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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A long beat.

Grudgingly, Alistair mumbles, "You have a point."

A low, warm laugh. Cullen tightens his hold on Alistair for a moment. "Thank you for saying so."

A twitch of a smile, as Alistair tries to snuggle even closer.

"You say smart things and I compliment you on the smart things. That's how this works."

He presses a kiss to Alistair's forehead. "Good to know."

"I may not sleep particularly well during the honeymoon."

Low; resigned.

"I'm sorry, love."

"You're worse than I am." Lightly. "Apologizing where none's needed, and before the thing even happens? Impressive."

Despite himself, Alistair huffs out an amused breath.

"I'm a man of many talents, I suppose."

Cullen lets his hand drift down to Alistair's rear end again. "I'd agree with that."

"...My arse isn't a talent, Cullen."

Starting to snicker outright, now.

"Have you never seen a bad one, then?" Cullen inquires, deeply innocent. "Are you trying to say you haven't cultivated yours?"

"I could argue," says Alistair, "that it's the act of cultivation that's a talent, not the end result. You can say someone's a talented sculptor, but not that they made a talented sculpture."

Edited 2018-02-12 03:34 (UTC)

"And you've sculpted quite well, haven't you." A squeeze.

Modestly, as he tries in vain not to squirm:

"I've done my best."

(As far as distractions from terrible dreams go, Alistair quite likes this one.)

"Take the compliment, Theirin." Low. Warm. "It's meant in earnest."

The tips of Alistair's ears redden, even as he keeps smiling.

"All right." Sheepish, as he tucks his head back against Cullen's chest. "Thank you, then."

His thumb sketches an idle arc over Cullen's skin.

"What part of myself shall I turn my sculpting talents toward next?"

Cullen notices, and traces the curve of Alistair's ear. "Surprise me," he says, amused.

Alistair shivers.

"Right." Cheerfully. "My forehead it is."

If Alistair is shivering, that's Cullen's cue to keep it up.

"If it pleases you." Innocent.

"Mm."

He sinks against Cullen. With a trace of laughter: "You know what else pleases me? You doing that."

"Does it?" he inquires. "How nice."

Alistair snorts.

Fond, and sincere, "I'm lucky you're here to distract me."

"Glad to serve." He touches his lips to Alistair's forehead again. "Better, now?"

"Much." Softer, now. "Thank you."

He turns his head enough to kiss Cullen's chest.

"...Could do with a walk, maybe."

Some time out in that bright sun might chase away the lingering jitteriness. And if he needs to duck into a smaller space for a moment -- well. No shortage of that around the town.

Cullen sinks his fingers into Alistair's hair, and tries not to think about people approaching him with questions about Lavellan, their forces, or... anything, really.

"All right." Softly. "We can do that."

Alistair nods.

"In a moment," he murmurs. "You're a very nice pillow."