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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"...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."

"It's nice to have a skill."

"One of your many," he agrees, and lapses into quiet.

Cullen's chest rises and falls beneath his head. He's feeling -- present again. Back in his own body, constrained by its boundaries. It's like remembering the existence of each limb after nearly losing them all in battle: there, one arm bunched a little awkwardly under himself as he keeps the other around Cullen; there, both legs touching his husband's. Here, the sound of birdsong. There, the scent of fresh air.

He breathes. In. Out. The coin shifts on its chain: another boundary.

"All right," he whispers at last, and begins the slow work of untangling himself from Cullen.

Cullen stretches, then, tucking both arms behind his head, and watches Alistair move.

"Where do you want to go?"

Alistair makes a thoughtful noise as he fetches his clothes.

"The water, I think." Lacing up his trousers, he glances back at Cullen with a warm smile. (It is exceedingly difficult not to throw his clothes aside and crawl back into bed at that sight.) "And a bookshop, if you'd like?"

Since Alistair is being so cruel as to haul Cullen out of bed when everyone else is resting.

"Mm. It's not necessary." Mild. He watches Alistair with an appreciation that's almost predatory. "I've got enough to occupy me for the time being."

"You do?"

The urge to get back into bed? Not subsiding. Alistair compromises: he sets a knee on the mattress, bracing himself over Cullen with a smirk.

"Are you hiding a math treatise in your coat?"

"What coat?" Cullen inquires, trailing his fingertips down Alistair's chest. "I'm not wearing a coat. If you hadn't noticed."

Alistair arches his back slightly, with a soft hum of pleasure.

"You'll need it when we're on our walk." Beat. "Assuming we ever make it out of bed."