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“Wynne is asking where you ran off to.”
Aleksander lifts his head from the field of grass he has made into his bed, pushes himself to lean on his elbows as his smile grows infinitely larger to see Alistair there. Aleks tilts his head, looks Alistair up and down. His armor is off, which is always a nice thing to see. He looks much more relaxed like this. Much younger- more like Alistair and less like a Warden . Like they aren’t gearing up for a war that may break them apart.
“Did she now? Aleksander Murmurs, nary louder than the breeze through the clearing. “That’s nice of her. I’ll thank her for worrying about me when I get back to camp,” Aleksander rolls his head long his shoulders, then pushes up so he’s sitting. There’s bits of grass caught in his long hair, and Alistair logs that away for later. Maybe He’ll ask Aleksander if he’ll let him brush it.
“You aren’t returning yet?” Alistair asks, and Aleksander shakes his head. Instead, he pats the spot next to him, beckoning Alistair to join. Were he a stronger man, he would decline; The sun is setting low over the peaks of hills, and they’re missing dinner as it is. It’s Sten’s turn to cook, so if not tasteful it would at very least be edible. It’s better than when they allow Talcum or Oghren - or, maker forbid, Shale- to take kitchen duty, at least.
He’s about to voice his complaints when Aleksander yawns, which pulls into a warm smile- one reserved for Alistair only, creased and gentle with the tip of his tongue poking through the gap in his teeth. The words die in Alistair’s throat, and he concedes, lowering himself to sit next to his fellow warden. Aleksander leans closer, presses a quick kiss to the corner of Alistair’s mouth.
“Thank you,” Says Aleksander, leaning ever so gentle into Alistair’s space. Alistair liked his space. He liked people, yes, he supposed, or liked the idea of people, of friends, and he supposes he’s made friends, even if he and Morrigan bicker incessantly, or it takes him awhile to catch one of Zevran’s jokes, or he’s still not sure about the things Leliana preach about the maker, but he has friends. And he concedes to hands on shoulders, or a pat on the back, or a shoulder nudged into his side but-
This is reserved for Aleksander. Long hair draped over his shoulder, a face pressed into the crook of his neck, an arm warm around his stomach.
“For?” Alistair asks, and Aleksander presses closer , somehow, the tip of his nose cold against his jugular.
“Mh,” Aleksander hums. “Just thankful,” he clarifies, though it doesn't do much to combat his earlier vagueness. “Glad you’re here.”
Alistair’s heart hammers in his chest. Oh , how he’s a goner.
“I love you,” Alistair says, breathless, and he can feel Aleksander’s smile against his collar bone. Aleksander nips at the skin there, then pulls his head up to look Alistair in the eye. His eyes are soft, softer than usual, looking at Alistair as if he is everything and more, and Alistair wonders what it is he did to deserve something like this.
“I love you,” answers Aleksander. He lifts a hand to Alistair’s face, thumbs across his cheekbone, traces the curve of his brow, watches the flush that creeps across his face. “Promise me, that when you’re king, we’ll still have this,” Aleksander murmurs, and.
Oh.
Alistair feels like crying, suddenly. He draws his hands up, presses his palms flat to the curve of Aleksander’s jaw. There’s something desperate welling inside him. Something terrified . “We will,” breathes Alistar in the space between them. “Of course we will.”
“You’ll be king,” counters Aleksander. “They’ll expect an heir of you- and I. I’m a mage , I’ll be the only Ferelden warden left besides Talcum, and-” There’s more, there’s so much more, about why they won’t work, about why they shouldn’t , about why Alistair should marry Anora and why he should stop letting himself have this, and why they should both focus on the final battle looming on the horizon, and the landsmeet that creeps up on them even quicker while they try to escape responsibility.
“And I’ll still love you,” Says Alistair, and it still feels so foreign for him to say, to put a name to the overwhelming feeling in his chest. It’s still so new , and he doesn’t want to let go.
He never wants to let go.
“Okay.” A pause. “We’ll find a way,” he says, and it’s a promise. Aleksander curls himself around Alistair, speaking into his neck, sitting in a meadow of grass while the sky darkens around them. “We always find a way. I’m good at finding what matters, did you know that?”
“Are you now? I had no idea,” Alistair feeds, knowing Aleksander is leading up to something. It’s how he works- starts small, leaves room for response, and then he lets himself be seen.
“I found you, after all,” says Aleksander. Alistair twists his fingers into the back of Aleksander’s shirt.
“You’re just- unbelievably sappy,” Alistair sniffles, hoping the sarcasm in his voice is masking the fact that he’s about to start crying any minute.
After a moment, they hear Wynne yelling at the edge of the meadow about dinner and sleep, how she’d go out and find them herself but she doesn’t want to stain her robes, how they better not be getting up to no good because they have a job to finish tomorrow and they can’t afford to have two of their party drowsy. There’s fondness in her voice, however, and Aleksander presses a kiss to Alistair's throat.
“Lets go,” he says, separates himself from his Alistair stands up. He extends his hand in offering. Alistair stares at him for a moment, the yellow glow of a setting sun haloing him in the darkness, his dark hair golden in the fly-aways, and smile something absolutely divine. In that moment, Alistair knows how the Maker felt when he gazed upon Andraste.
He takes his hand, and uses it to pull himself up.