howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

"There you are!"

Alistair looks up, beaming, from where he's trying to wrestle off his boots. "Yes, hello. Just me. I'm back."

Well. That's quite a picture.

"I can see that," Cullen says, mouth twitching. He steps inside and closes the door. "It appears you've had a pleasant evening?"

"Mm-hm." Cheerful. His left boot pops off; he moves on to the right. "Did you know it was Bull's birthday? The Chargers got him a dragon skull. Very heavy. Very impressive. -- Oh, and Dorian says hello by the way."

There we go! The right boot joins the left.

Alistair, Cullen is guessing, has been enjoying himself with the Chargers.

So he elects not to point out that he's pretty sure there's no allowance in the Qun for birthdays. Instead, leaning against the doorway to the bedroom, Cullen says, "Dorian's here? I thought he was still in Minrathous."

"Nope, he's here," says Alistair. "Must've just arrived."

He ambles over to Cullen, the better to sling an arm around his shoulders. "How's your night been?"

"...drier than yours, I'm sure," he says, laughing a little.

(Still -- there's something easier around his eyes, the way he holds himself, than there's been since they left Skyhold.)

"And quieter. Tea and correspondence, that's all."

Alistair breaks into snickers. "And then here I come crashing in like a damp druffalo to take away all your quiet."

He plants a kiss on Cullen's cheek.

"Fun correspondence? Serious correspondence? 'No thank you, mysterious stranger, I will not be investing twenty-five gold in the promise you'll send me fifty in return someday' correspondence?"

In response -- a little pink -- Cullen holds up Mia's letter, and holds it out to Alistair.

"I had some nice quiet before you got in. And I'm glad you had a pleasant evening."

Any more serious discussion should probably... wait a few minutes. Or hours.

"I did." Earnestly: "And I'm glad you had a nice evening too."

He leans his cheek against Cullen's shoulder as he reads the letter. He snorts a sizeable laugh at the mention of Orlesian parties; when he reaches the salutation from Cullen's nephew, he lets out a completely involuntary aww.

"That's lovely," he says. Then, as if he could speak to Mia through the paper itself, he adds, "Yes, Mia, I promise we'll be careful."

This is, Cullen reflects, much nicer than when Alistair drinks and complains about stairs.

As he reads, Cullen slips an arm around his waist. Murmured (and fondly): "Don't be fooled, Theirin. She's casting aspersions on our honor."

"I did notice she's making a lot of assumptions about our ability to get into trouble." Thoughtfully. "I'm afraid if I say anything about that, though, I might curse us."

"It's safe to point out that she neglected to mention that we've both spent our adult lives working to keep trouble away, and that any trouble we might encounter isn't our doing."

Except for Kirkwall, but Cullen is approaching the place where he no longer feels the need to self-flagellate aloud, or otherwise visibly.

"True, true," he allows, and gives Cullen's shoulders a squeeze. "Honestly I'm feeling quite virtuous about our lack of trouble now. Not our fault trouble follows us around like a pesky...troublemaking thing."

Cullen laughs, low, and tucks his forehead against Alistair's temple. "Your eloquence never fails to impress, my love."

He snickers. "And it only gets better the more I drink, I know."

Alistair exhales a contented sigh.

"Want to go to bed? Or sit outside a while? It's a nice night."

"Let's sit outside? It's a little early, yet."

He's not wearing anyone's uniform. Alistair is with him, and well. His sister writes as though he's a part of his family's life. If this is what life after the Inquisition could be like --

Maker forgive him, but Cullen doesn't want to turn away from this glimpse just yet.

"Excellent."

Cullen gets another kiss on the cheek before Alistair grabs his hand, leading him (with the slightly exaggerated care of the inebriated) back toward the balcony. He flops into one of the available chairs; promptly, he scoots it as close to the other one as he can.

"Maker forbid," Cullen says, laughing a little as he takes a seat, "that you move that chair before you sit in it."

"No, no, Cullen," he says, starting to laugh again as well, "that's far too logical."

He wastes no time in leaning his head on Cullen's shoulder, and kicks his feet up to rest them on the balcony rail.

He threads his arm through Alistair's, and takes Alistair's hand in both of his.

Feet up.

This is all I need, he thinks. Right here.

Maybe, Alistair thinks, Orlais isn't a terrible Void-pit all the time. The company goes a long way toward making it better. Good, even.

Cullen goes a long way toward making it good.

He breathes in the cool night air; the faint green smells of all the decorative plants and vines Halamshiral likes to scatter about. Closing his eyes makes everything sway a little harder than he'd prefer. He regards the darkening sky instead.

"Or should I start calling you 'Cul,' too?" he murmurs eventually, fondly amused.

"A privilege reserved for siblings and their issue." No louder, just as amused. "And note I'd lodge a similar protest if they used your name for me. That one's all yours."

"Fair enough," he allows with a soft laugh. "I suppose I can't argue such a just and balanced rule."

"Good."

No time like the present, as Alistair has (likely) unintentionally handed him a segue.

"When this is done, I think we should go to South Reach."

"You think so?"

Alistair wriggles up a little straighter in his chair, intrigued.

Edited 2017-11-20 22:10 (UTC)