won't quite reach the surface of his conscious mind, but it doesn't make it less true: this isn't a place where he wants to lose control of himself, being as it's one of the few he has with wholly positive memories.)

That -- wasn't at all what Alistair expected.

His brow knits, the tiny smirk wiped from his face. "You didn't." (He sounds faintly bewildered.) "It was lovely. If you don't want to -- "

Gently, he brushes his fingertips over the hair near Cullen's temple.

Softer, "If you want to leave it at that, and just sleep, I'm fine with it."

"I want what you want." No louder.

(They wouldn't have come here, if not for Alistair.)

His mouth quirks, despite himself.

"And what I want," he murmurs, "is for you to be comfortable. All right?"

Cullen huffs a breath. Scrubs at his face.

Trying for dry: "You've a long wait ahead of you, then."