howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

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 -- ?"

"I think they did." Delighted. "Honestly, why else would Sera ever put on a dress?"

All Cullen can hear for a moment is his own heartbeat.

And then, as though from a far distance, he asks:

"Is that something you would want?"

Alistair grows still. He turns to Cullen, eyes wide.

"I -- " Hesitant. (Some great yearning stirs in his chest, but he can't acknowledge it yet; he can't. Not until he's sure.) "Would you be all right with it? With me...probably not living much longer?"

A beat.

Very wry, "Not to put too large a damper on the evening or anything."

What a ridiculous question.

Cullen ignores Alistair's last words and says, briskly, "I can't see how that's relevant to the question. I'm here, aren't I?"

(Cullen gets a little waspish when he's nervous.)

"Yes, but -- "

But I don't want to make things worse. Bad enough to lose a partner; to lose a husband within scant years, possibly even months, of getting married --

Very quiet, another voice chimes in. Well. All the more reason to do it, then, isn't it?

They've been wholly committed to each other for years now. A marriage wouldn't change that for ill; it'd just -- codify things. And a few months, or years, of calling Cullen his husband would be far better than having no time at all. Wouldn't it?

The longing in his chest swells greater. His eyes are bright; his face aches, and he realizes he's beaming bright enough to light half of Orlais.

"I'd like that," he says, softly. "I'd want that. Yes."

"Well."

Cullen clears his throat.

"Then we should..."

As long as he lives, he will never forget the look on Alistair's face. It's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"Do that, then. Soon."

"Yes." He cups Cullen's face in both hands. "Yes. Maker, Cullen -- "

He draws him into a long kiss. Well...he intends for it to be a long kiss. The delighted laughter keeps getting in the way.

He feels like his whole body is made of light; he's dizzy, overwhelmed by it. Every time he has to come up for air, he whispers, I love you, and it's as if the light pulses that much brighter.

Everything has happened very fast, and it takes Cullen a little bit for the rest of him to catch up to where Alistair is. He's wound his arms around Alistair, one hand fisting in his shirt; he realizes, slowly, they're rocking back and forth, as gentle and predictable and necessary as the tides.

"Mine," he murmurs finally. "Alistair. You're mine. And I'm yours."

"Always," he whispers -- and that just makes him grin harder. "In the eyes of the Maker and everything soon enough. Cullen, I -- "

He breaks off there to kiss him again.

"...Do you want to do it here? Maybe without the bells so it doesn't raise too many eyebrows when the Commander runs off to get married in the middle of an Exalted Council?"

"After what Lavellan's done, no one will be looking at me," Cullen says -- with some satisfaction. "We could do it while they're in session, even. I won't be required to sit through it all."

Alistair snorts a laugh. "Perfect. Much more preferable to whatever's going to happen over there."

Another kiss, lighter.

Only half-joking, "Or we could do it right now. Run to the Chantry before they've finished disassembling everything from Lavellan and Sera's party."

For just a moment, Cullen is ready to do it, but then --

But then he thinks.

"Tomorrow." Softly. "I can't risk a hangover in the morning, and we'd get caught by the Chargers. And you should know -- " A small smile. "I'll ask you again in the morning, when the ale's worn off."

A soft chuckle. Alistair winds his arms around Cullen, touching their foreheads together.

"My answer'll be the same." No louder. "Don't worry."

Cullen closes his eyes. "I'm not. For once."

His smile grows.

"Good," he mumurs, before pressing a kiss to Cullen's scar.

A shiver runs down Cullen's spine. He's not complaining.

Low, rough: "Inside, Theirin. Or we'll put on a show."

"Agreed," breathes Alistair.

He slides his hands around to Cullen's front; fists one of them in the patch of shirt just above his heart. Bracing himself on the chair, he pulls Cullen with him as he gets to his feet, his grin taking on a more wicked tilt.

"What was it you said? More than a little time?"

Cullen lets himself be hauled -- but he also smirks.

"And here I would have laid several sovereigns," he murmurs, doing his best to loom over Alistair, "on you forgetting all about that. Well done, Theirin."

"I almost did." He lifts a finger. "Almost."

And lays that finger beneath Cullen's chin, doing his best to mirror the smirk.

"Is that worth a nice reward?"

Cullen tilts his head to the side.

"We're not going to find out standing here." And with that, he steps away, shrugging out of his jacket as he goes through the door. "Double-time. Move it."

Right. Yes. Less talking, more -- things that aren't talking.

"Yes, ser," he says, cheerfully, and all but runs after Cullen, letting the door click shut behind them.

Jacket to the chaise. Cullen starts to kick off his boots. "Lock the door."

Alistair fumbles for the lock. It takes a couple tries, but he manages to get it fastened.

Working at the buttons of his shirt -- getting them undone isn't proving any easier than getting the door locked -- he wanders back to Cullen's side. "Damn things," he says, half-laughing, around the fourth or fifth time a button slips out of his fingers.