faderift | (no subject)

"Don't."

Sorrel says it almost as soon as Cyril steps in, but it's too late. He's doing it. Compassionate touch and the soft, unrelenting concern in his eyes.

"I'm serious, Cyril don't do the face. I'm telling you, I'm fine."

Creators in a bucket beyond the veil, he's doing the face. It's so fucking sincere too, how does he-- this is how he gts people to do his bidding, Sorrel just knows it! So, after a moment he sighs, and rolls his eyes, and gives over.

"Alright, enough! Fine! What do you want me to do anyways?"

"I want you to tell me what I can do to help you have a moment of sanity," Cyril offers. He keeps his hand where it is for now.

"Let me do something for you. Even if it's as simple as giving you a distraction or going for a walk?"

"I don't think--" But he stops, frustrated. It won't do any good to snap at Cyril. It isn't his fault. It isn't anyone's fault, this situation, except perhaps Sorrel's for not seeing the signs of sickness worsening in Sina. For not acting sooner.

Sorrel pushes a hand through his hair, and heaves a heavy sigh. He doesn't get to be mad, about this.

"I don't even know what to ask for. I'm just... tired," He's slept, but not well, only the unkind sleep that somehow wakes you more tired than when you began, "What kind of distaction did you have in mind?"

"I would offer a massage if that would be all right?" Cyril suggested. "When we were at Skyhold, I would offer them to men who were stressed out. It doesn't have to be anything lewd, I promise. It releases tension in your back and shoulders. You can even stay fully dressed if you like."

Not that he'd mind seeing Sorrel shirtless.

"Strange, how I didn't think it would be lewd, until you promised it wouldn't," Sorrel says, half joking, halfway to a sneer. But only half-- he breathes, slow and deliberate, "Sorry."

He's not sorry for saying it, really. But he is sorry to have lashed out. Sort of. Cut him some slack here, he's under some stress. And, he seems to be considering the offer.

"...If I do this, will you be satisfied that I'm alright?"

Cyril doesn't seem phased by Sorrel lashing out. It makes sense to him that he would, and just seems to prove that he is indeed pretty stressed out.

"Yes. Well, that and some more tea perhaps?" he adds, giving Sorrel a gentle smile.

"Don't try to butter me up," he grumbles, more stubbornness than substance, "You don't need anything special for this do you?"

He doesn't know how your witchraft works! Maybe you need fancy orlesian candles, and fancy orlesian lotion! Maybe you scent it with flowers. Maybe you scent it with horrible, pushy, evil, the kind of evil that forces Sorrel to lay down and relax for a while instead of pouring more of his energy into futile healing spells.

"Sometimes I use oils but we don't have too. I just need you to lie somewhere and get comfortable."

He still doesn't seem to mind the stubbornness. If anything, it's familiar.

"Alright, there's a bed through here."

He waves Cyril after him, passing through the little common room and a door, presumably something of Beleth's, into a smaller chamber. It's very small indee, only large enough for a writing desk, a chair, and a bed. Sorrel's travel-pack, the one he arrived with, is propped against a wall; this is his bedroom, for whatever good it's done him. It doesn't seem to have been used, recently.

"Good enough?" He won't be stripping down, not as he imagines Cyril to be suggesting, but Sorrel chucks off the robe he's wearing over his shirt and hangs it over the chair. Oils, he thinks, and pulls his--

--and hesitates, one hand fisted in the hem of his shirt, abrutly hyper-aware of the situation. The homespun is rough-edged, but soft with age and use. It's got a hole worn through, just under his thumb. He's in his room, alone, with Cyril, about to take his shirt off. He is doing this for the express purpose of Cyril touching him. Cyril, who's never really shown him interest, except in jokes and teasing, but whom Sorrel remembers in his own heart with as much secret longing as in any tragic, romantic tale.

All this, while Sina is in another room in the gallows, weak and coughing and ravaged by fever.

What is he doing?

"...I shouldn't be doing this. I should check on Sina."

Cyril sees the moment that Sorrel starts to hesitate and bites his lower lip to stop himself from saying something right away. He understands why Sorrel doesn't let himself relax or take a moment for himself. He was trained since birth to belong to the people, not to himself. Cyril desperately wants to respect that and not pressure Sorrel to do something he's truly not comfortable with.

"You could do that," Cyril said carefully. "I am not going to force you to allow your body to relax. However, I promise if you let yourself recharge then you'll feel better and be able to help her more productively."

A pause, then he adds, "Think of it as if it's magic. You can't keep casting high powerful spells non-stop. Eventually, you have to pause and let your energy return. That's what you need here too. Let your body heal, so that it can more fully focus on helping your wife."

That's remarkably sensible. Sorrel's forehead wrinkles as he follows the logic, and it's true that you can't help anyone if you're too weak to cast.

"That...That makes sense, I guess," He's still reluctant, but after another moment's dithering, Sorrel seems to come to an uncertain decision and drags his shirt over and off.

He's lean, slightly underfed, wirey but strong in the arms and shoulders. The white quills of Dirth'amen's mark travel across the curve of his shoulders, measuring nine round droplets down his spine, delicate and pale. Whether they are true Vallaslin or simply ornamental, they match his face exactly, the even work of Deheune's hand.

"How do you want me?" He balls the shirt up in both hands, shy, suddenly incapable of eye contact, "Should I lay on my stomach, then or...?"

Cyril had imagined being alone with Sorrel in this kind of situation before, but he wasn't fully prepared for the sight of him. For a moment, Cyril feels as if he can't breathe for how a lump forms in his throat and his mouth goes dry.

He manages not to stare or to react much more than a small smile at having convinced Sorrel he should relax. He doesn't want to scare him off. The point of this really is to release tension for Sorrel's body, not add more.

"Your stomach could be fine. Then I can remove any knots or points of tension from your back."

"Alright."

Sorrel arranges himself on the bed-- he's not entirely sure what this will be, after all. Should he lie nearer the edge, so that Cyril can stand, or is it better to give him room to sit next to him? And isn't it all a moot point when he can barely look at him? Tension and guilt are equal partners in this-- Cyril has a point, a good point. And it's true, he is thoroughly distracted from being miserable, right now. The whole business seems unavoidably disloyal, somehow. And yet, nothing wrong is being done....right? Right, of course. Of course not.

Creators, what was wrong with him? Breathe! Isn't this supposed to be about relaxing?

"I, ah... I'm ready when you are," Sorrel says, finally, much embarrassed.

Cyril came closer and ended up settling on the bed next to him, sitting on the edge so that he could turn and get a good leverage over Sorrel's back. He had done this many times, even to men he had found very attractive, but never to one he had such a long history with.

For now, he put aside the fact that this was Sorrel and instead focused just on helping a friend. His hands were careful when he started to touch Sorrel. At first he was testing how much pressure would work for Sorrel, but once he had a good grasp on that, he started to rub at his shoulders. His thumbs moved in small circles as he worked to kneed out any tension he found.

It's... strange. People don't tend to touch Sorrel, not just to touch-- Beleth did, certainly, and Sina, on occasion. But not like this, not warm hands and focused expression, whe Sorrel gared a glance out of the corner of his eye. He shut them, after that, face as warm as firelight.

Cyril works, and Sorrel is shortly reduced to small, almost unwilling noises of relief. He had no idea how much he was hurting, until he suddenly wasn't anymore, like the ache of a clenched fist as Sorrel's knotted muscles slowly ease away, and relax.

"Wh....where did you learn to do this?" he asks, without thinking, and only then realizes exactly where one likely learned this kind of skill, "...nevermind, I don't nee to know."

Cyril hums gently at the last part. Normally, he would take the time to brag at the reasons he learned how to do this, but he doesn't want to make Sorrel tense up again. Instead, he just focuses on moving lower down the back to work through more of the knots of tension he finds.

"You really needed this, didn't you? You're a bunch of knots just held together."

"I don't know. I'm f-f-f...ffffine," he grits out, as Cyril presses down painfully, a sharp agony that rises, crests, and only slowly eases away to a more pleasant ache, "Ow. I'm not. Doing it on purpose."

Well, perhaps he is. But it's hard to say if it's on purpose that he worries, or if worries are simply his nature. Sorrel certainly can't remember deciding to worry, at any such time. But true, he doesn't do much to decide otherwise, either.

"Everything just...keeps happening."

Cyril works through the knot that he's found, focusing on getting Sorrel's muscle to relax. He listens to Sorrel and for a moment he isn't sure what to say. A lot is happening, all at once. It had been building up, of course, but it seems to just be rushing to the finish line now. The finish line will likely leave Sorrel a widower.

"I wish I could pause time for you," he said finally. "Give you a moment to breathe."

Sorrrel doesn't say anything for a few minutes, breathing through each movement, thinking about time, and how little of it there is. Stop time? Surely he wants that, but not for him. His suffering was an an afterthought, next to the vision of Sina pale and thin in her blanket, and the decades-old spectre of pale elven bodies in rows, coughing out their last breaths beneath Deheune's hands.

"I'm breathing fine," he murmurs, finally, opening his eyes to fight back the stinging that wants to turn into tears, "But I wouldn't turn it down, if you happen to stumble accross some ancient elvhen magic that grants wishes. Assuming it's not just a demon, of course."

Sorel has some experience with the latter. Sleep has not been easy, of late.

"If I do, you'll be the first person I think of," Cyril responded as his hands kept manipulating his skin and muscle.

He was trying not to stare at the quality of Sorrel's skin, but it was getting more difficult to ignore how beautiful the mages was. He distantly wished he could kiss that skin as well as rubbing out knots.

"How can I make sure it's not a demon?" he asked, mostly to keep talking and prevent those unwelcome stay thoughts from crossing his mind.

"Demons are tricky. Sometimes they're pretty stupid, but you have to stop yourself from acting on your gut," He's solemn as he says it, the quiet voice of experience, "Harder than it sounds, I know. But if someone's not telling you what they're getting out of an exchange, that means they know you won't want to give it. Plus, if it is a demon, they can't actually give you anything they promise. It's all just...Bullshit."

No deal with a demon could save Sina, only hurt her immeasurably and destroy Sorrel in the process. Just as no demon could make someone love you, or make you beautiful, or give you back what you'd lost. The best any of them could do was power, raw magical power, or the knowledge of things best left alone. There were better ways to all those, ways that didn't involve walking right into a monster's mouth and thanking it politely as the teeth came down. Sorrel sighs and pushes up a little, giving up on the pretense so that he can smudge the wetness off his eyelashes. So much for dignity.

"If something seems too good to be true, it always is."

"That's probably true for some things even outside of demons," Cyril pointed out carefully. He sometimes couldn't believe his luck to have the life he had with the Inquisition, but he knew all of it came with it's own price. They were fighting a war, and any one of them could die during their missions.

"And I'm terribly at saying not to pleasures I encounter. I'm lucky I'm no mage. I'd probably be ripe pickings." He said so a little playfully, as if he didn't really believe what he was saying but instead just wanted to bring a bit of light into the conversation.

"Demons can't posess other demons, Cyril," That's a weak joke, he knows, but it's all he has at the moment. Sorrel lapses into silence, after that, letting his emotions ebb. Ugh, when did he get to be such a wet sop?

Probably it's just the lack of sleep.

"Thank you for this," He whispers, eventually, "I'm kind of a mess, lately."

Cyril laughs softly rather than being offended. He honestly can't help but be amused to be compared to something like a desire demon. That probably says something about his mental state.

"You have right to be, Sorrel. And you're welcome."

(no subject)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

lol makes cyril suffer

that's why i love you!

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject