howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

Alistair's expression lightens; a warm smile grows, before he leans in to kiss Cullen on the lips.

"See you soon," he whispers, and takes his leave.

One benefit of Skyhold emptying out: nobody (such as the Chargers) is around to make vomiting noises.

Cullen immediately heads to Josephine's office to make sure he isn't overlooking anything (and to try to convince her, fruitlessly, that the uniforms do none of them any favors).

Alistair didn't bother to unpack last night: getting to Cullen as quickly as possible took precedence. Emptying his bags will be the first order of business, then.

...Emptying his bags somewhere not their bedroom will be the first order of business, then, after he gets a whiff of their contents. (Swamps: excellent for ensuring no one will find you, your son, or your son's mother, but terrible for the state of your belongings.) He shoves the worst offenders outside to get a little bit of sunlight and clean air on them, in the hope the springs won't have to do quite as much work.

Armor next. Then -- well, if Dorian or Vivienne were still here, Alistair would sidle over to ask their opinions on what he should wear to Halamshiral. If the stakes weren't so high, he'd happily dress like every Dog Lord stereotype and commence the porridge-flinging. But they aren't here, and he doesn't want to embarrass Cullen in particular or the Inquisition in general, so...

Oh, hey, maybe he'll go ask Josephine!

I'm not a child, he tells the fire. I've been with the Inquisition as long as you have. I have enough respect for you and your work that I'm aware of the situation.

I appreciate that, Cullen --

So why are we pretending there's an outcome from this Council that will leave me with a place in the Inquisition? he demands.

Because nothing's been decided yet, Josephine says. He hates how patient she sounds. It is possible that Orlais and Ferelden will realize that the tensions between them are best dealt with by a standing army on their borders that would prevent incidents resulting from hasty judgment. Empress Celene and Queen Anora are inclined to peace.

Cullen rubs his face. He doesn't mean to sound so tired when he says, All right, Ambassador. That might forestall more lecturing. If Anora Mac Tir -- because he can't ever think of her as Anora Theirin; that's Alistair's name -- wants peace with Orlais, Cullen will eat his surcoat, fur and all. And Cullen is just as sure that if he said this to Josephine, it would result in another lecture, with a light scolding about how bloodthirsty he seems.

Even though the teasing was worse when Leliana was there, it didn't grate on Cullen as much as it does when it's just Josephine. While Leliana had her interests, she was never quite so... fussy.

It's not Josephine's fault that he's redundant, anyhow. Cullen squares his shoulders and does his job, just like always: he thanks her for her time and goes to his office to sort out his attire. The laundry he carries to the lower courtyard himself; even though he's confident in his armor, he takes it to the undercroft for Harritt to give it a once-over anyhow.

Then it's back to his office to review his papers -- only while he was out, a letter arrived, addressed to him, from his sister.

For a moment Cullen can't quite identify the feeling; he decides it's something close to homesickness, which is ridiculous. He snorts, thinks something very rude about himself, and cracks open the seal.

It's not that I'm incapable of dressing myself, says Alistair, rubbing the back of his head in embarrassment. It's that I'm fairly sure I'm incapable of dressing myself in a way that doesn't scream "you're all terrible and I want to run screaming from this entire charade."

Josephine lifts an eyebrow.

Inquisition company excluded, that goes without saying, he adds hastily. And...look, this is important to Cullen. And the rest of you, I know, but --

Alistair, I understand. There's something underneath Josephine's smile that Alistair can't quite put his finger on. It's entirely possible he's imagining it. We'll find you some options.

He exhales a sigh of relief. You're the best. Thank you. I'll -- be over there. Somewhere not here so you can keep up your work. Right. Yes.

Fortunately, he's able to make his exit before the babbling gets too much worse. Retrieving his laundry, he heads for the springs.

Even before the salutation comes Mia's chess move; Cullen rises and goes straight to the shelf where the miniature chess board lives. The pieces have pegs in the bottom, so it's hard to knock them over. Cullen isn't anybody's fool.

He makes Mia's move, considers the board, blows out a breath. He'll have to think about it. In the meantime, he retreats to his desk to finish reading.

Would Alistair even want to go to South Reach? He'd certainly encourage Cullen to do it -- but would he want to?

Does Cullen want to?

There's a significant part of him that believes he wouldn't find a welcome there. Or worse -- that he would, but once they realize he's not what they expect, they turn their backs on him.

Meaning that when the time arrives, and Alistair's gone, Cullen will be completely alone, with no kind of anchor.

He can't breathe. He folds the letter, tucks it under the chess board, and storms out onto the battlements toward the lower courtyard. He'll stay there until the world stops spinning.

Alistair hums under his breath as he washes his laundry -- though once he realizes he's humming a Warden marching cadence, he trails off, rueful. He slings the damp (and considerably less smelly, thank the Maker) clothes over one of the benches. The clothes he's wearing join them in short order.

...Oh, that hot water feels nice.

Alistair sinks in up to his neck and closes his eyes.

He'd made straight for the broken tower, where he paced, breathed, and finally -- when that didn't do the trick -- found something to punch. Wood, not stone. That helped.

Exiting the tower, Cullen looks up at the sky. It's after noon.

With a curse, he strides toward the cellars.

"Sorry," he announces, and then immediately regrets it; if there was peace and quiet, he's broken it. More quietly, steps slower: "Got held up."

Alistair opens his eyes, pushing himself up an extra inch or so to get a better look at Cullen.

"It's all right." He smiles, warm, and holds out a hand. "Come here."

Edited 2017-11-07 00:19 (UTC)

It takes him a moment to orient himself: the vision in front of him is so clearly the opposite of what drove him to stalk the battlements that it can't be real.

If you doubt, Cullen reminds himself.

"Here as in the edge, or here as in the water?" Either way, he's already tugging off his gloves.

"The water," he says.

Cullen looks -- a little off. A long morning, Alistair decides. The stress of what's to come. It's no surprise; it also means Cullen would do well to soak for a bit.

"We ought to be equally wrinkly, and you've got some catching up to do."

Gloves off, boots next. Cullen sits down for that. The knuckles of his right hand, if Alistair is looking, are red, with a scrape or two.

"You're older, and therefore wrinklier," he shoots back, shucking the rest of his clothes off. "It's not my fault you're jealous."

"It's an ugly emotion, I admit." Deadpan, but still smiling. "Just like my wrinkly, ugly face that's existed for an entire year longer than yours."

His eyes land on Cullen's knuckles; the barest crease forms along his forehead before he draws his attention away.

"Fishing for compliments, are we?"

Cullen slips into the water next to Alistair.

"All right. Your wrinkles are still arranged in a pleasing form."

"Thank you, love." He drapes an arm around Cullen without hesitation, pulling him close. "I can always count on you to say the most romantic things."

He's not so far gone as to fall apart, but it's so much the opposite of the feeling that set Cullen off this morning that it takes him a moment to try to come up with a reply.

In the end, he just leans his head against Alistair's and does his best to listen to his own breathing.

Yes. This seems worse than just a run-of-the-mill long morning.

In silence, he hugs Cullen closer. His free hand seeks out Cullen's under the water; very carefully, he runs his thumb over Cullen's reddened knuckles.

No demands for him to talk about it. Not even a request. Just an acknowledgment: I see you're hurting; I'm sorry you are.

For once, he can't bear the silence.

Abrupt, before he can think better of it:

"You didn't suggest South Reach when we talked of the future."

His thumb pauses.

"I assumed you wouldn't want to move there," he says. More hesitant: "Was I -- wrong about that?"

"I don't know."

Cullen rubs his forehead with his free hand.

"What happens when the -- novelty of another sibling wears off? I'm not sure it would be -- bearable."

There's a bit of unevenness on that last.

"When you go it'll be bad enough. If it turns out they can't stand me..."

"Oh, Cullen," Alistair breathes without thinking.

He lets go of Cullen's hand, turning in his seat so he can wrap both arms around him.

There's a prickling heat behind his eyes that he can't stand.

Much shakier: "I can't do this alone. I can't."

"You won't."

He rests his head atop Cullen's; shuts his eyes.

(Alistair's been waiting to die since he was nineteen years old. Yet the closer they come to that inevitable ending, the more he tries to scramble backward, pushing against the acceptance he was so sure he'd maintain until he walked into the Deep Roads. I don't want to go.

I don't want to leave him.)

"Cullen, it's not mere novelty that's kept Mia writing to you for so long. She loves you. You may have to...get to know each other again, a bit, but everyone has to do that after they've been apart a while. And she knows at least some of who you are now from your own letters. And mine."

That's what troubles me.

A shudder goes through him, and he doesn't reply.

Softer, then:

"The worst that could happen if we settled in South Reach is the worst that could happen anywhere we settled. You'd -- be alone, once I'm gone." (He has to stop there for a beat; his voice has begun to thicken.) "I don't think that'll happen, I think you've enough people besides me that you can call on, but -- anyway. Worst possible case."

He draws a breath.

"But the best that could happen if we lived in South Reach is that you'd have your family nearby for the rest of your days."