[sandbox]

[bringspeopletogether]

Skyhold gets quieter and quieter as the days move on. It's not a complete stand-down; there's cleanup to do, stragglers to round up, the same sort of business Alistair remembers from the months after the Blight. The Thaw, as Wardens call it. Thedas is thawing again, but the fortress only grows colder for it.

He won't lie: he'd feel warmer if Kieran and Morrigan were still there.

When Cullen suggests a vacation, Alistair lights up, only to deflate slightly when he realizes they'll be "vacationing" in Orlais. There's business to attend in Val Royeaux -- not the sort of business that'll keep Cullen occupied from sunup to sundown, but enough to require an in-person visit for a week or so. On the one hand: Orlais. On the other: he can't argue that time away from Skyhold, especially in Cullen's company, will help.

...So will the cheese, probably.

(Look, as Alistair has said many a time, he is a very predictable man.)

They room at a small place in the university quarter that's downright plain for Val Royeaux. Libraries for Cullen, a cafe around the corner for both of them, limited contact with people trilling about whatever stupid, petty scandal's hit the court this week -- it could be far worse. Alistair takes to writing his letters at the cafe, usually accompanied by some flaky pastry or another.

Today, they're cheese-filled. It's hard to descend too far into a personal funk when you've got a cheese-filled pastry.

Comments

[howtoactfereldan]

He's staring furiously at the tabletop. "Still. I -- "

And he fishes about in his jacket for his pencil. "I should... there's -- things to look at."

[bringspeopletogether]

"Right." He makes a conscious effort to lighten his voice. "Those dam mathematics."

Alistair picks up his quill, bending over the letter again. He'll figure out what he wants to say to Kieran. Yes. Any minute now.

...He might have to resort to doodling some nugs in the margins first, however.

(The slump to his shoulders -- which has been there more often than not these past few weeks -- begins its gradual return.)

[howtoactfereldan]

It's hard to set yourself to learning calculus when you're --

Not upset, Cullen thinks. That would be entirely too dramatic. Disgruntled. Unsettled? Unsettled.

Still. It's better than trying to say anything.





Unfortunately, an unmasked barmaid brings over his soup -- onion, with melted cheese covering the top -- and a large hank of still-warm bread, so Cullen can't use fluid dynamics as an excuse any longer.

[bringspeopletogether]

Slowly, Alistair looks up, eyes wide as he takes in the sight of the soup.

And the smell.

And the -- everything. Maker, he should've gotten soup. Why didn't he get soup?

His quill drifts to a halt midway through drawing a nug that bears a startling resemblance to Cullen. (He's getting better at them. Half of them aren't even stick figures anymore!)

[howtoactfereldan]

Hard to miss Alistair's reaction.

Tentative: "Do you want this? I'm not really hungry."

(This is a lie. But Cullen also made a mistake. A sacrifice of soup would be appropriate.)

[bringspeopletogether]

Alistair hesitates.

"...A little, maybe?" he ventures. (He looks entirely too much like a hopeful dog begging for table scraps.) "Just a bit of the bread and some of the cheese off the top?"

He's not going to take all of Cullen's food, but if he's offering...

[howtoactfereldan]

There. Penance.

In response, Cullen pushes the crockery toward Alistair, and reaches for his tablet again.

[bringspeopletogether]

"Thank you."

Another beat's hesitation -- and Alistair leans to peck Cullen on the cheek, quick and affectionate, before absconding with the soup.

Shortly thereafter, the bowl returns to within easy reach of Cullen, minus a piece of the bread and some of the very, very, very stringy cheese. The letter gets put aside for the moment lest he get any food on it.

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen doesn't touch it.

Instead, he flips back and forth among a handful of adjacent pages, squinting at the words, and writes down what might as well be arcane symbols, possibly intended for use as a necromancy manual.

(It smells -- good. Wonderful. But he should ignore it. He can ignore it.)

[bringspeopletogether]

Alistair eyes him, in between nibbles of the bread.

He's not really buying this I'm not hungry nonsense; a man doesn't order soup and a pastry if he's not hungry. Maybe Cullen's waiting for it to cool like he waits for his tea to cool. Alistair can hope it's just that, and not that he upset Cullen again.

(He knows he upset Cullen again.)

Bread finished, he adds a few more details to the nug sketch. CULLEN WORKING ON SOME DAM MATHEMATICS, he captions it. NO, REALLY. IT'S MATHEMATICS FOR THE CONSTRUCTION OF DAMS. TELL YOUR MOTHER TO STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT.

[howtoactfereldan]

The thing is -- what's in front of him is actually fascinating. Like learning another language, but it's more like building something new. The architecture of dams is one thing; it's the mathematics that has broader application.

(If they intend to stay in Skyhold, it's worth considering building a reservoir near the valley.)

The upshot: it's not long at all before Cullen legitimately forgets the soup, the pastry, and Alistair's presence.

[bringspeopletogether]

Soon enough, the letter's done. Or as done as it's going to get without pulling out another four sheets of paper to cover with meaningless doodles. Alistair's pastry is done, too; all that remains are a few crumbs, which he picks at with his thumb and forefinger.

He could stay long enough to write another letter. He owes one to Mia. No harm in checking in on Warden Cousland, too -- he hasn't heard much from her since that letter she sent the Inquisitor. He could tell her about Lel, assuming the news hasn't reached her yet. (It may not have. It's recent enough that Alistair still devolves into wordless confused noises if the thought crosses his mind.)

Or he could free up the table for someone else and leave Cullen be.

A quick shuffle through his remaining paper proves the latter option's the best one -- he doesn't have enough left to write anything of substantial length. Gathering his things, Alistair rises.

"I'll be in our room." Soft. "See you later?"

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen looks up, confused for a moment. He blinks up at Alistair. "I -- all right?"

(A good third of his mind is still occupied with integrals.)

[bringspeopletogether]

Alistair cracks a tiny, fond smile. "All right," he agrees, before pressing a kiss to Cullen's hair. "Love you. Have fun with your math."

Exit a Warden, stage left.

[howtoactfereldan]

What?

Cullen's still bemused. And, he notices, the soup's uneaten.

It takes about half a minute after Alistair's gone for Cullen to rub a hand over his face and reach for the bowl.

[bringspeopletogether]

By the time Alistair returns to their quarters, the letter's dry enough to require no sanding. He folds it, seals it, sets it aside.

Leliana's birds will always find me, said Morrigan -- but that was before Leliana received word she'd been chosen as the next Divine. There's time yet, to be certain. How will the arrangement endure once she's officially stationed in Val Royeaux, though? It might be strengthened, with all the extra power afforded to her...and it may just as easily degrade under all the extra responsibility heaped upon her to match.

So much for that pastry staving off the funk. He's in no mood at all to put on a cheerful face for Mia's letter, and if he starts writing to Cousland in this state he'll use up all the paper in Orlais.

Alistair settles for belly-flopping on their bed and burying his face in a pillow. If he's got the room for himself for a bit, might as well indulge the mood in the hope it'll pass faster.

[howtoactfereldan]

Earlier that week Cullen had visited a tailor that Vivienne would never recommend in a thousand years: she caters to chevaliers, and the stuffier ones at that. Even chevaliers need civilian attire.

Enough engineering, he thinks, and he can afford to give up on the soup. Cullen picks up the pastry instead and leaves the cafe behind. Time to pick up his jacket, and perhaps to find something frivolous and indulgent for Alistair on the way back to their lodgings.

[bringspeopletogether]

Unfortunately, the mood takes its sweet time in passing.

Alistair rolls onto his back, scrubs at his face with both hands, and lets his arms flop to either side. A few minutes later he yanks at the blankets and sets to work burrowing underneath.

...Yes, he decides after a moment, he's going to burrow all the way underneath.

Whenever Cullen returns, there will be a suspiciously Alistair-shaped lump under the blankets, plus one pillow missing from the headboard. (Might as well drag a pillow into his makeshift cave while he's at it, right?)

[howtoactfereldan]

An hour later, Cullen returns, jacket folded over his arm. He's bearing a small paper bag that smells strongly of burnt sugar.

He spies the lump; his brow furrows.

The jacket and his papers go on a side table. He bends to take off his boots. And then, at last, Cullen and the small paper bag alight on the bed. He doesn't bother trying to get under the blankets -- just stretches out in his sock feet, folding his hands on his chest.




He might go out of his way to shake the contents of the bag.

[bringspeopletogether]

The lump stirs.

A tuft of reddish-brown hair emerges.

Slowly, Alistair pulls down the blanket just enough to reveal his eyes and nose, and peers up at Cullen.

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen gives Alistair a sidelong look.

"They're for you," he says, quietly. "But if you don't want them..."

[bringspeopletogether]

Alistair pulls down another inch of the blanket so he can say, hopeful, "There's more than one?"

[howtoactfereldan]

In response, Cullen holds up the paper bag, and rattles the contents for emphasis.

[bringspeopletogether]

Wordlessly -- and with the corner of his mouth starting to twitch upward -- Alistair extracts one arm and holds out his hand toward the bag.

[howtoactfereldan]

Cullen passes it over, and tucks both hands behind his head, content.

Sugared almonds were the right call, he thinks. One point to me.