howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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You'll have to make a decision quickly. Either don't come home and meet me in Halamshiral, or come home and have a day or two before turning for Orlais. They've called an Exalted Council. Josephine, Lavellan, and I must speak for the Inquisition in front of Orlais, Ferelden, and Divine Victoria. Two of those parties appear to be hostile to our continued existence. I will leave it to you to contemplate which two.

Be safe, Alistair, and go with my love.

Cullen doesn't bother signing it.

The library is silent. No one is in the rotunda -- Solas's rotunda, he thinks, even after all this time. There are always people in the yard, but many fewer than before.

(It's downright lonely, when Alistair travels. Cullen will never complain to him. Not after the last few years.)

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"Oh, well then. My deepest apologies, ser."

He makes a show of clearing his throat.

"Nothing but somber and solemn contemplation in this room for the rest of the day."

Cullen lifts his head.

Lifts his eyebrows at Alistair.

"Glad to hear it," he says, and shifts up to his usual place, where he promptly curls up even tighter and makes a great show of turning his back to Alistair.

Alistair snorts, then immediately scoots closer to drape his arm around Cullen.

He draws the blankets over them both and kisses the back of Cullen's neck.

Cullen allows himself a smile. After a moment, he leans into Alistair.

Murmured: "What happened to sober and solemn contemplation?"

"I can soberly and solemnly contemplate things while also burrowing under the covers with you." He rests his forehead against the back of Cullen's head. "What about you?"

Cullen sighs, content.

Then he remembers Alistair asked him a question. "I'm always doing that."

Warm: "I suppose you are."

He lets his eyes drift closed. (Part of the solemn contemplation, naturally.)

Cullen does the same.

He also hooks a foot around Alistair's ankle.

Soft: "All right?"

"Mm-hm."

The things he's not feeling all right about -- they're things he can't change. Not right now; probably not ever, save that slim hope of Cousland's. Best to leave them be.

"Feeling any better?"

Cullen is silent for a moment.

"Some," he says finally. "As long as I don't think beyond the next five minutes."

Alistair nods a little. Tightens his embrace.

"...Whenever we decide to un-burrow ourselves, I'm fairly sure Josephine left me several fancy and utterly absurd outfits to wear on the trip. I could try them all on to distract you?"

It's on the tip of Cullen's tongue to refuse; he doesn't want Alistair actually making himself uncomfortable.

But then the words register.

"You... talked to Josephine?" Curious.

"I did." A crooked grin. "Figured if anyone can offer suggestions on how to dress for minimal embarrassment at fancy parties -- if maximum discomfort -- it's her."

Cullen lets out a very long breath; it feels as though a hundred pounds lift from his shoulders.

Much softer, he says, "You don't have to, Alistair. It's not your responsibility."

"I want to."

He sneaks one hand into Cullen's.

"You don't think I'd make you face the Orlesians alone, do you?"

"I just thought -- "

A little bewildered... but pleased.

"You'd prefer whatever Sera's got planned."

A soft laugh. "No reason I can't do both," he says. "That's one good thing about all those masks: one hour I'm taking tea with the Empress, the next I'm raining down porridge-y destruction and no one's the wiser."

"Ingenious," Cullen says, and squeezes Alistair's hand. "The Empress won't actually be there, however."

"Damn."

Beat.

"Wait, no, the opposite of that. Thank the Maker."

He knows Josephine doesn't think it's a good sign that neither Celene nor Anora are attending.

Still. Cullen is trying to keep it light. He has to try.

"Yes" he agrees. "Much less of a risk of any wayward porridge resulting in beheadings."

Blandly: "Yes, that would put a bit of a damper on things, wouldn't it."

He squeezes Cullen, gently.

"I might even stir myself to lodge a formal complaint."

After a moment he turns his head, stretching just enough to kiss Alistair lightly.

Alistair smiles; he leans into the kiss, just a little.

"Love you," he whispers. "And I'm deeply reassured to know you'll complain to the proper authorities."

Cullen leans his forehead against Alistair's for just a moment (the angle leaves something to be desired).

"I'm good at complaining." Low. "And I love you too."

Awkward angle be damned: Alistair does his best to sneak another kiss.

Can I do more for you? he wants to ask, but makes himself subside, makes himself return to some semblance of quiet contemplation. Burrowing first. Other things later.