[sandbox] out of the abyss

[bringspeopletogether]

It starts as a shimmer out by the lake. Look at the water from the right angle, and the light glinting off it looks a bit...green. Sickly.

(Familiar, if you're from a certain time and place in Thedas.)

Look up some minutes later, and you can pinpoint the source: a thin, glowing ribbon uncoiling in the sky. It emerges slowly, but the more light it casts, the more momentum it gains, until it explodes outward with an enormous crack like lightning splintering the ground.

A much quieter thump follows as something hits the dirt.

Someone.

The glow vanishes; the person doesn't move for a long beat. (Get up, he's telling himself, get up -- ) He manages to drag his hands level with his shoulders, press down to bear himself upward an inch, look up at where he's landed.

Get. Up.

Another shove, and Alistair lurches to his feet, sword hauled from its scabbard and shield at the ready. His breath rattles, harsh against his throat, as he stares wild-eyed around the grounds.

Comments

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen rubs at his forehead, wearily.

"I'm going to regret asking," he mutters. "How's that, then?"

[bringspeopletogether]

Alistair heaves a sigh. His fingers loosen on the blanket.

"You're like -- Maker, I don't know. A slightly obnoxious older sibling who means well. Not obnoxious enough to punch," he adds, pointedly. "If you want to make a joke, make a joke, if you want to be kind, or happy, just be kind or happy, don't do it because you think it's what I want. Ask what I want. Ask what I'm thinking, I -- you keep acting like you know what I'm thinking. You said you were you, and I don't -- "

He's losing the thread. What he's saying is already no help at all; best if he shuts up before this turns into even more mad rambling.

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen takes another breath and lets it out slowly. It's a useful tactic.

He turns to the nightstand and picks up his book. A few taps, and he turns it sideways, propping it between them.

The film: Steel Magnolias.

He leans against Alistair, heavy, slumping, as though to convince himself that the other man's there.

[bringspeopletogether]

Oh. Well, that's --

All right.

If he can't make his thoughts and his voice work in tandem, something where neither of them have to talk seems ideal. Alistair presses his shoulder against Cullen's in kind; if, after a couple minutes, his head lists to lean against Cullen's, too, it's probably just the exhaustion. Probably.

Eventually, he picks up the blanket to drape half of it over himself. Silently, he offers the other half to Cullen.

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen takes it, tossing it halfheartedly over his legs, and settles back down. It's a weary movement.

He probably hasn't seen this movie enough times to have it memorized -- but he has seen it enough times for it to be a comfort.

At some point, he figures, Alistair is probably going to ask what in Andraste's name they're watching. Whatever. Possibly even better: Alistair will fall asleep again before the armadillo cake shows up.

[bringspeopletogether]

"I don't think I've seen this one," ventures Alistair, tentatively.

It seems a safe enough thing to say. (And Alistair, at his core, remains Alistair: incapable of shutting up for too long.)

[howtoactfereldan]

"I like it well enough."

Pause.

"The daughter dies. So you're warned."

[bringspeopletogether]

"Oh." Slightly stricken -- but more from concern than surprise. Even this early into the movie, it's become very clear, very quickly that the daughter is not well. "I -- thank you. I appreciate it."

Whenever she's on screen then, he finds himself studying her more closely, as if trying to commit her to memory above all else.

[howtoactfereldan]

It's familiar, the humor gentle and good, and slowly -- very slowly -- Cullen can feel himself growing less tense.

(Cullen isn't Alistair -- more inclined to be quiet, to be still. If it sends Alistair to sleep, so much the better.)

[bringspeopletogether]

He resists as long as he can. The movie gives him something to focus on, which helps keep him awake, but he can't converse with a movie. And leaning against each other like this, he can tell Cullen's starting to relax. Talking to him -- interrupting the movie, saying something that gets tangled up and awful by the time it reaches his mouth, making this whole Maker-damned situation worse than it is -- will smash the fragile peace that's forming.

Alistair's not inclined toward prayer. But were he from a different time and place, something about atheists and foxholes might come to mind.

No more dreams, he says, silently. Please. Keep them clear of me.

You know I don't ask much. Let me ask for this.

When his eyes drift shut for the third or fourth time, he stops fighting it.

[howtoactfereldan]

When Alistair falls asleep, Cullen can tell.

He leans his head heavy against Alistair's, letting his own eyes close.





He doesn't know what he's doing wrong. He doesn't -- he's not good at this. This shouldn't be him. But there isn't anyone else.

It's not the first time that's been true.

(The ferocious warmth he feels toward Alistair -- that would surprise him, if he let himself think about it. Every instinct, with laser focus, growling protect.

But that's not to be thought about.)