bringspeopletogether

If Alistair wants to pretend like nothing's changed, Cullen... might as well honor that. He's got to think about it more. And he's got to think about it more when he's not hung over.

Gingerly he eases himself back down on the chaise and closes his eyes. Nothing is spinning, which is a good start.

Maybe Cullen's right: Alistair should have taken the punch. It would have caused less hurt in the long run.

The weight of what he's done sits cold and heavy in his stomach, making him wonder if he's about to sick up his breakfast. It's -- it may not be the worst thing he's ever done, but it's close. Very close.

I wouldn't forgive me, either.

Drinking his tea is a guarantee his breakfast will come back up. Alistair curls on his side instead, drawing the quilt around him to try and ward off the chill.

It's been some time since he's felt the need to use the Chant as a way to shut everything else out of his head. But he does it now, timing the words to his breaths.

If nothing else, it quiets his mind, just a little.

Alistair closes his fingers around the coin at his chest.

This isn't something you can fix. He's used that mantra before, but there's a quiet finality to it now. Cullen will tell him if -- and to Alistair, it feels a very distant if -- he can make up for this. There's nothing Alistair can do.

Shouldn't have assumed the Calling would be what ended this, he thinks, distantly.

Midmorning someone knocks at the door. Cullen rises in his sock feet to take delivery of a dozen bolts of cloth, enough fine paper and pens and ink (in a few different colors) to outfit a platoon of Josephines, and six bottles of brandy.

Cullen is not tempted to steal any of the latter.

It all goes on the chaise, where he regards it with some wariness.

By then, Alistair's tea has long gone cold -- but he also doesn't feel quite as nauseous as earlier. He drinks it mechanically, eyes on his pack the whole while.

He should probably unpack it. It won't take long to repack if Cullen asks, anyway.

Setting the mug aside, he gets to work, no less mechanically.

Breakfast. Finally.

His hair is a disaster -- he knows that much from the expression of the woman who delivered the cloth -- but the extra few hours of sleep did wonders for his hangover. And now Cullen is ravenous.

His turn to pad into the kitchen, to find ham and a few eggs.

Soon enough, everything's back where it belongs. Alistair pulls on a clean pair of trousers; washes his face; considers his reflection (exhausted, eyes red, hair a mess) before picking up his razor.

Not like he's planning to go out today, but maybe he'll feel better if he goes through the motions of being presentable.

He's starting to feel less like he's giving Cullen space and more like a prisoner. Very, very quietly, Alistair eases open the bedroom door a crack to peer into the main room.

That...is a lot of cloth.

Cullen, in the kitchen, is contemplating the destruction of his breakfast and whether he should make another. The ham was quite good.

Soon after, a pleasant sizzling sound comes from the kitchen. Also a pleasant sizzling smell.

As if remembering that yes, food is a good thing, and no, he hasn't eaten since early this morning, Alistair's stomach lets out a pointed growl.

"Stop that," he mutters toward it, without much feeling -- but he does nudge the door open a little wider, considering his options. Maybe he can sneak out while Cullen's occupied and fetch some lunch of his own. He did go to all that trouble of making himself presentable, after all.

...Damn it, that ham smells really good.

Cullen emerges with ham and eggs piled on some bannock. He has just taken a very large (and somewhat undignified) bite of his open-faced sandwich.

He looks at Alistair for a moment.

And then, expressionless, starts chewing.

(Mildly mortifying.)

Alistair fidgets.

(If literally anything else had happened in the past twenty-four hours, he'd crack some kind of gentle joke. But...no. Not a chance.)

"Quite the delivery," he mumbles at last, lamely, as he nods toward the chaise.

Cullen swallows.

"'S not for me," he says, between bites.

"Mm." A long pause. "...Josephine?"

This is so awkward that he might dig a hole straight to the Deep Roads and start his Calling early.

"My siblings," Cullen says, turning his attention to the window.

"Right."

Well, that's...that's good. That Cullen did that. Working on those relationships and...everything.

Tentatively: "Your hangover seems better."

Cullen bites back a rude response.

Instead: "I intend to get all this sent off today. It won't be in the way much longer."

"It's not in the way, I was just -- "

Alistair leans against the door frame, shoulders hunching.

"Never mind." Before he can think better of it: "Do you need any help?"

Cullen shakes his head. Mild: "If you've got anything you want to send to South Reach, might as well send it along with this lot. By noon?"

"All right."

That...actually gives him a convenient excuse.

"I was going to -- " He hooks a thumb toward the door. "Go out. Write a letter, get some food. If you need anything?"

(Besides the peace and quiet Alistair's absence will provide.)

Another headshake. "Enjoy."

He can work, then. Good.

Alistair nods. Opens his mouth, as if to say something else -- then closes it and heads for the front door.

(Incidents like last night aside -- it's the first time in a while he hasn't said his customary I love you before leaving.)

Well, that doesn't exactly come as a surprise.

Cullen sighs, and goes to his desk. First are the notes for each of his siblings. Second is the note just for Mia, tucked into the parcel he brought home last night: it's a chess set, of course, carved from good, plain (and polished) Fereldan stone. The note simply says For my next visit.

Next: reviewing drawdown plans. Cullen signs off on the next batch of soldiers wanting to muster out, squints at the assignment rosters in light of the change, and makes a few suggestions to pass off to his captains for their comment.

Third... it's a return to calculus.

Either it'll give him a headache, thus providing a good excuse not to say much, or the orderliness of it will provide some mental clarity. A win no matter what.

Hello, Mia, begins Alistair's own letter, and...doesn't get much farther than that.

The whole point of Cullen asking him to write his sister was so she wouldn't just get a bunch of still alive, pawn to A4 letters. Or whatever A-space you move a pawn to. She'll know something's wrong if he only sends a few sentences -- and Alistair very well can't tell her all that's transpired. He's supposed to be reassuring her that everything's all right, not that...well. That it isn't.

So he sets that one aside with a sigh. Nibbles at the bread that came along with his fish stew, thinking.

Then he pulls another sheet of paper closer, inks his quill, and starts, Hello, Ivette.

The resulting letter to Warden Cousland goes for nearly five pages. Somewhere around page three, he realizes he may not even send it; he'd have to cross out quite a lot of the more embarrassingly helpless parts first. Probably fix up the smudged bits, too.

But when it's done, he feels...lighter. A little.

Once it's dry, he carefully folds the letter and tucks it away -- then winces when he realizes it's past noon. (Not that it matters, since he has nothing to send to South Reach after all.) Hurriedly finishes his stew, he gets up with all intent to head straight back to their rooms.

Instead, he finds himself taking the long way through the university quarter, as if to put off the inevitable just a little longer.

With regular breaks for tea, the mathematics isn't too bad. Cullen finds he might actually have a handle on it. Or some of it.

And... well. He thinks he knows what to do. He's got an idea, anyhow. He can be pleasant and just not... anything else. Until he can figure out where things stand -- until he's sure how he feels --

No reason to make things worse until then.

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