#cyrus fluff

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.

Heaving a deep sigh, Cyrus winced as he shifted, trying to change position on the narrow bed. He had done a number on his left side, according to the healer that had been tending to him since he arrived. Turned out falling from the saddle, even when the horse was barely moving, wasn’t exactly a great move, healthwise. Cyrus had asked if that was her professional opinion, and naturally, he had yet to receive a second visit. He supposed that was fair. It wasn’t like he was going to keel over and die if he was left alone.

But still…

Hanin would come to see him. The fact that the abnormally large elf wasn’t already clanking down the corridor to darken his doorway was actually something of a surprise. Then again, no one knew he was conscious.

Then again, maybe he was kidding himself to think that even mattered.

It was fine. He didn’t need them, or anyone. He certainly didn’t give a shit when people walked past his room to visit someone else further down the hallway. So what? No one really wanted to visit someone in the infirmary, and Cyrus sure as shit didn’t want them there, congregating like it was some kind of pity-party.

It was fine.

Hanin did come to see him, about an hour after he woke. It had been a simple, sombre affair. The disappointment had practically radiated off him. It took everything Cyrus had to meet his eye and nod when Hanin moved on from the simple questions (How are you? Do you need anything? Are they treating you well?) to things that were a little more difficult to stomach (Why didn’t you say something? Do you realise how badly you could have been hurt? Did I do something to make you not trust me?). The last one sank to the pit of Cyrus’ stomach like a stone. All he’d been able to say in response was a feeble it’s not that.

He could tell from the look on Hanin’s face as he left that he didn’t believe him.

Just like that, Cyrus was alone again. At least, until a different healer came to see him. This one, an older man with a grey-flecked beard, asked him more questions he didn’t know how to answer; ones that were somehow even worse than what Hanin had subjected him to.

Would you classify what happened as an accident? “Yes.”

I see. Are you experiencing any disagreements or tensions with anyone who was present when you fell? “I… no? No more than usual. What is this?”

Protocol, for people who visit the infirmary multiple times in a short time-span. Is there anything you want to report about your Captain or squad? “What? No. They had nothing to do with it. This was my fault, okay? Lay off.”

Were you aware you were ill? “Yes. I just said it was my fault. Do you need me to repeat it again?”

Do you often place yourself at risk, rather than seek help? “I… no? Yes? I don’t fucking know. What’s with all this shit? Just let me rest. I’ll be fine if you stop interrogating me.”

Very well. Are you absolutely certain there is nothing you want to say? Your name will not be disclosed. “You know what? Sure. How about this: fuck off.”

Even after sleeping well into following day, Cyrus remained bothered by the conversation. So what if he’d gone to the infirmary a few times? It was for different shit, and it was nothing to do with Hanin or the Dawn Squad. Once had been because he cut his hand cleaning a knife in the kitchens. Another was when he’d tripped carrying a bunch of wood up to repairmen on the battlements and hit his head. The most recent one, sure, had been after Brenner, one of Reynolt’s asshole recruits, gut-punched him after an evening at the Rest. He would have let it go if it hadn’t left him with trouble breathing.

Then more Cyrus thought about it, the more he had to admit it probably looked suspicious.

But the idea that he was being mistreated by his own squad? By Hanin? It was ridiculous. Sure, they had their differences, but in the end, they were a team. When he was with them, he knew he didn’t have to spend all his energy watching his own back. It was the safest he’d ever felt. In truth, sitting alone in the infirmary made him more anxious than recovering in the barracks. After all, there was nothing stopping someone who had a bone to pick with him coming over for a ‘visit’.

While Cyrus mulled over that unsettling thought, there was a sudden knock at his door. He jolted, pre-emptively on edge, part of him convinced that Brenner would be waiting for him, grinning the way he had after he’d sunk his fist into his gut. But instead, Cyrus was greeted by an unexpected sight.

“Hey.” Ralon raised a hand in a half-wave as he stepped into the room. “Heard you were up. Figured I’d drop in after lunch. Check if the healers had strangled you yet.”

Recovering and snorting dryly, Cyrus rolled his eyes. “Kind of you. Well, I’m alive. Sorry to disappoint.”

“Ah well, can’t have everything, right?” Casually, Ralon snagged one of the stools by the wall and carried it over, settling with a sigh at the side of Cyrus’ narrow bed. “So… you all good?”

Cyrus arched a brow. “You really going to pretend Hanin didn’t tell you?”

“Alright, you got me.” Ralon grinned and spread his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Just wanted to hear it from you. Plenty can change overnight.”

Despite shaking his head and looking away, Cyrus had to admit, Ralon had a point. He hated when Ralon had a point. “I’m fine. Just… weak, I suppose. From the flu and shit.”

“Sure. The flu.” The Antivan winked conspiratorially. “Pretty nice to have an excuse for those noodle arms for once, huh?”

“Oh fuck off. Noodle arms. Could still strangle your stupid ass with them.” Sure, they were taking shots at each other, but there was surprisingly no venom in the exchange. That was… different. Ralon just laughed in reply, and Cyrus found himself slipping into a chuckle of his own, which inevitably descended into a coughing fit. “Fuck,” he rasped after a few painful spasms, reaching out to accept the cup of water Ralon had hastily poured for him. “T-Thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem. Can you imagine if you died on my watch? Hanin would kick my ass back to Antiva.” Smiling, Ralon leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “So, what? You’re not going to ask why I’m the one sitting here?”

Mid-drink, Cyrus just gave a small one-shouldered shrug, eyes watering, chest sore from coughing. “Figured Hanin told you to check on me,” he said eventually, resting the empty cup on his lap and clearing his throat. “I’m surprised he didn’t send the kid, though. He’s usually the one who draws the short straw.”

To Cyrus’ surprise, Ralon let out a sudden, weary sigh. “Okay. Look. How about you cut that shit out, yeah?” Slowly, he reached out, taking the cup from Cyrus’ lap and setting it back on the side table beside the pitcher. “No one sent me, and it’s not a chore.”

Cyrus frowned. “Then why ask me that shit in the first place?”

A slow smile spread across Ralon’s face. “It was clearly my unique and creative way of letting you know that the others are late. Like a bunch of assholes.”

At that, Cyrus’ frown just deepened, confusion washing over his face. “Ralon, the fuck are you talking about?”

“He’s talking about us, Prickles!”

The sudden voice from the doorway snared Cyrus’ attention, his blue eyes snapping in the direction of the sound. And standing there, sure as shit, was Lyrene, Darren, and Connors. Lyrene winked as she strode into the room then paused and let out an appreciative whistle as she eyed the space. “Damn, Cyrus. You paying extra for the private room or something?”

At the suggestion, Cyrus felt his cheeks grow warm. “With what fucking coin, Lyrene?”

“Hanin probably scared the healers stiff, so they set you up in a nicest spot they had.” Ralon seemed delighted by the prospect, his eyes taking on that twinkling, mischievous look. “Well, that’s something to look forward to, I guess, if we ever faint on horseback.”

“I do love special treatment,” Lyrene agreed as she perched on the corner of Cyrus’ bed. “Sorry we’re late. Darren got distracted.”

At mention of the boy, Cyrus shifted and glanced across to where Darren was busying himself by the side-table, blocking what he was doing with his body. Cyrus was about to ask what the hell he was up to when the blond straightened, nodded, and stepped aside. There was a kind of quiet shyness to the moment as Darren revealed a small arrangement of flowers. They were all familiar; he must have picked them on the way to the infirmary.

“Before you say anything,” Darren said quickly as Cyrus opened his mouth to speak, “I just figured, you know… the infirmary’s kinda… well, it’s not the nicest place. I remember when I was here last, I missed going outside, and it’s warm enough now that flowers are blooming so…” The boy’s nerves got the better of him and he just gave the vase a sheepish look. “If you don’t like them, I can get rid of it.”

“No.” Cyrus’ voice was hoarser than usual. Luckily, he could blame it on the coughing fit. “They’re… fine. Just leave them, now that you’ve put them there.”

Anyone else might have been offended by such a begrudging response, but very few people knew Cyrus the way the Dawn Squad did. Darren’s face lit up with a smile so warm Cyrus felt like someone had brought a piece of the sun into the room. Maybe it was the stupid flowers, or the fact that everyone had come to see him, but he felt… good. Better than he should, at least, all things considered.

He had barely recovered when something was being pushed insistently into his hands. Turning his head, Cyrus cocked a curious eyebrow at Connors, surprised she had even bothered to come in the first place. “That is for rest,” she said, nodding to the small pouch. As Cyrus raised it to his nose and sniffed it tentatively, she continued. “Herbs. Brew them into a tea. I will have the healers bring you hot water when we leave.”

“You mean when we leaf?” Ralon grinned as the entire room descended into a chorus of pained groans. As Cyrus lacked the strength to do it himself, he was grateful when Lyrene reached over and swatted Ralon for the terrible pun.

“Anyway,” Darren said softly, settling down beside the bed, “I’m glad you’re not hurt. The Captain was really worried yesterday.” He hesitated, his words faltering, gaze sliding away. “We, um… all were.”

Cyrus watched Darren for a moment, and then relaxed into a tired half-smile. Reaching up, he ignored the pain in his arm as he roughly ruffled the kid’s mess of blond hair. “Yeah, well, I’m fine, alright? So stop worrying.”

“Oh, sure, we’ll stop worrying,” Lyrene drawled, crossing her arms and fixing Cyrus with a hard look, “when you stop giving us shit to worry about. You scared the crap out of us yesterday. What if you’d broken your neck?”

“Then I would have broken my neck.” Cyrus didn’t really know what to say. He wasn’t used to people calling him out on shit like that. “Guess I got lucky.”

“We all did.”

Cyrus turned, the sharpness of his expression melting away when he met Darren’s gaze and the kid smiled at him. “I’m serious,” he insisted, arms folded on the edge of the bed as he knelt beside it, “you scared us, but you're okay. That’s what matters. Just promise you’ll look after yourself. Please?”

Please? The room had descended into a strange, not quite awkward silence at the end of Darren’s request; a silence the rest of the squad let hang in the air until Cyrus was ready to break it.

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.” Cyrus cleared his throat, glancing away. “I’ll be more careful.” The silence returned, this time verging much closer to awkward. Trapped in the thick of it, Cyrus finally broke and groaned. “You’re not all going to sit there looking at me like that all afternoon, are you?”

Exchanging glances, the others laughed, the mood lifting as they rose from their various positions. Lyrene stretched, wandering towards the door. “Nah. Wouldn’t want to torture you, Prickles.” 

Ralon winked and reached out, grasping Cyrus comfortingly on the shoulder. “Rest up. It’s not the same without your constant bitching. I’m having too much fun.”

“Yeah, fuck you too,” Cyrus replied, but a flicker of a smile gave away his true feelings as the group bundled up and bustled back out, almost knocking over one of the roaming healers. After they left, Cyrus’ gaze lingered on the doorway, a strange warmth alight in his center of his chest. Slowly, his attention drifted across the room and came to rest on the small cup of flowers. Dandelions.

He never realised how much he liked dandelions.

Cyrus had dozed off after drinking Connors’ tea, which was not nearly as horrific as he had been expecting. Feeling warm and hazy, he sighed, grateful for the thick blanket draped over him and the soft fur pressed against his hand…

Brow twitching, Cyrus opened his eyes, blinking away the echoes of sleep. It fled him in a rush when he realised what was beside him.

“Hey, you...” he mumbled. His fever had worsened, it seemed. He was lucky to have gotten the sleep he did, thanks to Connors. “What’re you doing here, boy…?”

The mabari whined, nosing against his hand, his large brown eyes so heart-melting that Cyrus shifted as best he could to scratch him behind the ears. A second mabari was also in the room, settled by the foot of the bed. She gave off the air of being older and wiser than her needy counterpart, who panted happily at the attention, tilting his head into the scratches.

“How’d you two get in?” Cyrus asked foggily. He wasn’t expecting an answer, which made it even more shocking when he got one.

“With great difficulty, so ah, try not to make too much noise, please.”

For a second, Cyrus stared in shock at the mabari he was scratching. Then his gaze drifted up to the doorway. A blond man stood there, broad-shouldered and sporting about two day’s worth of stubble. Halfway in the corridor, his blue eyes flicked back and forth, keeping watch for any prowling healers. After a moment, he spared a glance over his shoulder and gave Cyrus a kind smile. “They missed you, yesterday. It’s hard to say no to those faces when they want something.”

“Trevelyan?” Cyrus shook his head to clear it, gritting his teeth as he tried to sit up. A flash of pain lanced up his left side and he gasped. He almost abandoned the motion but the mabari he’d been scratching put his front paws up on the bed, leaning forward. With his help, Cyrus was able to haul himself into a sitting position. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would your dogs miss me?”

With a final nervous glance, Jaime turned his back on the corridor, leaning against the doorframe. The look he gave Cyrus was as soft as his voice when he spoke. “I know you come down to the stables to see them in the evening.” He raised a hand when Cyrus stiffened. “Easy. It’s alright. I’m glad you do. They like you so much they’ll wait there even when it’s cold out, and you’ve never let them down.” He smiled at that, his gaze endlessly fond as it shifted to the two mabari. “Justin and Helen are picky, but Maker knows they chose you. They were so upset last night that I had to bring them here today to prove you’re alright.”

Justin gave a soft bark of agreement, leaning forward to nose at Cyrus’ cheek. Despite his state, Cyrus laughed weakly, reaching up to scratch the large hound’s face. “You missed me, huh? Well, I missed you too… Justin and Helen.” As he said the names, he fired an accusing look at Jaime. “Really? Those were the ones you went with for a couple of dogs?”

Laughing, Jaime just shrugged. “It suited them. They’re as good as people to me.”

Thoughtfully, still scratching Justin’s cheek, Cyrus’s gaze lingered on the two mabari. Eventually, he let out a soft huff and nodded. 

“Yeah. Better than people.”

It was the following morning, when the worst of his fever broke, that Cyrus awoke to the smell of something warm, fresh, and delicious. Stirring, confused, he rolled onto his side and came almost face-to-face with what appeared to be a pie of some description. Filling spilled down slightly on one side, the pastry so overfilled with berries that it could barely contain itself. Baffled, Cyrus looked around, relieved when he found a note wedged under the pie dish.

Cyrus,

Captain Lavellan mentioned you would not be assisting me in the kitchens for evening clean-up due to illness. I hadn’t realised you were not well. I hope it is nothing too serious.

I visited this morning but you were fast asleep and I felt it best to let you be. But if there is a cure for anything, it is my famous wildberry pie! Do try to eat it while it’s still warm, dear – and not all at once. I know what you soldier-types are like when it comes to food!

You rest up and take care of yourself. Let me know when you are well enough to keep me company in the kitchen, and don’t you dare come back a moment sooner!

Druselle (your favourite cook)

Stunned, Cyrus stared at the note, then the pie, then the note again. He’d always thought Druselle just put up with him during clean-up duty. It was just one of his chores; it wasn’t like he wanted to be there. Sure, he never skipped out, but so what? It’s not like he’d done her some huge favour out of the goodness of his heart. He barely even spoke to her, most nights, content to work in silence and just get the job done.

Maybe that was what she liked about it.

It was strange. Of all the people who had visited him, there was just something about Druselle’s pie and letter. It was something so unexpected that it hit Cyrus like a falling tree, leaving him bone-weak in his bed, the piece of paper held limply between his fingers. He’d always assumed that people just… didn’t like him. That it didn’t matter what he did or didn’t do. It was like he carried some kind of mark that only other people could see, labeling him as undesirable. A thing to be avoided.

But Druselle, the cook who had probably shared two words with him over the last couple of months, had got up in the early hours of the morning, when the sky was still dark and the birds were fast asleep, to make him her famous wildberry pie.

Sniffling, Cyrus shivered and reached up, swiping at his eyes, careful not to get tears on the paper. A tremulous laugh rolled up the back of his throat and stuck there like a stone, choking off sound for a moment as he marveled at his own ridiculousness. There was nothing to cry about. It was just a pie.

But, as Cyrus reached out and broke off a piece of the crust, the pastry buttery and still warm to touch, he was forced to admit a fundamental truth.