howtoactfereldan | (no subject)

(no subject)

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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"Mm." It's an affirmative. He tangles his fingers in the hair on Alistair's neck, seeking purchase. Then, warmer, a little amused: "Clearly you've done this before."

Alistair chuckles. "Perhaps."

A little more pressure.

"Of course, we have been sharing a bed for some years now."

Cullen takes in a slow breath, and hides his face in Alistair's shoulder. Muffled: "Not nearly long enough."

"We'll have more years to come."

Gently, he cradles the back of Cullen's head.

"You and me. Whatever we want to do. Wherever we'd like to go. That's not just a story any longer, love; it's true."

Cullen's arms tighten reflexively.

Softer:

"Don't lie. Not to me."

Alistair slows to a halt. Pulls back enough to look down at Cullen.

"I'm not." No louder; bewildered. "I -- "

(Maybe it was a bad idea to try and initiate anything, if Cullen's thoughts have taken root here.)

"Yes, we don't know how many years. But we'll still have time. I promise you."

It takes a long moment for Cullen to nod against Alistair's shoulder.

Barely audible:

"I'm sorry. Keep -- keep going."

Frowning, Alistair settles his cheek atop Cullen's hair.

"Are you sure?" he murmurs.

"I can give you what you want."

His throat's closing up again.

"Please."

Alistair's eyes sting. He closes them, quickly.

"I'm not sure this is what I want." Very quiet. "But I do know I want you to be comfortable."

He cards his fingers through Cullen's hair: just the same two inches or so, over and over, as gentle as he can.

"I think we should stop for now."

"I'm never comfortable," he grumbles into Alistair's neck. "You know that."

But he also doesn't fight Alistair, which may say something.

That earns a pained twitch of a smile.

"Less uncomfortable, then," he says.

"But what about you?" Cullen asks, plaintive.

He has to swallow back a sudden tightness in his throat.

"I can wait." Still his fingers move through that little spot in Cullen's hair. "We have time, Cullen. I mean that."

"How many times," barely audible, "have you had to say 'I can wait'?"

His first impulse -- a glib what's one more, then? -- wouldn't just be unfunny: it would be far more cruel than he intended.

(Alistair has carried enough resentment toward the Inquisition over the years, despite all his efforts to squash it. He can't keep carrying it now that the Inquisition is gone. And this isn't even about that, anyway -- it's about Cullen.)

"You're worth it," is all he says, quietly, simply.

It's the truth, which is far better than any poor attempts to joke about it.

If he says anything, he'll lose it.

(If he disagrees, Alistair won't listen.)

So instead Cullen shakes his head, a little, and clings tighter. As though that would do anything at all.

Alistair breathes out, and holds him close.

"I love you," he whispers. "And there are a lot of reasons I agreed to marry you. Remember that."

I'm an unemployed lyrium addict with a bad attitude and no sense of humor, he thinks.

"Still leaves us with you not getting what you need," he mumbles, voice wavering a little.

(The Inquisition is disbanding. Cullen needs -- something to worry about.)

"I don't want my needs to come at the expense of yours." He kisses the top of Cullen's head. "Especially in bed. We both ought to be able to enjoy ourselves. Not just -- tolerate it, or feel obligated."

(It's been a long while since he's thought of that night with Morrigan. It's rather difficult not to think of it now.)

"You think I don't enjoy giving you what you want?" Cullen mutters -- but doesn't stir otherwise, or raise any more truculent complaint.

Gently:

"I do, but you didn't seem to be enjoying it five minutes ago, love."

There's no comeback to that which is both good and truthful.

Cullen pulls away, some -- not far.

"Fine." Tired. "Then what? What can I do?"

Alistair lets him, albeit not without a small pang.

"You can stay with me here," he says. "You know I always enjoy your company. Even when it's not -- athletic."

A beat.

"I promise that's enough for me when you're not up for doing more."

For lack of a better way to hide, Cullen closes his eyes.

"Fine," he says again, fainter. "It's still like I've failed you, but fine."