A Matter Of Time
Thank you @bladeverbena for the prompt (and sorry it took so long to deliver)!
In which there’s trouble at the Miller Farm, Cyrus puts himself in danger, and Darren finally figures out how to explain why he is not okay with that. (Approx 6000 words, set five years post-Inquisition. First kiss fic).
Cyrus had overstayed his welcome. He knew it. They knew it. Everyone knew it. Even though he kept trying to ignore it, he couldn’t shake that stomach-sinking sensation that today, surely, would be the day. The day the Millers paused when they saw him and shared one of those long, heavy looks. The day they apologised profusely and wrung their hands; an attempt to ease the final blow.
This was it. It had to be.
Today would be the day they finally asked him to leave.
It had been two months since he’d found himself at the freshly painted gate of the Miller farm, hovering uncertainly before the wooden partition. There had been no one in sight, but Cyrus had been bone-weary and exhausted, his boots falling apart on his feet, his coin pouch empty, his stomach twisted into painful knot of hunger and apprehension. In the end, he’d taken a risk, opting to beg forgiveness if he couldn’t ask permission. He hadn’t known what else to do. Even months later, part of him still remembered the way his heart had pounded as he approached the quaint, picturesque farmstead. It had been loud. Violent. Terrifying.
Now, as he descended the stairs from the second floor, he felt that same rhythm like a kick to the chest.
It told him to expect the inevitable. Told him that he was a burden. A strain. Cyrus knew nothing about farming; he was certain that whenever he tried to help he just slowed things down. He was another mouth to feed in a town that had suffered average to poor harvests two years in a row. Another body to clothe, clad in Darren’s old shirt and trousers. They hung loose and comfortable off his leaner frame. He had lost weight since parting ways with Ralon and Lyrene in the Free Marches.
In the end, one thing was acutely obvious. Cyrus had nothing to offer besides himself.
Maker, what a piss-poor deal.
Uncertainly, Cyrus made his way into the kitchen. Mrs Miller was already up, bustling about the way she always did, pots clanging, the smell of breakfast rising hot and welcoming from the stove. She was whistling a familiar tune; a folk song popular among Fereldeners. Cyrus hadn’t heard it before coming to the farm, but now he was so well acquainted with it that he often caught himself humming it despite not knowing a single word.
As Mrs Miller turned to toss some eggshells into a bowl, she spotted him.
Cyrus’ heartrate spiked.
“Ah, there you are – good!” The short woman smiled, her cheeks round and warm, slightly flushed from the heat of the stove as she gestured to a nearby cabinet. “Be a dear and get that pitcher down for me? ‘fraid my arms aren’t quite long enough.”
Relaxing slightly, happy that he had something useful to do, Cyrus obliged. Moving into the kitchen, he reached up, rising onto his toes, carefully sliding the metal pitcher off the top of the cabinet. “What’s it doing up here?” He asked, passing it down to Mrs Miller. The woman just shook her head and just gave a deep, fond sigh. Their eyes met, and in unison, they answered the question.
“Darren.”
Mrs Miller broke into bright, easy peals of laughter. “Oh, the poor thing. He just forgets how tall he is now.” Shaking her head fondly, she returned to the task of cooking breakfast. “Or maybe he just forgets how short his poor mother is. That’s the way of the Miller men, you know. Always accidentally putting things out of reach!”
Cyrus just snorted, and was about to offer to help when frantic, sharp knocking from the front door cut through the sound of sizzling eggs. Mrs Miller froze, eyes wide as she turned. Cyrus raised a hand to still her, offering a single nod before heading to the door. It was unusual for them to have visitors, yet alone so early in the morning. While it wasn’t likely, if there was trouble, Cyrus sure as shit didn’t want Darren’s mother anywhere near it.
But instead of a cutthroat or a wayward mercenary, what Cyrus was greeted with was a breathless boy who couldn’t be older than twelve. His freckled cheeks were flushed, his mousy hair and simple clothing wildly askew. Cyrus raised his brows, and was about to ask what was wrong when the boy just started babbling.
“I-I saw her, all black and white with that big ol’ tail, barking like mad, so I followed because I wanted to see what she was all upset over, and I-I-I—”
The boy broke off into a panicked wheeze, coughing, eyes watering. Cursing, Cyrus hurriedly stepped out of the doorway. Mrs Miller, as though sensing the distress of a child, appeared like a spirit of the fade, drying her hands hastily on the rag draped over her shoulder.
“Oh my dear! Come in now. Deep breaths, nice and calm,” she cooed, her voice a soft and feathery comfort. “Maker’s breath, you’re all flushed. We’ll get you a nice drink, all right? Then you can tell us what’s the matter.”
But the boy was shaking his head frantically. “No, no, no.” The panic returned in a wave and he looked desperately to Cyrus. “Was a bear! I swear it was! And she was barkin’ and growlin’ and trying to keep it away, but it wasn’t scared of her—”
“Scared of who?” Cyrus demanded as Mrs Miller gasped softly, alarm written across her round face. “Where did you see the bear?”
The boy sucked in a few shaky breaths, pointing a finger back out the doorway. “O-Over by the south fence! T-There was a dog, also.” He glanced back to Mrs Miller. “She looked a lot like yours.”
Mrs Miller gasped, hand flying to her lips. “Minty!” Those Miller-blue eyes cut across to Cyrus. “Oh Maker, w-we need to get Darren and his father. They’ll be out on the north field.”
Even as she spoke, Cyrus was moving. He raced down the hallway, skidding to a halt before a what used to be a linen cupboard. Wrenching open the doors, what he found inside was far from old towels and sheets. Instead, it held Darren and Cyrus’ old gear, and without wasting time Cyrus grabbed his sword, surprised by the sensation of comfort when he closed his hand around the hilt. “Go find them,” he said to Mrs Miller as he passed her, heading for the door. “I’ll see what I can do about Minty and… shit, I’ll try keep the bear away from the house.”
He didn’t stop to listen to her terrified protests. He didn’t even pause as Mrs Miller called after him, voice panicked as he rushed out onto the south field. All he knew was that there was a bear on the property, close to the Miller home, and Darren loved that damn dog more than he loved most people.
So, Cyrus started running.
Darren’s feet pounded against the ground, the dry soil kicking up dust behind him. His Inquisition sword was clutched tightly in hand, heart hammering harder than it had in years. Even after defeating Corypheus, he’d kept up his training routine, practicing drills and stances. As Captain Lavellan used to say, a soldier was only as strong as his greatest weakness. Even though farm-work rarely called for the use of a blade, Darren had refused to let what he learned in the Dawn Squad go to waste.
Now, he was grateful for that.
For five years, he’d never had to draw his sword for anything other than practice. Maybe he’d just been lucky. Or maybe Cyrus was right, and bad luck really did follow him wherever he went.
Either way, it didn’t matter now. In the distance, Darren could hear Minty barking madly, the sound so vicious and unlike her that it spurred him to pick up his pace. Truthfully, Darren had nearly forgotten to grab his sword in his haste to rush after Cyrus. Sure, the Orlesian was good, but he also had no idea how to deal with Ferelden bears. Most folks didn’t.
With that thought in mind, his chest tight enough to snap in half with worry, Darren kept running until he neared the southern fence.
That was when he heard a roar.
The black bear was larger than Cyrus had expected. Then again, he wasn’t exactly sure what he’d expected. When he’d arrived, it had arguably been just in time. Minty, ever the brave idiot that she was, had been keeping the bear at bay, snapping and growling, barking angrily in an attempt to stop it from heading towards the house. Now that he thought about it, the smell of food had probably lured it out of the forest. But as Cyrus closed the distance, the bear had begun to realise Minty was no real threat. Its movements had grown bolder, the swipes of its claws and snapping of its teeth barely missing the dog as she leaped and dodged, hackles dark, teeth bared.
She was still barking furiously as Cyrus arrived and faced off against the dark wall of fur, muscle, and claw. His blade flashed as he feinted towards it, trying to scare it off more than anything. At first it almost seemed like it was working; the bear took a few steps back, growling and snorting at the presence of a newcomer. But, as with Minty, that wariness swiftly passed. Now, all Cyrus could do was watch as its shoulders hunched, black fur bristling, its lips peeling back to reveal a row of yellow, razor-sharp teeth.
Oh Maker…
The bear roared and charged for him. Cyrus swore, diving to the side, trying to get out of its path.
Too slow.
The bear lashed out, one of its claws catching him on the shoulder, its razor point sinking into flesh. With the sharp tearing of fabric, Cyrus hit the ground hard, the wind rushing out of him, his sword flying from his grasp. Groaning, gasping, Cyrus tried to get up – tried to move as he heard the bear crash to a stop behind him, twigs and fallen branches snapping beneath its massive paws. The sound of deep, grunting breaths sent a rush of primal fear down Cyrus’ spine, chilling him to the marrow. In those few frantic moments, all he could do was imagine the bear up against him, breath putrid from its last kill, claws pressing down on his back, teeth sinking into his neck…
Then, there was more.
More noises. Louder. Closer.
A blur of black and white leaping in front of him.
The sound of a familiar, shouting voice.
“Go! Go on, get out of here!”
Darren’s voice was loud and firm, projecting precisely all of the confidence he didn’t feel. Pushing aside the fear wreaking havoc with his stomach, he stood tall, blade raised, polished steel catching the sunlight like a beacon. Minty – the good girl – was standing protectively over the fallen Cyrus, snarling and barking like a hunting hound made vicious from the scent of blood.
The bear growled, hurling its bulk around to face Darren, a low, dangerous sound reverberating from deep within its barrel of a chest. Breathing hard, eyes flicking between the bear and Cyrus, a flash of brightness among the grass caught Darren’s attention. He lunged towards it, hand closing around Cyrus’ blade, lifting it from the ground.
Whirling back to face the bear, Darren raised both blades above his head…
… and began clashing them together.
The sound was loud and sharp and violent, ringing out like metallic thunderclaps through the field. Darren stared down the black bear, circling until he was also positioned between it and Cyrus. Minty grew bolder, prowling to his side, her fur standing dark and threatening along the line of her spine as she snarled and spat. Even her mouth foamed slightly from the force of her fury; the intensity of her instinct to protect her family.
All of them.
For a moment, it seemed as though the bear would try to charge, its huge shoulders rolling as it shifted its weight. It wanted to get to its kill. Darren readied himself, not entirely sure what he planned to do, but unwilling to step aside.
Then, behind him, Cyrus suddenly gasped in a lungful of air. Coughing, trembling, the Orlesian struggled onto his knees, a hand pressed to his shoulder, expression tight with pain.
That, it seemed, was enough to tip the scale in their favour.
Its kill no longer dead and clearly outnumbered, bear gave a final, almost frustrated roar then huffed sharply. Once. Twice. Three times. Dark eyes studied Darren for what felt like an eternity, the blond’s heart doing flips in his chest.
Then, it turned away.
The bear’s massive form lumbered back into the trees, the sound of twigs and branches snapping beneath its large feet terrifying despite the fact it was clearly leaving. Darren continued glaring at its back, trying to look ‘dominant’ until the steep hill that descended into the forest carried the bear away and out of sight.
Relief flooded through him, palpable and intoxicating. He gave a giddy laugh; a mixture of nerves and adrenaline.
Then, at the sound of a whine from Minty, Darren tossed the swords aside and rushed to Cyrus’ side.
“For the last time, I’m fine, okay? It’s just a scratch.”
“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t at least wash it. That was a bear claw, Cyrus. You don’t want that cut turning green, do you?”
Cyrus huffed and rolled his eyes, but ultimately decided not to argue. In the small room, Darren moved about, dragging a second stool over, careful not to knock over the small pail of water on the floor. He seemed… well, Cyrus wasn’t entirely sure what he seemed. He wasn’t angry, but there was definitely something troubled about the blond as he set the bucket between his feet and shoved a cloth into the water.
“Darren, what’s the matte—”
“Shirt off.” His voice was stiff and cold as he soaked the cloth. “It’ll be easier to clean without it.”
Uncertainly, Cyrus obeyed, moving slowly to undo the buttons. There was something definitely wrong with Darren. He wasn’t even looking at him, brow drawn tight, shoulders tense beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. In that moment, Cyrus knew he’d fucked up. Somehow, some way, he’d fucked up big time.
Rather than deal with the implications of that particular thought, he tried to busy himself with his stubborn shirt buttons instead. Fumbling for a few moments, grunting and cursing silently, it took Cyrus longer than he cared to admit to realise what the problem was.
His hands were shaking.
Pausing, Cyrus frowned, abandoning the task to curl them into fists. He clenched for a few seconds, knuckles bleeding white, fingernails digging into his palms, trying to regain some semblance of control over the subtle tremor.
It didn’t work.
He felt the full weight of Darren’s gaze on him.
“The fuck are you looking at?” Cyrus muttered as he gave up and made a second attempt on the buttons. The first came free easily enough. But the second, like a traitor, was intent on defying him, slipping away from his fingertips once… twice... fuck…
“Here.”
Darren’s voice, to Cyrus’ private relief, was softer this time. Almost apologetic. His hands moved gently as he reached out, calloused fingers making short work of familiar buttons, popping them free. It was ridiculous, but Cyrus couldn’t help the way his heart thrummed a little harder for each that came undone, the cool air weaving through the gap in the cloth, sending a shiver across his skin. No matter how badly he tried to calm down; to still his heart and his hands; neither seemed inclined to listen.
And then there was Darren.
“You’re pissed at me.” It was more an observation than a question, so Cyrus declared it, trying to keep the pain off his face as he slipped his shirt down, wincing as it pulled free form his injury. “Do I just have to sit here and lose my mind over it, or are you going to tell me why?”
Darren snorted softly, his hand dipping into the bucket. “That’s tempting, you know.” He drew out the cloth, wringing out the excess water in one tight, strong hand, his whole forearm tensing with the motion. “A little worrying might do you some good. Get you thinking about how the rest of us feel.”
Frowning, Cyrus just watched blond as he shifted closer, stool sliding across the floor. Reaching out, he rested one hand on Cyrus’ shoulder blade to keep him still, the other gently dabbing around the wound. The water was cold and unpleasant against his skin, but for whatever reason, Cyrus didn’t feel like complaining. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Darren sighed. “It means,” he said, exasperated, “that maybe if you stopped to think more about the things that could go wrong, you might be more careful. Y’know. Worry more.”
It was almost laughably ironic, given all Cyrus seemed to do was worry. But of course, how could Darren possible know that?
“Wait,” Cyrus reached up, fingers curling around the blond’s wrist, stilling the hand that tended him. “You’re mad at me because I went after the bear? Seriously?”
This time, Darren rolled his eyes. It always felt strange, seeing him pull those kinds of expressions. It was a little like looking into a mirror.
A handsome, broad-shouldered, blond mirror.
“What gave it away?” Darren asked, continuing to clean the wound despite Cyrus’ grip on his wrist. Clearly he’d only paused in the first place out of kindness. For a second, Cyrus thought he was going to leave it at that, but then, something shifted. Gave way. That stony mask Darren had built up crumbled, revealing the blond’s true feelings lying just underneath. The look he gave him, those blue eyes deep enough to drown in, was raw and without pretense. “You scared me, Cyrus.”
Cyrus felt his throat tighten, a rope of guilt fastening around his neck. All he could do was try to make light, so he gave a soft snort and looked away. “I used to scare you all the time, remember? You should be used to my bullshit by now.”
“I’m serious.” Darren stopped, this time of his own volition, eyes cutting across to fix on Cyrus’ face. There was a hardness to them now; the product of years of training. Hard work. Growing up. Yet, Cyrus could still see the achingly familiar softness that formed the man’s core. That gentle, heart-tugging concern for the people around him. “When ma said you’d run off, I…” Darren’s throat bobbed. He shook his head. “Maker’s breath – you tried to take on a bear, Cyrus. Alone. What were you thinking?”
Cyrus was starting to get tired of being questioned.
“I was thinking about your damn dog, Darren.”
The bluntness of the statement seemed to take Darren by surprise. So much so that he sat back slightly, bloodied cloth in hand, blinking. “Minty?”
Slowly, Cyrus nodded. His gaze sank to the floorboards, hands fidgeting uncomfortably on his lap. “Some kid said he thought he saw her in trouble. And shit, I know how much you love that fucking dog, so I…” He shrugged, then hissed in pain, his shoulder burning. Darren’s hands immediately moved to still him. “I-I went to get her. Was that so fucking wrong?”
For a moment, neither man said anything. The silence that descended was thick and heavy. It wrapped around the pair like a blanket, moulding to the curves of their backs as they sat across from each other in quiet contemplation. The blond’s hands were warm against Cyrus’ skin, the heat from his palms so soothing that for a few moments, Cyrus almost forgot the pain. But it was pain that had nothing to do with the wound. Pain that dug deeper every time Darren questioned him. Accused him of carelessness.
You need to leave.
It was only a matter of time.
“You’re right.” Darren’s confession came in the middle of Cyrus’ spiralling thoughts, startling him back to the present. In truth, the words seemed almost reluctant to leave the blond’s lips. “I do love Minty. She’s my friend. Part of the family. She’s looked out for me ever since I was just a kid.”
Cyrus nodded, not sure of what to say. None of that surprised him, in any case. He’d remembered how fondly Darren would talk about her back in the Inquisition barracks. Back when they all wore the same colours and fought for something they believed in.
It seemed like a lifetime ago, now.
“But Cyrus, listen… all that stuff… it’s the same for you. You know that, right?”
Cyrus blinked, his mind easing from his thoughts to focus back on Darren. “I… what?”
The cloth moved again, sweeping gently over his injured shoulder, blood and dirt wiping away from tanned skin. “Those things I said. About Minty.” Darren’s voice was perfectly steady as he looked up to meet Cyrus’ puzzled gaze. “They’re all the same for you.” He paused, then repeated himself more intently. “You know that, right?”
Slowly, the movement controlled and calm, Darren drew the bloodied cloth from his skin and returned it to the bucket, letting it sink beneath the warm water, blood tinging it pale pink. Confusion and uncertainty warred for dominance in Cyrus’ chest, his heart feeling somehow too small for his ribcage. He called the words back – ran them through his mind. Love. Friend. Family. He could only assume he had misremembered them, but at the same time, he’d never really had a bad memory.
At least, not where Darren was concerned.
It was as though the blond sensed Cyrus’ internal panic. He sat back slightly, giving him a bit more space, but even still, their faces hovered less than a hand-span apart. Cyrus couldn’t help but notice the dusting of freckles across the bridge of Darren’s nose. The strong cut of his jaw. The soft fan of brown lashes that framed his eyes.
“I…” Cyrus swallowed, the word sticking in his throat. He cleared it roughly. “I didn’t. Know that.”
It was the lamest response he could have given. Cyrus wanted to kick himself.
But despite that, or perhaps because of it, a soft smile curved Darren’s lips.
“I reckon you did, deep down.” His eyes brightened, something fond and amused dancing in them as he breathed out a chuckle. “You’re a lot of things, Cyrus, but you’re not stupid. Never have been.”
Cyrus’ heart was pounding, but it was different to how it had been that morning. Different, even, to how it had been that first day he’s arrived at the Miller farm, when his fingers had tingled and his legs had threatened to give way beneath him with each step. The things Darren was saying… it didn’t seem possible. It couldn’t be possible. He knew the Millers all put up with him, but he’d assumed it had been out of some misplaced sense of responsibility, or because they were all just too kind to send him away.
But at the same time, Cyrus had sensed his own feelings towards Darren changing over the weeks as they turned into months. It began with his growing admiration for the man he had become. Strong, confident, yet still endlessly kind. Three things worthy of any good man. Three things in short supply alone, yet alone together. That admiration that had come with a range of other emotions Cyrus had no idea what to do with, so he just did what he always did. He pushed them down. Hid them away. Buried them. Doing shit like that… it was safe. He hadn’t wanted to make a mistake and to lose what he already had; the people he had grown to care about.
The person he had grown to…
“Cyrus?” Darren’s brow had creased again, that familiar knot forming between them that showed he was truly troubled. “Are you alright?”
The blond’s gaze flicked down pointedly, then back up. It was only then that Cyrus realised his hands were clenched so tightly that his nails had bitten sharp crescents into his palms. With effort, he forced them to uncurl, his breathing tight and shallow. “Yeah.” He gave a stiff nod. “I just… didn’t think you felt that way.”
This time it was Darren’s turn to look surprised. He fixed Cyrus with a look so shocked that it would have been comical, had the situation been less intense. “You can’t be serious.” He laughed, then, the sound bright and warm, actually lifting some of the tension from Cyrus’ shoulders. “Could you please tell Claire that for me? She’s been teasing me for weeks. Said if I was any more obvious I’d just lean in and kiss you!”
Darren continued laughing, and to Cyrus’ surprise, he found himself laughing too, although somewhat out of shock. It was the strangest thing, sitting across from the blond, wounded and terrified, but laughing. Laughing over something that, Maker, they probably shouldn’t really be laughing over.
Should they?
This sort of thing… it was meant to be serious, wasn’t it? Sincere and fumbling. Awkward. Uncomfortable.
Yet, with Darren, Cyrus had never truly felt uncomfortable.
Maybe it was about time he stopped being so surprised by that.
“So… should I?”
Darren’s voice was low. Soft. Cyrus found himself beneath the watch of curious eyes, the echo of a smile still on Darren’s lips as he waited, still so close, still so… right there. It took a moment for Cyrus to realise what he was referring to. When he did, heat rushed to his cheeks, his breath hitching slightly in his chest.
If I was any more obvious, I’d just lean in and kiss you.
“I… if you want to.” Of all the pathetic things Cyrus could have said, that probably topped the list. He saw a fresh wave of doubt flicker across Darren’s face and, panicked, reached out, resting his hand on the blond’s knee, hurrying to continue. “No, wait. I didn’t… I mean, fuck, yes. I do. I want you to. I—”
The entire time, it felt like the world was spinning out of focus. That all that was left was him and Darren and his horrible inability to say how he fucking felt without screwing it up. Don’t screw it up. Damn it, don’t screw it up. Cyrus was so focused on Darren, so intent, that it seemed the blond was getting closer, the rest of the room melting away around him. The look in those blue eyes shifted from concerned to fond. That mesmerising mouth softened into a familiar, warm smile.
The next thing Cyrus knew, his eyes were closed and Darren’s lips were pressed against his.
It was a soft, careful thing; not at all how Cyrus was used to being kissed. The first lasted all of a few seconds, chaste and warm. Even still, it sent a rush of pleasure through him, the sensation sweeping all the way to his toes at… well, everything. The heat. Their closeness. The kiss. The way Darren smelled a little like soil and sweat as their breath mingled in the air, the blond drawing away for a hesitant moment, his eyes open now, searching Cyrus’ face.
“Hey… you okay?”
“Y-Yeah.” Cyrus answered a little too quickly, his voice barely above a whisper. Something about it must not have been entirely convincing, because a tinge of red rose to colour Darren’s cheeks.
“That, ah, wasn’t my best, I don’t think.” There it was. That smile again. “Can I give it another try?”
All Cyrus could muster in response was a single, breathless nod. This time, Darren shifted closer still, his legs interlocking with Cyrus’, hand rising to rest on the Orlesian’s uninjured shoulder as he leaned in. This time, when their lips met, there was just… more. More desire. More need. More intensity behind the way Darren tilted his head into the kiss, his large hand slowly sliding up Cyrus’ bare skin until it was caressing the side of his neck, warm and gentle. That was the thing about Darren. He was always so gentle. With everyone.
With him.
After the years apart, Cyrus had forgotten how badly he needed gentle.
The kiss deepened as Cyrus remembered to lean into it, his rapid thoughts slowly melting away as he lost himself in Darren’s warmth. He relaxed, opening his mouth in silent permission to the blond. Darren took the opportunity, his tongue sweeping between Cyrus’ lips, but did not venture further. It was just another thing to do. Another way to get closer without intruding.
Darren’s other hand, the one not warming the side of Cyrus’ neck, ventured towards the lower hem of his shirt. Anticipation sent a shiver across Cyrus’ skin, but then Darren paused again, fingers barely brushing the edge of the fabric.
“Can I…?” he murmured against Cyrus’ lips, leaning slightly out of the kiss. Cyrus just grunted in affirmation and chased his lips, warmth blooming in his chest when he felt Darren smile against him.
“Stop… asking…” Cyrus muttered between kisses, his own hands already sliding into place at Darren’s waist, knotting into the cotton of his shirt as if to tug him closer. Maker, he’d never known anyone to ask permission at all, yet alone so much.
That was what made it even more surprising when Darren responded with, “No.”
Startled, Cyrus drew away, puzzled at first, wondering if the no had been in reference to his hands at the blond’s waist. But the doubt melted away as Darren just looked at him, head slightly tilted, gaze drifting up from Cyrus’ lips to meet his eyes. There was still want there. Need. But there was also something else. Something Cyrus couldn’t quite place.
“I want to ask,” Darren continued, voice low and patient. His hand slid up Cyrus’ neck to cup the side of his face, thumb brushing a spot of dirt from his cheek. Remains from his earlier fall. “I just… don’t want to do anything you don’t want me to.”
Sometimes, Cyrus wondered how much Darren actually knew about him. About the handful of soldiers he’d bounced between while at the Inquisition. Soldiers who, once they started, had never really stopped again to check if they still had permission. Back then, Cyrus hadn’t thought himself worth the effort of making sure. He hadn’t even thought that they should have asked, even though some evenings had left him with bruises and an uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his stomach. Was it possible Darren had noticed something was off, those nights he’d wandered back into the barracks just before dawn? There was no way he could have known the details, but...
… Well, Cyrus supposed Darren had always been perceptive.
“I’ll tell you,” Cyrus said, and was surprised when he actually meant it. “If I want you to stop, I’ll tell you, got it? Stop worrying so much.”
A slow smile spread across Darren’s lips. “Still gonna ask.”
Groaning, Cyrus just grabbed the blond and kissed him again, rougher than before, slipping into something he was more used to. Darren didn’t seem to mind being on the receiving end, a pleasant, deep sound rolling up the back of his throat as Cyrus slid forward until he was straddling Darren’s thigh. When he’d first laid eyes on him after years apart, Cyrus had thought he’d never get used to Darren’s new size. In his mind, he thought he’d always be that short, awkward kid. But now, as Darren’s large hands folded around his waist to steady him, Cyrus found himself quickly growing accustomed to the idea. In fact, he arguably enjoyed it.
Calloused hands slipped under his shirt; trailed up to the small of his back. Cyrus shivered and arched into the touch, lips locked with Darren’s, part of him still surprised by the blond’s easy confidence. He knew was he was doing, as he shifted his thigh slightly, Cyrus weight apparently inconsequential to his ability to move. He’d always been strong, but now that he had the height and muscle to back it up...?
For a moment, Cyrus forgot himself, lost in the mindless blur of want and desperation at finally being in Darren’s arms. The relief of it was almost palpable, and tension flooded out of him so swiftly it left his head spinning. It was in that haze that he reached up, wanting to drape his arms around Darren’s shoulders and slide closer. Only when he did, pain stabbed through his entire arm, leaving him gasping in a sharp, shocked breath against Darren’s lips.
Shit, he’d actually forgotten.
Darren froze immediately, pulling away, every emotion chased from his face save concern. “Cyrus? Are you…” He trailed off as his gaze drifted to the injury, and guilt arrived to mingle with his worry. “Oh, Maker, that’s right - you’re hurt!”
Teeth gritted, Cyrus could have killed that bear. Theoretically. Killed it for ruining the mood as Darren easily lifted him off his thigh set him back down on the stool, ducking down to grab the cloth back out of the bucket. “Fucking bear,” Cyrus muttered darkly, tone murderous as he glared daggers at his bleeding shoulder. The claw marks taunted him, now. Reminded him of what he could be doing instead of sitting there, sweating in pain.
But Darren just let out a low, warm chuckle. “It’s alright,” he said, carefully dabbing away the blood again, preparing it for the simple dressing he had forgotten to apply before. “There’s no rush for… anything, really.”
There was a pause, significant and heavy, before Cyrus replied. “There isn’t?”
Darren glanced across, catching his gaze. Then he just smiled and shook his head. “Nope. None at all.” He leaned down, rinsing the cloth again, a little water splashing over the lip of the pail and onto the floorboards. “I mean, I don’t know about you, but I’m not planning on going anywhere.”
There it was. That sharp kick inside his chest as Cyrus heartbeat began to rise. “I thought your family would be sick of my shit by now. It’s been months.” He swallowed. “They didn’t even know I was coming. Or that I’d be staying so long.”
Darren paused, cloth pressed gently to Cyrus’ skin. There was a moment when Cyrus almost thought the blond would agree and deliver the poorly-timed message that he was no longer welcome. But instead, what he received was a breathless, almost relieved sigh. “Maker, so that’s what it’s been.”
Cyrus frowned. “What?”
“I’ve been saying to ma that something was off with you. She could see it too, but none of us could work out what was wrong, and we… well, we didn’t want to pry, in case it was something personal or... y’know...” He shrugged sheepishly, giving the wound one final pass of the damp cloth. “Cyrus, you know we want you here, right? Not just me. All of us.”
Again, after a beat of silence, all Cyrus could do was mumble a lame, “I… didn’t. Know that.”
That earned him a soft, fond laugh from Darren. “Well then, I guess we’ll just have to make sure you know from now on. Properly.” A lopsided smile tilted his lips. “And here I thought we were all embarrassingly obvious about it.”
Darren had this way of just… lightening the mood. So much so that Cyrus actually gave an amused huff of his own. “Or maybe I’m just embarrassingly oblivious.”
“Nah.” Darren returned the cloth to the pail, inspected the injury, then reached for the pile of bandages Mrs Miller had gathered for them. “You’re just not used to it. That’s all. Can’t blame you for that.”
It seemed so simple, but sometimes the greatest truths were just that. Simple.
As Darren wound the bandage around Cyrus’ shoulder, his movements slow and careful, every time his fingertips brushed his skin the Orlesian wanted to lean into them. Keep them there. Keep him there, warm and close and caring. It still didn’t seem real. How could it be real?
But as Darren glanced across, clearly checking to make sure he was still okay, Cyrus felt a bloom of warmth spread all the way from his chest to his fingertips.
Because it was real.
It was real and Darren wanted to keep him, too.