howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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)

Cullen's smile is crooked, bashful, self-effacing.

"I -- wasn't sure they could... tolerate my presence. If the children don't think of me as some, some faraway monster. And if it's not just my sister trying to make things sound better than they are."

He's also not looking at Alistair; rather, he's speaking to the sky.

"But if a child I've never met can send informal regards like that... it's not just Mia filling his head with whatever she thinks sounds palatable. It means Bran and Rosie haven't seen fit to contradict her. So it -- it might be safe. To try."

Alistair nods. He leans his head back onto Cullen's shoulder.

Even with a fair amount of ale clouding his thoughts, he knows better than to say anything like of course they'll tolerate your presence, and more than; of course it's safe to try. He's just -- relieved Cullen found his way there. A little stunned as well: it's been years. Decades. Despite the nudges Alistair gave him along the way, he wasn't sure if Cullen would ever get to this place.

He's smiling, soft and bright, as he says, "I agree. And I'd love to meet them."

Cullen cuts Alistair a glance (without much effort, or real suspicion). "This isn't a conspiracy between the two of you, is it?"

(He's still got that same half-smile, for what it's worth.)

Alistair breaks into laughter again. "No, no," he says, patting the back of Cullen's hand, "no conspiracies, I promise. The only ulterior motive is finally meeting your family in person. I've got this very detailed picture of Mia in my head and I'm looking forward to seeing how much of it I got wrong."

"You and me both," he murmurs, wry. "I've no idea what any of them look like any more. Just... march over to South Reach and look for the farm full of loud curly-headed blondes, I suppose. A local attraction. Can't miss it."

"And then from afar comes the mysterious quiet curly-headed blonde," intones Alistair. "Just to add some variety."

"More like from afar comes the mysterious stranger with a very small golem, and his dull, unremarkable retainer."

"You are not," Alistair protests. "You're very remarkable. And -- shiny. Interesting. Don't forget handsome too. And I love you a lot."

"That's you," Cullen retorts, mildly. He's still cradling Alistair's hand in both of his; his thumb strokes the back, back and forth, back and forth. "You're biased."

Alistair wrinkles his nose; it's even odds whether that's in response to the first half of Cullen's statement or the second.

"Maybe, but I still think you're wonderful. And I still love you. So there."

Cullen hums, the noise low in his throat; it's not quite a laugh, not quite a snort.

"While I'm grateful and arguably undeserving, the fact remains that at this moment, I'm not shiny, unless you've had more tonight than I thought at first. And I'll disagree flatly with interesting."

"Mm. Remind me to argue that point better when I'm sober."

He turns his head just enough to kiss Cullen's jawline.

"Otherwise we're just going to spend the rest of this very lovely night going 'no I'm not,' 'yes you are,' 'no I'm not' -- "

Now Cullen laughs, no louder, and pinks a little -- for whatever difference that makes in the dark.

"Yes," he says. "We are."