howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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."

Alistair descends into another round of snickering.

Fondly: "We're terribly predictable sometimes, aren't we."

He traces lines over Alistair's palm. "Don't tell my siblings that. They'll use it against us."

He hums, softly, at Cullen's touch.

"Not a word," he murmurs. "For all they'll know we make every choice by flipping a coin. Everything left to chance."

Slowly, carefully, Cullen places a kiss in Alistair's palm.

Soft: "Good man."

A long, contented sigh; Alistair nestles closer, daring to let his eyes drift closed a moment.

This is perfect, he thinks, a bit hazily.

Cullen's right there with him. It's simple. It's good. And if Alistair wants to be up here all night... it's not as though Cullen didn't already have plans for the next day that will have a poor effect on his mood.

Another kiss, then, and a third.

His hand curls inward, just a little. The backs of his knuckles brush Cullen's jaw; Alistair uncurls his fingers, settling his palm against Cullen's cheek.

Smiling, he trails his thumb across the scar above Cullen's lip, then leans up to kiss him properly.

"Do you want to go in." Low, with only a slight tremor. "Or we could -- wait."

Alistair smiles. He brushes his lips over Cullen's pulse, and murmurs against his neck, "I could do with a little time inside, couldn't you?"

"I -- "

Bells ring.

From a small distance, Sera yells, That's our bells, nobbers! We frigging win! Her unmistakable cackle drifts closer as she and Lavellan streak by. Lavellan is in the uniform. And Sera -- Sera is in a white dress.

Josephine's problem, Cullen thinks with a shiver, and turns his attention back to Alistair. "I hope it's rather more than a little."

Alistair, alas, continues staring after Lavellan and Sera, transfixed. "Was that -- ?"

And he cracks up, sagging against Cullen. He manages to cup a hand around his mouth and call, "Congratulations!" toward the rapidly dimming flash of white, but even that's more laughter than word.

(The perils of drinking: Alistair often becomes very distractible.)

"You don't think they -- ?"