C = Cuddling (Do they cuddle? If they do, how and when do they cuddle?)
Vergil doesn’t cuddle. He embraces his partner when he feels like it. During the day it’s a rare occurrence, but when he’s in bed with them and on a verge of sleep or sleeping? They’d have a hard time to get away from his arms and not wake him up.
D = Dream (What do they dream of doing with their s/o?)
Having their first cup of tea/coffee together after they get up from their bed, sharing space quietly or talking. Unguarded and softer.
I = Intimacy (How romantic are they? Do they have problems with intimacy?)
Romantic gestures are a mystery to him as he isn’t one that believes in love being an emotion free of flaws, like some stories or people like to claim. He learns what true intimacy is, the one that isn’t just the passionate clash of bodies in chase of a release. Given the chance and time to understand his own feelings, Vergil overcomes most of his problems with finding a meaningful connection with his partner.
M = Marriage (Do they want to get married? If so, what kind of ceremony?)
Not really. He hasn’t thought about getting married, first because he’s never been in a serious enough relationship, second because mages don’t get married (not under the Chantry anyway). If the subject of marriage would be brought up by his partner, he’d start thinking about it, but still wouldn’t be sure if it’s something he wants to do.
T = Trust (How much do they trust their s/o?)
Enough to give them the means to truly hurt him if they choose so.
Y = Yuck (Do they have any pet peeves about their s/o? Are there any habits that might bother their s/o?)
Forgetting to eat/drink. He understands the passion for research, but please don’t forget to feed yourself. Finding them passed out in strange places because they had to write one more thing or read something in one more book - he doesn’t know how to take care of someone with a cold, please don’t test him like that.
Maymay 1: ✓ for Aether about Spiridon. Maymay 2: how does Aether perceive him anyway. Maymay 3: There are three young plants in three plain-looking pots, each growing in a different soil. "My mother carried the ancestors of these from the Anderfels thirty five years ago, and I carried them across the Waking Sea when I left more valuable things behind. I snapped twigs off their branches before they were buried in Haven, and potted them again when I could. (1/2)
Ya spoil me rotten, my dude <3
Meme1:Aether drew a breath to speak, and then hesitated before he let it out and smiled weakly to himself. Closing his eyes, he then gave a mild nod and then, he gave his answer. “Some may call this foolish of me, but what I find the most attractive about Spiridon is his honesty. It’s not sweetened to deceive, and he doesn’t mince words to inject what he wants to say into what he feels that he needs to say. If I am to be honest myself, I feel jealous of him for being the kind of person who can say things that way. It’s the sort of honesty I wish I had myself.”
Meme2:“The first time I met Spiridon was not the first time I had heard of him. The Lavellan clan which I was adopted into as their simple tradesmaster offered me little insight about him as a man, only that they had marked him for death for offenses none were willing to tell. Being able to meet him though, that made me question even more the clan’s reasons of casting this dark and miserable path upon him. He is not kind, no, but he is not cruel either. He is reliable when treated fairly, steady as the stones that the rains and winds beat upon, and mostly, he strikes me as someone who doesn’t want to be treated above or below anyone else. It’s men like him who help shape the world, not through great displays of power, manipulation, or money, but who are willing to do what needs to be done, to make decisions that need to be made, and to take responsibility for the consequences of these actions. He’s a good man. And I’m glad to have him, regardless of what the Lavellan clan has said.”
Meme3:Aether’s thoughtful pout was offset by the surprised raise of his blond brows as he read the letter that had accompanied these three potted plants. And slowly, a smile spread, one cheek dimpling as he gazed to his son, watching Da'elgara as he stretched out one fat little hand to tenderly stroke a leaf upon the closest pot to him. The Inquisitor leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his blond curls, “these are for you, da'len,” he told his little boy who looked up to him with eyes more gold than his father’s green, “why don’t we take these to the library? See what they’re called?” he suggested, always pleased to see the way Dael’s eyes lit up at the suggestion of going to the library, and quietly, excitedly, the two-year-old scrambled out of the chair. He watched his son walk carefully ahead of him, one pot securely embraced in tiny arms, the other two in his own, and then cast a glance out the window to where the battlements were being repaired, stone by stone, by the strong hands of a man more thoughtful than many believed.
“It’s the same every time I close my eyes” Aether's wants to be there for his dahlen
“It’s the same every time I close my eyes.”
Cyrus felt like a fool, sitting there in the healer’s tent. Even where his words fell short, his posture spoke clear as day. Hunched over, his hands worrying knots into the hem of his shirt, hair disheveled, dark bags beneath his eyes that seemed to weigh down his entire being. It didn’t take a healer to realise something was wrong.
Well... that was why he was there in the first place.
Fucking Ralon and his big mouth.
Despite the shortness of Cyrus’ opening statement, Aether’s eyes were calm and patient; clinical but without the coldness Cyrus was used to receiving when he needed treatment. True, it was normally something physical. Something he had picked up after a fight. But those things were easy to fix.
“Nightmares?” the healer asked, settling down on a stool across from Cyrus, who had taken up residency on the side of a makeshift bed. “When did they start?”
Cyrus shrugged stiffly. “I don’t know. Sometime after Haven.” He shook his head, leaning forward to rest his head in his hands. “Apparently I talk in my sleep. So if you’ve got any shit for that, I’ll take it instead and get going.”
Despite his attempt to deflect, Aether shook his head. “There is no point just treating the symptoms, Cyrus. I’m glad you talk in your sleep, because it meant someone noticed.”
Snorting dryly, Cyrus didn’t bother looking up. Or, more rightly, he was too exhausted to try. “So... what? I have nightmares. Big fucking deal. Who doesn’t around here.”
“How long has it been since you last slept through the night?”
There it was. The question Cyrus had been dreading. He swallowed, face still hidden. On the walk over to the healer’s quarter, he’d gone through his options. He could lie; say it was recent. He could say they weren’t that frequent and last night was a one-off.
Or, he could tell the truth.
“I... don’t remember.”
Cyrus swore he could hear Aether nod, the rustle of his robes a soft suggestion of the movement. The healer rose, moving over to a bench. “We need to deal with the root of the issue,” Aether said gently to the tune of clinking bottles, “but that will take time, and you need to be willing.”
“What, talk about it?” Cyrus looked up, finally, his expression anything but impressed. “I don’t want to fucking relive that shit, okay? So forget it.”
“You are reliving every night, Cyrus.” Again, Aether was not fazed, his hands seeming to work off memory as he mixed herbs in a mortar. “Keeping it to yourself is not working. That is a fact, and you have months of sleepless nights for proof.”
As much as he wanted to argue, Cyrus couldn’t think of a single damn thing to say. So, he clamped his jaw, turning his head away, feeling for all the world like a stubborn child but not giving a single fuck about it. “Who am I meant to talk to, then?” The question sounded almost defeated. Maybe it was. “No one wants to hear my shit, and I don’t want to make them.”
Turning back, a vial in hand, Aether decided against the stool, opting instead to sit by Cyrus’ side on the bed. “You could speak to me,” he began gently, “or Hanin. I would not recommend other members of your squad, just based on their personalities, but now you have two people who you know would listen.”
Slowly, Aether pressed the vial into Cyrus’ limp hand, curling the Orlesian’s fingers around it. “This will help you sleep. It is not a solution, mind you, but you’re exhausted and you need rest. It will last you a few nights.”
“Only a few nights?” Cyrus wrinkled his nose, looking down at the bottle as though it had wronged him. “What about after that?”
“You come and see me.”
“And you’ll give me another one.”
“After we have talked, or you have spoken with Hanin, yes.”
There was a tense silence after that, although Cyrus somehow imagined it weighed down more on him than Aether. The healer was used to this. This was what he did. He had the words, the skill, the patience. Cyrus had none of that to help shoulder the burden.
“... Fine.” With the concession, Cyrus slipped the vial into his pocket. “Have it your way. But Hanin won’t listen to me. He’s too busy with... Captain shit.”
“I doubt that, da’len. But if it is true, then you have me. I will make time.”
There was that word again. Da’len. No one would tell him what it meant, but every time Aether said it, there was a kind of... warmth to his voice. A fondness. It made whatever he said sting less. Made Cyrus more agreeable.
“Alright. Not like I have much of a choice.” He stood, closing his eyes for a second as the world blurred slightly at the edges. Fuck, he was tired. “This’d better work,” he said, glancing back at Aether and motioning to the vial in his pocket. “Or I’ll come here in the middle of the night just to tell you it’s crap.”
Smirking faintly, Aether spread his hands. “By all means, do. I’m never one to leave a patient unsatisfied.”
Rolling his eyes - the man was impossible to faze - Cyrus pushed his way out of the tent. Walking back towards the barracks, his boots crunching over the faint layer of snow that dusted the courtyard, Cyrus kept a hand resting over the vial as though to protect it from... something. Anything.
Because maybe, just maybe, he might actually get to sleep that night.
The window is open and small breeze ruffles the gauzes, twisted on beams of their four poster bed, both of them sitting on it.
Working in silence.
Vergil frowns slightly at the contents of letter in his hand, shifting to curl up one of his legs. He leans his right shoulder on the bed’s poster, trying to decipher what the author of this exceptionally thick letter had in mind. He rubs at his eyes when they water a bit after a yawn he barely managed to keep in, but continues to read, even if he feels a shadow of a headache looming at the back of his head. He shouldn’t take work to bed, he knows this. And usually, he never does, but today’s an exception and he knows Aether understands, busy with writing in his own journal.
Aether just shook his head with a soft smile when both of them stepped out fresh and clean from the bathroom and Vergil looked at the untouched pile of papers on his desk.
Definitely a new one, because he could swear he did that one already, and new stack materialized from thin air, just as both of them were done with their shared bath. Aether silently brushed his fingers at Vergil’s wrist and went to grab his notebook, sitting among pillows with his back to the headboard, knees up to rest the opened journal.
Strands of his messily pinned up hair keep getting in Vergil’s eyes and he absently brushes them behind his ear, eyes narrowed, corners of his mouth turned down. Vergil blinks again when his sight seems to blurry and he can’t stifle another yawn and rolls his shoulders, sleeping shirt slipping a bit on his left and he briefly makes a face when the material sticks to the scarred skin, soaking bits of numbing cream Aether applied on it earlier.
With utmost care, unhurriedly and precisely.
Vergil let him take his time, idly watching him work, feeling the constant itch changing into simple pressure of his touch, when his fingers carefully spreaded herb smelling balm. Aether’s own recipe, one that he perfected over the years and one that actually worked. It didn’t irritate the skin further or made the numbness turn into the feeling of wooden limb. For that, Vergil was grateful. He’s used to the constant pull and prickle of skin with every move, the scars long healed, both bumpy and smooth, but still a tender reminder of rushed, makeshift spell. At least he still can use the arm and his hand fairly normal, with very minimal setbacks.
Vergil is so immersed in his reading, that he stiffens when the bed dips behind him, but then relaxes instantly as subtle smell of Aether’s bathing powder hits his nose. He drapes himself slowly at Vergil’s back, arms wrapping around his middle, leaning forward to plant delicate, lingering kiss on the fabric over his left shoulder. Aether tilts his head, nuzzling briefly into Vergil’s neck, lips pressed for a moment to his throat, before he rests his chin on Vergil’s shoulder, sighing briefly. The arms around Vergil tighten when he leans back into Aether’s embrace, gently bumping his cheek with Aether’s temple.
“I’ll be finished in a minute,” he murmurs, lips brushing Aether’s brow and he can feel Aether’s soft hum, his chest snugly pressed to his back.
