howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

Alistair's smile -- doesn't dim, really, but it turns more thoughtful. He shifts his weight to one hand so he can card the other through Cullen's hair; settle his palm against Cullen's cheek.

"You don't have to shower me in big, flowery speeches all the time," he says, not much louder. "I'd never ask that. But I like hearing you say you love me. If that could...happen a little more, I suppose..."

The awkwardness seems to be catching.

(It's fine, he should have said; I don't mind. But he subsisted on scraps in the Basin. He doesn't want to keep saying it's fine.)

Easy enough. Or, well. Not easy. (If it was, he'd be doing it already.)

Cullen nods without looking away, covering Alistair's hand with his. "Of course."

Pause.

More quietly: "I do love you, very much."

His smile steadies itself; warms.

"And I love you," he murmurs, before leaning down to kiss Cullen, gentle and heartfelt.

He winds both arms around Alistair, content. Easier to lose himself in this one.

"What about one big flowery speech?" he says into Alistair's ear.

Alistair laughs, very softly.

"I'll allow it," he says. "I'll welcome it, in fact."

"Perhaps I'll find some time to draft something tomorrow." Another kiss.

Alistair hums, sinking into the kiss. When it breaks: "I look forward to it, whenever it may arrive."

"...in front of an audience?" Cullen hazards, full of innocence.

He snorts out a laugh.

"If you're so inclined, I won't object."

(Alistair totally expects the audience to consist of a random bird and one of the feral barn cats.)

They're only feral if they don't like you!

"Really."

"Really." Cheerful, and matching Cullen on innocence. "You might make me blush, ser, but I won't object."

"So that's... yes on Dorian and Bull, then."

Alistair groans, burying his face against Cullen as his shoulder shake with silent laughter.

(You brought this on yourself, Theirin.)

Cullen sinks his fingers in Alistair's hair. "Consider how much mortification I'm willing to endure to show you how much I love you." Amused, but no less sincere.

"I'm considering it," he says, muffled (and still laughing a little). "And I'm honored."

He lifts his head so he can meet Cullen's gaze.

"Truly."

"For you, Theirin? I'd enlist Varric."

His eyes widen fractionally.

"Not that I've ever had reason to question your devotion," he murmurs, and brushes a kiss over Cullen's cheek, "but now I definitely don't."

Cullen laughs quietly, and ruffles Alistair's hair.

"There's a way it could work," he says. "I relay my sentiments, and Varric... translates them. But that's the only way. He'd demand to edit my remarks otherwise."

Alistair wrinkles his nose at the hair-ruffling, but it's all for show: he's smiling, contented, as he rests his head on Cullen's chest.

"At the risk of insulting Skyhold's resident wordsmith," he says, "I'd rather hear your words than any of his."

"I won't have any metaphors," Cullen warns, threading his fingers through Alistair's hair in an attempt to make it stand on end. "Of course, Varric won't have any good ones... but he'll have them."

"Probably something about love being like a trebuchet filled with livestock."

Beat.

"...Don't ask me to continue that metaphor, I've no idea where I could possibly go with it."

"...messy, disorganized, and frequently leaves a stench upon its logical conclusion?"

Alistair cracks up.

Somewhere amidst the laughter, the words so romantic can just barely be heard.

Cullen is laughing too, despite himself.

"Better all round if Varric knows nothing."

"Indeed," manages Alistair, before lifting his head to kiss Cullen soundly.