#darrus

The new gardener had already been there for a few days now, but his presence in the courtyard still came as a surprise each morning. Cyrus had yet to decide if it was pleasant or unpleasant. It stirred something in him, to see the young man standing there instead of the grandfather he’d grown used to. It was still jarring. Still not quite right.

Sometimes, a maid would pass through the courtyard, running one errand or another. This time it was Annette, dressed for a trip to the nearby market. She’d never spoken to the old gardener, but she bobbed her head at this one, her light brown curls soft in the morning sun. The new gardener stood quickly, an air of panic about him, as though he was unsure of whether to wave or bow or drop to his knees and kiss her shoes. Cyrus’ gaze narrowed as Annette tilted her sunhat just-so, artful in the concealment of her smile. Maybe even her blush.

He’s never worked for nobility before, Cyrus realised, brows raising slightly as the pair bumbled their way through a greeting. 

Strange. His father wasn’t one to hire a nobody.

The new gardener was standing tall again, smiling now, teeth flashing white against his golden skin. The maid, clearly taking pity on the man, paused her journey and taught him the customary head-tip that the servants used among themselves. It was quick - simple and silent enough to even be exchanged outside the King’s chamber, where so much as breathing too loudly could end in a missed meal or a beating. Even from his vantage, Cyrus could practically feel the gardener’s delight radiating off him at this new knowledge. You’d think he had learned some sort of royal secret, with the way he thanked her. It should have been absurd. But instead, Annette basked in his attentions, her soft laugh lilting upwards, carried by the breeze through Cyrus’ window. 

The gardener held up a hand and turned quickly to do something in the nearby rosebush. Annette just watched, her head tipped curiously to the side. Even with such a short exchange, she had relaxed in a way Cyrus had never known her to, shoulders loose, skirts shifting softly in the breeze. The gardener turned back, they shared a few more quiet words, and when she left, it was with a slight bounce in her step. As she passed beneath the window, the basket swung gently in her hand, a carefully plucked rose peeking over its side. A token of thanks, or maybe... something more?

Cyrus swallowed, his eyes locked on Annette’s receding frame as she continued down the path. She was good - she didn’t even look back until she got to the gate, where she could linger for a time, feigning difficulty securing the latch. He supposed he couldn’t blame her. There wasn’t much else worth looking at, and the new hire did cut an impressive figure...

“Ah - excuse me? Ser?”

At first, Cyrus didn’t even register the words. Or, at least, he didn’t realise that they were directed at him. After a beat of silence, he jolted sharply, eyes blowing wide. Reflexively, he turned to check his closed door. His empty room. Then, with slow-blooming realisation, he swallowed and gingerly returned his gaze to the courtyard. 

“Oh - sorry about that!” The blond had removed his hat during Cyrus’ mild panic, the brim likely obstructing his view of the high window. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” 

“I wasn’t...” Cyrus hesitated, biting back his indignation, then leaned slightly out the window. Quickly, he glanced up and down the length of the courtyard. After all, it wasn’t exactly acceptable for a prince to be conversing with a gardener. Especially not while shouting from his second-storey window. “What is it?” he demanded once he had determined they were alone. He did his best to sound busier than he was. “Do you need something? What do you want?”

Why the fuck did you ask so many questions? He’ll think you’re an idiot! He’ll---

“Oh, no, I don’t need anything, really. I’ve just... well, I’ve seen you up there, these last few days. Figured I’d say hello.”

At first, all Cyrus could to was blink, stunned into a silence so profound he feared he might never speak again. Luckily, his flair for the dramatic passed, and he managed to stammer something that could be conceived as a reply.

“H-Hello?”

The gardener smiled. “Hey.”

The look on his face was gentle and warm and entirely for... him. In truth, Cyrus didn’t know whether to be flattered or baffled. He suddenly wished he had Annette’s sunhat to coquettishly hide behind, feeling far too exposed there by the open window.

Instead, he opted to hide behind the only thing he truly knew. Demands.

“What is your name, gardener?”

A sound drifted up from the courtyard, low and smooth as honey. Cyrus had been laughed at before; if not to his face, then certainly behind his back. Each time, it had turned a part of him brittle; left him with frozen veins that threatened to crack with every beat of his heart. But this time it was... different. This time, the laughter almost made him want to smile as well, as though it was an invitation rather than a rejection.

“Actually, it’s ‘Darren’.”

It took Cyrus longer than he cared to admit to get the joke, and when he did he rolled his eyes skyward. “Ugh, fine. I assume it’s not just ‘Darren’?”

“Miller.”

Darren Miller.

Maker, he really was the most ordinary man to ever grace the palace grounds. What was he, a farmer’s son of some sort? Going by his accent, he was probably from Ferelden. Had the King finally cracked and gone mad? Why in Thedas would he hire someone like him?

The garde--- Darren’s voice stirred him from his thoughts. 

“I, ah... didn’t catch your name.”

Cyrus arched a brow. “I didn’t give it to you.”

“Well, if you’re willing... I’d really like to have it.” And there he went again with that bright, honest smile. It was enough to leave Cyrus weak at the knees. That revelation alone nearly sent him crashing to the carpeted floor. 

This is bad. Idiotic. It has to stop, right now, or else...

“Cyrus.”

Darren planted his hands on his hips, squinting as he gazed up at the window. When he spoke, he cocked his head slightly, and there was a playful lilt to his voice. “Just Cyrus?”

Shit. Cyrus swallowed. He could feel his heart stammering inside his chest. 

Just tell him who you are. Scare him off. Whatever the fuck this is, end it before it becomes trouble.

But, for some reason, his mouth and his mind chose that moment to go their separate ways. So, instead of calling forth the full weight of his family name, Cyrus just said one word.

“Yes.”

If his response was surprising or strange, Darren was kind enough not to let it show. After only the briefest hesitation, the blond gave a half-bow, his hair shifting gently as a breeze swept the courtyard. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Cyrus.” He reached down, snagged his hat from the ground, and pressed it firmly atop his head as he straightened. “I’ve got a fair bit to do today, but you’re more than welcome to come down and watch some time. If you’d like.”

Despite himself, Cyrus arched a brow, and did what little he could to reassert some kind of haughty normalcy over the situation. 

“Why? I can watch just fine from up here.”

As soon as the words left his lips, Cyrus wanted to leap out the window and catch them mid-flight. Or maybe just leap out the window and end his own suffering. 

While death proved a bit too dramatic, Cyrus seriously considered slamming his window shut and taking a week to mourn his deceased pride. But, again, Darren just laughed that warm, inviting laugh, full-chested and brimming with delight. It did something to Cyrus - something foreign and not entirely unpleasant. 

“Well, if that’s what you prefer. Don’t let me be the one to stop you.” Darren tilted his head up, a hand atop his head to keep his hat in place and... 

... did he just wink?

Whether he did or didn’t, Cyrus couldn’t truly say - Darren was turning away and heading back towards the roses before he had a chance to fully figure it out. His departure was like a spell breaking, and for a second, Cyrus felt strange and disconnected from himself. From his room. From the palace. From everything, really. It was like he was floating, just a little outside his own body. Weightless and aimless and---

Suddenly, everything came snapping back together, like an overdrawn bowstring returning to its proper shape. Cyrus stumbled back from the window, heart suddenly racing, and dragged the blinds shut. He stood there for a moment, not entirely sure what to do with himself. Not sure how to proceed. “Fuck...” he breathed, running a hand down his face. He paced erratically for a few moments before crossing to the far side of the room. Snatching a book from his side table, Cyrus planted himself firmly in his reading chair, mercifully located as far from the window as was possible. 

Yes... this was good. He could just read. Forget about Darren and the garden and that damned smile. The last thing he needed was some Fereldan farmer taking up his time. Not when he had so many books to get through. 

Finally, for the first time that morning, Cyrus was safe in the comfort of his routine. Tucked away in a corner of his room, in the company of a story he’d already read three times before, he was... comfortable. Comfortable knowing how all the characters would come together. Comfortable knowing the way everything would end.

But, even as he read, he found his gaze wandering. Flicking up. Lingering on that pale curtain.

No, he suddenly thought after a half-hour of failing to read. That Fereldaner wouldn’t scare him off. He had no right! Maker’s sake, he was a prince. If he wanted to look over the courtyard from his window, then he’d do just that!

Yes, Cyrus thought, nodding to himself, a strange excitement stirring in his chest. He snapped his book shut, set it on the table, and got to his feet.

--

The bar was crowded too, already drunk men and women clamouring for the attention of one of the three staff manning the drink-stained counter. There were kegs lined up behind them, different ages and ingredients stamped on their front. Bottles lined three tiers of shelves, a ladder propped to the far left to provide access to the most expensive range. Often it was decorated by cobwebs and dust, but as Cyrus watched, one of the bartenders grabbed it and set it up against the wall, climbing the rungs tentatively, clearly unused to the journey upward. Odd, Cyrus thought, genuinely surprised. Who would have the coin to…?

“Cyrus? Maker’s arse, is that you?”

The voice was as familiar as it was infuriating; the mere sound of it forming the shape of his name set Cyrus’ teeth on edge. He made a conscious attempt to pretend he hadn’t heard the man over the din of the tavern, turning his head away as though observing something on the other side of the room.

Sadly, it was never that easy.

Not with Brenner.

“It is you!”

Cyrus turned slowly, as though every inch of movement was an immense feat of strength. “Brenner,” he said, jaw tight, “the fuck are you doing here?”

Part of Cyrus wondered if he should relax a bit. Give the man a chance. After all, it had been five years. People change. They—

“What a damn awful sight you are, eh?” Brenner tsked, his hazel eyes sweeping up and down Cyrus’ form. “I’m going to have to get in contact with Reynolt again.”

Cyrus’ eyes narrowed sharply. “Why?”

A smirk twisted the corner of Brenner’s lips. “Had a bit of a bet going, you see. I wagered you’d be dead in a ditch in a year. Yet… here you are. Breathing.” He sighed despondently, then glanced to the side, throwing a half-smile to the barmaid as she slid him his drink. The way she fluttered her lashes at the bastard made Cyrus’ blood boil. Brenner was the kind of person you could only wish was as grotesque as his personality.

“Well, I’m alive. Hope you lost a fortune on it, asshole. Not that Reynolt deserves any coin either.”

“Oh come now. So bitter!” Grinning, clearly already a few glasses deep in whatever top-shelf liquor he was drinking, Brenner draped an arm around Cyrus’ shoulders, tugging him in close. “We could be friends, you and I. Let bygones be bygones. I’ll forget the money you lost me, and you can stop being such a little Orlesian bitch.”

It was simple business to shove the noble prick away, but Brenner just laughed and ooh-ed for his little crowd of followers who were watching from a table by the hearth. “He’s a feisty one, that Cyrus,” he declared to anyone in his immediate proximity. Cyrus was already stalking away. “In more ways than one, if you ask around the barracks!”

--

Darren, who had been chatting with a merchant in town for the festival, startled when Cyrus sat stiffly in his chair, knuckles standing white against his skin. “Hey, are you okay?” Reaching out, Darren rested a hand over the Orlesian’s, worry evident in the gesture. “You look ready to hit someone – what happened?”

Cyrus took a tight breath, eyes flicking back towards the bar. “Just some dickhead,” he said simply, returning his gaze to Darren, “but we should probably get go—“

“Andraste’s flaming tits – what is this!”

Again, Darren started, turning, confused. Cyrus just closed his eyes, his fist seeming to curl even tighter beneath Darren’s hand. Emerging from the crowd, Brenner sauntered up to their table, his eyes bright with a kind of cruel, unbridled delight at the sight before him. “I don’t believe it,” he declared, gesturing with his cup to Cyrus, “the bastard,” he shifted the cup across to Darren, liquid splashing onto the table, “and the farmboy! How quaint.”

Recognition slowly dawned across Darren’s confused face. “Brenner?” He blinked, clearly as surprised as Cyrus was at the man’s appearance. “What are you doing in Glendess? I thought you lived in the north?”

Something in Brenner’s expression tightened at the question, even though Darren hadn’t meant it to be insulting. “None of your business, boy.” He swept an arm towards the wall, a notice pinned to it by a single gleaming nail. “If your curiosity so demands it, I was travelling south and heard about some festival nearby. I thought I might grace it with a bit of class. Perhaps pick up a peasant or two for a bit of a romp.” He raised up cup, taking a handful of long, deep gulps, clearly unconcerned that he was mid-conversation. Cyrus had no intention of waiting for him to finish.

“Great. How about you fuck off to your little fanclub over there and leave us alone? I’m sure they panic whenever your dick’s not in sucking range.”

“Cyrus,” Darren said, surprised mostly by the hostility from the other man. Brenner must have really brought back some bad memories.

The man scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Yes, yes. Always the tough one, aren’t you? Tell me, what’s it like, shacking up with a farmer? Do you fuck on the hay like the cattle, or in the mud like the pigs?”

Cyrus looked about ready to murder. “Still obsessed with my sex life? I figured you would have gotten over that shit after five years.”

Another chuckle shook its way from Brenner’s chest, melodic and strangely infuriating. “Well, it always was eventful. We were just waiting for you to make your way around our barracks. I must say, your avoidance was rather hurtful.” He considered, then wrinkled his nose. “Then again, knowing where you had been, perhaps it was for the best.”

“You fucking—“

Cyrus made to get up, anger only spiking further at the man’s smug look of self-satisfaction at his reaction. But Darren reached out quickly, catching Cyrus by the arm, holding him still. “Don’t,” he implored. “He’s drunk and he’s not worth it, Cyrus.”

Brenner hummed, raising a hand to his lips as he regarded Darren. “Mmm, yes. Listen to your farmboy.” He cocked his head, an amused smile spreading across his face. “Tell me… Davin, right? Is he a screamer? I’ve been dying to know for far too long and simply must be put out of my misery.”

Darren felt Cyrus tense in his grasp. He was like a snake, coiling for a strike.

Only this time, so was Darren.

“You should leave,” Darren warned, the words hanging in the air between them. “Now.”

Brenner arched a brow. “Oh? Or what? There’s no Captain Lavellan to run to here, boy.” He laughed, already grinning in anticipation of his own joke. “Daddy’s not here to pull you out of trouble.” A sudden thought seemed to strike him and he glanced back at Cyrus. “I… Maker, did you ever call him that? With your, ah, issues, I imagine it likely.”

There was a loud, sharp thump as someone struck the tabletop. It echoed throughout the tavern like a canon shot, slapping the room into sudden silence. Only, it wasn’t Cyrus who had lost his temper.

It was Darren.

“I’m going to give you one more chance, Brenner,” Darren said quietly. Conversations began to stir uneasily back to life in the far corners, but nearby, there was nothing but tense silence. “Walk away.”

Never one to back down in front of a crowd, Brenner grinned lopsidedly and spread his arms. “Or what, kid? You’ll cry? Guilt me to death? Try to… to…”

Brenner’s cocksure front faltered as slowly, carefully, Darren stood, his chair grating across the floorboards as he rose and faced Brenner. Funny - he used to seem so much bigger, five years ago.

But five years was a long time.

People change.

“No. I won’t cry.” Darren’s voice was dangerously calm as he stared down at the man who had made their life a misery all those years ago. “I’ve grown up enough to know you’re not worth it.” He shifted, moving closer, the act causing Brenner to take an awkward half-step back. “You had your warning, Brenner. There’s a new deal now. You’re going to take your friends and your foul mouth and you’re going to leave Glendess.”

“B-But,” Brenner stammered, but Darren just shook his head sharply, the gesture apparently enough to cut the man off mid-protest.

“Listen. I haven’t got in a fight since I left the Inquisition. Never had to.” Reaching out, Darren placed a hand on Brenner’s shoulder, bearing down slightly – pointedly. “Don’t give me a reason. Please.”

--

All Cyrus could really do was watch in mute fascination as Brenner all but shed his outer layer of tanned skin, replacing it with something chalky-white. “R-Right. Yes. No, of course. Wouldn’t want that.” He swallowed thickly and glanced at his shoulder, where Darren’s hand remained. “I’ll just, ah… be off, then.” He gave an almost giddy laugh as he attempted to save face. “Not much to be done in a small town like this, after all. My time would be far better spent elsewhere.”

Darren smiled; a thin, false smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yes. It would.” He released Brenner and the noble brat all but scurried like a rat back to his cronies at the other side of the tavern. Slowly, Darren breathed out, the tension in his posture melting away with it as he turned back to Cyrus. “I… um…”

All Cyrus managed was a shake of his head. “Shit… things really do change in five years, huh?”

It was meant to be a compliment, but Darren’s expression seemed almost mortified as he sat back down. “Not really. I mean, that’s not… that’s not me, I just…” His fingers tapped out a nervous rhythm on the table. “I didn’t like what he was saying about you. About us. And in public like that? He had no right.”

For the first time that evening, Cyrus felt a genuine smile drift across his lips. “Yeah. He didn’t.”

“Besides,” Darren added quickly, seeming strangely nervous, “you wanted things to be different here, remember? When you first came back. You said you didn’t want people thinking of you the way they did at Skyhold, always getting into fights and causing trouble.” He glanced over at Brenner, nose crinkling in distaste. “I know it wouldn’t’ve been your fault, but still… I’d rather be the one to do it, if it came down to a fight. Folks know me here. They’d know he deserved it.”

Cyrus hadn’t even thought about that. Perhaps that had been part of the reason he’s let it go in the first place, and he just hadn’t even realised it. “I…” Words escaped him for a time, and they sat in drinkless silence, the tavern bubbling back to life around them. It was only once the truth of it really sank in that Cyrus found the right words. “Thanks, Darren.”

The blond blinked, cocking his head, then a smile spread across his face. “Hey, any time. You know I’ve got your back. Now…” He cast one last bitter look towards Brenner then nodded towards the door. “You wanna get out of here? It’s a nice night. We could go for a walk?”

Cyrus’ response was even less coherent - an exhale, slow and rough along the edges. He curved closer, chasing the warmth that forever hovered over Darren’s skin. Chuckling, Darren used his arm to scoop the man over. It was a thing they had grown used to, with the promise of winter drawing closer each night. There was no protest; just a hand, sliding up Darren’s chest, gentle against skin. It stopped as Cyrus settled himself anew, fingers loose and heavy, curling at the crook of Darren’s neck. It was so easy, just to lie there. So easy to let the day drift past, as soft as the flutter of wings outside the window.

Eyes still closed, Darren raised his free arm, the sheets thick and warm against his skin. His fingers began at Cyrus’ bent elbow, tracing to his wrist, then back down again, coaxing a breath from the Orlesian that merged half-way with a yawn. Darren felt him tense, shiver, fall loose, and wished nothing more than to feel that simple, silent pleasure every morning. Until his hair turned from blond to grey. Until he returned to the Maker. 

Cyrus’ curls tickled his chest, then his neck, then his cheek. Even with his eyes shut, Darren could practically see those dark locks, tousled into comfortable disarray. They were as soft as the lips that pressed to his, barely moving, perfectly content. Darren hummed softly, leaning into the kiss, his arm bracing Cyrus’ back, keeping the man from rolling to the side. Cyrus’ hand was still warm against his shoulder, and Darren found it with his own, twining their fingers as each languid kiss melted into the next. 

But the birds were calling, and the sun would not wait.

“We... should get up...” 

Cyrus made a noise of disapproval, low at the back of his throat. “Nnnh... still dark...”

Another press, more insistent than the others. The sheets rustled, soft as autumn leaves, and Darren’s lips curved against Cyrus’. The man was simply impossible to deny. 

But not to tease. 

“... Not if you open your eyes.”

The suggestion went about as well as Darren had expected. Cyrus drew back slightly, wrinkled his nose, then collapsed against him like a sack of grain. From beneath Cyrus’ obstinate dead-weight, Darren laughed softly, tilting his head to press a few more kisses into those dark curls. He supposed it was still early enough. They wouldn’t be missed for a half-hour, at least.

“Alright, alright, you win... five more minutes.”

Cyrus huffed, but gave no further protest. It was always Darren’s compromise. Every morning. Just five more minutes, then it was time to go.

Breathing deep, chest and lover rising then sinking back down, Darren let the plan for the day slowly unfurl at the back of his mind. It had become something of a ritual, after they began sharing a bed. A time for Darren to trace mindless patterns against Cyrus’ skin. Sort out his thoughts. Organise his day. 

Darren shrugged, a faint smile on his lips. “You know how much I hate to wake you.”

“But...” Sighing, Cyrus decided not to argue. This time. The room was still trying to warm, and it had yet to reach anything close to comfortable. “So what are you doing, exactly?”

“Well, I was thinking of making porridge.” Indeed, there were bowls and oats out on the counter, along with a small pot of honey. “Interested?”

And make porridge they did. As the room slowly warmed, Darren and Cyrus kept themselves moving, placing a pot over the flames, dividing up the oats. Unscrewing the pot of honey, Darren dipped his pinkie in, humming as he slipped it into his mouth and closed his eyes. There was nothing like fresh honey - nothing like watching the man he loved enjoy something so simple so much. “Maker, it’s good to be alive,” the blond said after basking for a moment in his ecstasy. He offered the honey to Cyrus, who just arched his brow.

“All that because of the honey? You’re easy to please.”

Darren chuckled, setting the pot back on the counter. “I dunno. Wouldn’t say I’m easy. And anyway, it’s not just the honey.”

The implication behind the words was clear. A few months ago, Cyrus would have needed more. Something obvious that his insecurities could not possibly rationalise away. But now, he just huffed quietly, not bothering to hide the fondness on his face. He moved behind Darren, slipping his arms around the taller man’s waist, pressing his lips to the back of his shoulder. “You should have let me sort out the fire,” he murmured, and Darren just barked a surprised laugh.

“Really? You’re still on that?”

“Could’ve made it warm for you, when you woke up.” Cyrus gave an awkward shrug, his arms still wrapped around Darren. “It’s the least I could do.”

“Aw, c’mon...” Darren made a playful show of raising his arms turning in the loop of Cyrus’ arms like a ballet dancer until they were facing. “The least you could do is nothing at all, and you haven’t done that once, even when I’ve asked you to.”

Cyrus was about to scoff when he paused, a frown flickering across his face. Smiling, Darren shook his head and wrapped his arms around him, Drawing him closer, he pressing a kiss to the side of Cyrus’ head.

“Let me guess,” Darren continued softly, voice teasing. “Never thought about it that way before?”

A hum of affirmation was all Cyrus managed, mostly because he had closed his eyes and melted into the warmth of Darren’s embrace. It was so easy not to think about things, now. There were so many things that tried to scatter his mind and keep him on his toes. But now...

A loud voice interrupted Cyrus’ living nightmare. He turned to see a tall blond man working his way through the line, smiling sunnily, murmuring ‘excuse me’ and ‘sorry’ as he wove his way towards…

… him.

“Phew, just made it! Thanks for stalling. Forgot which checkout you went to.” He winked at Cyrus and placed a small pack of ibuprofen on the counter. “Don’t you just hate it when you remember something at the last minute?” He seemed to direct the comment to the cashier before turning to commiserate with the person next in line. Apparently the plight was universal, as both laughed quietly and nodded, as though partaking in some kind of inside joke. Still smiling, the blond turned back to the cashier, slipping a bill out of his wallet. “Anyway, really sorry for the hold up. How much?”

The rest of the transaction passed in something of a blur. The stranger paid for… well, everything. All the irritation Cyrus had sensed from the people around him before seemed to give way into a strange kind of exasperated amusement as the blond gave the line a final apologetic wave, scooping up the grocery bag and nodding his head towards the door. “Alright, let’s go.”

“Uh… sure.” In truth, Cyrus had no fucking idea what to do. The guy had his groceries. Well, more like commandeered his groceries. He could just take them, really. They were technically his. As the blond moved towards the automatic doors Cyrus found himself following like a lost puppy, although without the requisite enthusiasm. It was wariness that kept him a few paces behind the man, his attention on the bag swinging absently by his side.

What was he up to?

They paused once they were near the edge of the carpark, near a cafe in the process of recovering from the afternoon rush. The tall man turned, smiled again, then seemed to realise with a start that he was still holding the bag. “Oh! Here - sorry. These are yours.”

Cyrus just stared at the bag, then glanced back up at the blond. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.” He waggled the bag, the paper crackling as it swayed. “But I did, so… you might as well take them.”

Every fiber of Cyrus’ being wanted to tell him to keep them. That he didn’t need them. But the empty pit in his stomach was a constant reminder that he wasn’t in any position to skip another meal. Shit, he’d salivated over canned spaghetti. 

So he took the bag.

“Thanks,” he murmured, then cleared his throat. “Look, I don’t have a lot right now, but I can pay you back. Just… I don’t know. Tell me a place to meet you next week.”

The blond seemed taken aback by the suggestion, paused, then broke into a bright smile. “Hey, I’m more than happy to meet up with you next week, but I don’t want you to pay me back or anything. Just… think of it as a favour.”

Cyrus shook his head. Mostly in disbelief. “A favour?” he repeated. “I don’t even know you.”

“Oh! Right.” The blond immediately held out his hand. “Darren Miller.” 

Feeling like he was constantly on the back foot and racing to catch up, Cyrus shook his hand on instinct. “Uh… Cyrus.”

“Nice to meet you!” His grip was firm. If anything, it lingered a little longer than Cyrus was used to but… not necessarily in a bad way. He wasn’t really sure how to explain it. When Darren did let go, it was with a kind of amused half-smile that did something strange to Cyrus’ chest. “There,” he continued with a satisfied nod. “Now we know each other.”

“Not really…” Letting his hand drop to his side, Cyrus tried to salvage some remnant of his pride. “Listen, I was serious about paying you back. I don’t just take money from people.”

Darren cocked his head, a lock of his blond hair flopping from one side to the other. “You didn’t. I gave it to you.” He shrugged. “Besides, someone paid for mine once. It’s kinda like… ugh, what’s that thing from that movie? With the kid and the assignment…?”

Cyrus quirked a brow at the man. “Pay it forward?”

It was, apparently, the correct answer. Darren’s face lit up and he nodded excitedly. “Yeah! Wow, I haven’t seen that in so long…”

“It was… kind of a downer. From memory.” Cyrus didn’t remember much of it - only that he cried at the end. But he was a kid at the time, which meant there was probably nothing to really cry over.

“Yeah, I cried so hard at the end.” Darren laughed as Cyrus watched him, wondering if the tall man could read his mind somehow. “But then again, I cry in most movies. And some ads. Have you seen that Thai life insurance ad? It’s so…” Something about Cyrus’ expression must have finally registered because Darren trailed off and, for the first time, a pink flush crept up his neck and onto his cheeks. “I’m… rambling, aren’t I?”

Despite himself, Cyrus gave a snort of amusement. “Yeah. A little.” 

Was it weird that a part of him wanted to add ‘but I don’t mind’? 

“Sorry. I do that when I’m nervous. AH, I mean—” For a few seconds, it seemed like Darren was planning to salvage his sentence, but then he just sighed and gave up with a sheepish chuckle. “Just… sorry. I’m not normally this bad.”

Nervous? Why would he be nervous? He’d just sidled through a grocery line like Cyrus’ knight in domestic armour. Shit, Cyrus was going to eat tonight because of him. “No, I… you’re fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Darren favoured him with a grateful look. Then his gaze flicked back down to the small grocery bag and a faint frown creased his brow. “Those… aren’t meant to last you a week, are they?”

Cyrus froze. How did he…?

Right. He said he could pay him back next week. Fuck, why did he even open his big mouth?

“It’s enough,” he said with a shrug. “I don’t need much.”

“Right. Okay then.” Darren was nodding, but there was something about his tone that suggested he didn’t believe the lie. Admittedly, it was a pretty poor one. “Hey, how about instead of meeting up next week, we might up again later tonight?”

Cyrus frowned. “Why?” He already told the guy he wouldn’t have the money until next week. 

Again, Darren’s cheeks reddened, and he reached up, scratching his cheek. “I dunno… might be fun? There’s this bar a few blocks away that does open mic Fridays. You get a mix of things - singers and comedians and stuff. It’s always interesting. If you’re, ah… y’know… interested.”

It took a few solid moments before Cyrus realised what was actually happening. “Are you asking me out?”

Darren chuckled, seeming almost relived that Cyrus had at least understood that much. “Trying to! Although I’m getting the feeling I’m not doing a very good job.” He sighed. “Sorry. I don’t really… do this often. If I’m making you uncomfortable just say the word and I’ll get out of your hair.”

“No, you’re… you’re fine.” In truth, Cyrus wasn’t used to being asked out. Picked up? Sure. He cleared his throat, acutely aware of the bag of groceries in his hand. “Look, I want to go with you, but I don’t exactly have the cash for eating out.”

“That’s okay! My idea, my shout. That’s how it works, right?”

Cyrus supposed that was true. Besides, if all else failed, it was a free meal. One that wasn’t from a can. So, he relaxed, regarding Darren for the first time with something other than skepticism. “You know what? Sure. Why not.”

The grin the blond man shone back at him was dazzling - it was like Cyrus had made his whole year in a few simple words. “Seriously? Great! Here, let me give you my number…”

As Darren rummaged around for his phone, Cyrus couldn’t help but shake his head slightly in disbelief. Of all things he expected to happen today, having his groceries paid for and going on a date was the furthest from likely. 

A few years ago, that would have been enough. Even now, standing there, some part of Darren felt inclined to back down, like a pup before a wolf, all hackles and teeth. But it wasn’t a few years ago. He’d grown his own claws. “Saying ‘it’s complicated’ isn’t good enough for me to let you walk back out there on your own again. Seriously? Do you really think I care that little about what happens to you? Maker’s breath, you only just got out of bed a few days ago!” Darren knew his voice was rising, but he didn’t try to lower it. Not this time. “So explain it to me. Explain why it is so bad to feel something for once in your life that isn’t just fucking misery.”

Darren wasn’t sure if it was his tone or the language he used, but it seemed to stun Cyrus for a few moments, his expression going slack. When Cyrus didn’t immediately respond, the cold fear that Cyrus actually was miserable gnawed its way into Darren’s stomach, leaving behind a sick, helpless feeling he hadn’t experienced since he was back at the Inquisition. If he didn’t know better, he would guess a despair demon had torn through the veil and straight into him.

“I…” Cyrus licked his lips - a nervous tick of sorts - and cast his gaze towards the distant fence. Anything to avoid looking at Darren. Some things never changed. “I can’t, okay? I just… I spend time here, and it’s all just so…”

Darren cocked his head slightly. “So… what?”

“Fucking perfect.”

The frankness of the response startled a laugh out of Darren. “What? So you like it too much here so you’re going to run off?” He shook his head. “Cyrus, you know that doesn’t make any sense, right?”

“I know, okay? I get it.” The way Cyrus wrapped his arms around himself was like he was trying to keep someone out. Or hold something in. “I never said it made fucking sense.”

One of the most difficult things about Cyrus was how often he left Darren at a loss for what to do. What to say. Everything. Maker, Darren had done everything to try to make Cyrus happy and comfortable. He’d spent night after night by his side, tending to his fever, making sure he drank enough and tried to eat at each meal. None of that had been done under sufferance - he’d volunteered without an ounce of hesitation. Cyrus was his friend, after all. The fact that Darren loved him was just another part of that bond. One he hadn’t forgotten or lost, even after four years apart. If anything, it felt stronger than ever.

And now that it seemed Cyrus was actually starting to reciprocate that feeling, he was running away.

“Okay.” Releasing a sigh, Darren ran a hand down his face, pausing to scratch his stubbled skin. “How about this: until you can find a way to explain why you’re running back out there with nothing but the clothes on your back, you stick around. Because seriously, if you leave like this I’m going to come after you. You’re not well enough for me to let you go for anything short of a really good reason.” He paused, and a sad smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “And feeling something? Maybe even being happy for once? That isn’t one of them. You’re just going to have to stick around and get used to that until you find something else.”

At first something almost offended swept across Cyrus’ face; a kind of open-mouthed expression of affrontedness at being denied exit from the farm. Realistically, Darren knew if Cyrus really wanted to leave, he couldn’t - no, wouldn’t - force him to stay. But the problem? Well, Darren was pretty sure Cyrus didn’t really want to go. There was just something in him; something quiet and buried deep; that convinced him to run at the first sign of comfort. Like there was a danger in it. A snake lying in wait beneath anything soft and warm, waiting to sink its fangs into him.

“You can’t make me stay.”

“I know.” The response came easily. The truth always did for Darren. “But I can beg you to. I’ll get on my knees and clasp my hands like a Chantry mother if that’s what it takes.”

That got a wry snort from Cyrus, whose gaze finally drifted back to regard Darren properly. “Please, spare me. I had enough of those theatrics to last me a lifetime.”

Chuckling, Darren reached up and ran his fingers though his hair, pushing it back off his face. “Good, then. So can we just…” He nodded back to the farmhouse. “You can unpack your things. Meet me in the kitchen.” He winked at Cyrus. “My cooking’s gotten a lot better, you know.”

It was an easy way out of a difficult conversation, but sometimes that was the best thing to do. Darren knew he wasn’t going to get answers out of Cyrus standing there on the path, pack in hand, breathing hard just from the walk up the hill. He should be sitting down. Recovering properly. Eating well. Darren could at least see to that.

“Yeah?” With one final glance at the distant gate, Cyrus shouldered his pack. For a second, Darren thought he was going to make a break for it - he had that calculating look in his eye. But then the look melted away, and Cyrus shifted his attention towards the farmhouse. “Guess I’d better be the judge of that, huh? My last memory of your cooking was that strew in the Western Approach. You know, the one that–”

—“Tasted like dried bootstraps? Yeah, I know…” Darren made a show of cringing, then laughed warmly, slinging an arm around Cyrus’ shoulders and slowly moving back towards the house. “Time for me to regain my reputation!”

Cyrus’ reply was so quiet Darren almost missed it. “It’ll take more than one meal for that.”

Mint, with all the silence deep focus can muster, waved them over a little hill towards a hollow at the bottom of a tree. In the shadows, there lay a little dog, curled up and whining softly. Its breathing was ragged, and its ribs showed through the patchy fur on its sides.

“Ohhh,” Tangerine said quietly, moving towards the dog with careful footsteps.

“Shh!” Mint crept forward, and reached out a cautious hand towards the huddled animal. It looked up at him, its eyes wide and glassy, but did not flee. “It’s all right,” he murmured softly. “We’re here to help you.”

With careful coaxing, the little dog stood on shaking legs and stumbled into Mint’s arms. Even this small movement was slow and painful. When it reached him, Mint stroked its fur with a gentle touch that didn’t suit his big soft body, and Tangerine leaned over to watch. Red hung by the edge of the hollow, afraid to go too close.

“He’s hungry,” Mint said. Tangerine dug through her pockets and offered it a ratty-looking piece of jerky. The dog snatched it with desperate speed.

“Can you fix him?” Tangerine asked.

“I will.”

Mint closed his eyes, and called down the magic. It fell upon him in shivers of green. The woods refracted around the edges of him, a little brighter and warmer through the film of power, and Mint brought his hands together to bring it into focus. The magic wobbled.

“Are you sure about this?” Red asked. He could see the pieces falling together before him. It didn’t feel right.

“I’m fixing it!” Mint insisted. “I learned the spells, I know how…” The magic flickered, and juttered, churning into a filmy mist around Mint’s shaky hands as he pulled it in and shaped it. “Just… focus… and find the hurt… I said, find the hurt…”

“We should get the teachers,” Red said. “We, um, if we tell them we found it in the garden, they can help—”

“No!” Mint doubled down, resting his hands against the dog’s ribcage.

“What’re you doing?” Tangerine asked, leaning in to watch. Green magic coursed through the dog’s veins from Mint’s hands, shining in the folds of its body. Its fur grew, ever so slightly, but the way its flesh rippled as Mint worked didn’t match the structure of the bones beneath.

“I’m healing,” Mint said. “Just wait, it’ll work.”

“I, um, Mint—”

“You what? You didn’t have to come!” Mint snapped.

“—I don’t think it’s helping,” Red stammered. “This doesn’t feel right.”

“What do you know about healing? Back off, I’ve almost got it.” And Red did back off, but his nerves jangled. The dog whimpered again. He fought the instinct to reach out, memories of skeletons and operating tables and watching the medics work flooding out of the back of his mind.

“Mint?” Tangerine asked. Mint drew down another surge of magic. The dog shuddered.

“He’s messing me up!” Mint let go, pointing at Red, who flinched. “He’s doing something. You’re doing something!”

“I’m, I’m not, I don’t, it’s not—” Red stammered helplessly, backing further away. “I’m not doing anything!”

“Red?” Tangerine had joined Mint in the retreat. She was slower, steadier, but she had the same look in her eyes. “Red, you’re…”

He looked down. Faint scarlet light pooled in his fingertips. He balled up his fists.

“I didn’t do anything,” he repeated, swallowing hard. Mint snatched the dog up from the ground, ignoring its weak yelp of shock, and squeezed it in an emerald vice.

And Red’s own color poured over his eyes.

“Mint, you have to stop,” Red said, trying to keep his voice from trembling. “You have to stop doing that.”

“Oh gods,” Tangerine murmured, her eyes fixed on the dog. “Mint?”

“You have to stop,” Red said. “Please.”

Mint clutched the dog tighter. Its legs kicked numbly against the air, its joints too stiff, its flesh swollen and distorted with strange pulsing lumps as the green coursed ever faster through its body. Mint didn’t seem to hear the whimpers anymore.

“You need to stop!” Mint insisted. “I’ve got it, I know how to fix it, you’re just messing it up! I’m the green paladin, I can do this, if you just stop it with that horrid death magic—”

“Mint, let go, you’re hurting it!” Tangerine gasped. “You’re hurting him!”

“I can’t, I’m the healer, I’m making it better!”

“Let go!” Tangerine rushed forward and tried to pull the dog out of Mint’s grip, but when she touched him, her skin rippled all the way up her arm, and she jumped back as if she’d been shocked. “Mint!”

“Please,” Red repeated. “Please.”

“It’s your fault!” Mint shouted. In the sinking light, his eyes glimmered with desperate tears and single-minded focus.

Red’s voice wouldn’t work. He still saw the dog’s ribs, around the awful growth, and his own ribs felt like grasping hands around his chest. He had to, couldn’t, didn’t—he lurched towards Mint. Mint flinched.

“Mint, stop!” Tangerine said. As Red staggered forward, she ducked behind Mint, trapping him between them.

“I have to fix it!” he said. “I have to, it’s my job…”

“Maybe you can’t!”

Mint went silent. Red was breathing hard, the tension in his lungs snapping back around him. He made it to the center, almost in arm’s reach of the other boy. They met eyes.

“You don’t know what I can do,” Mint said slowly, when it took too long for Red to catch his breath. The green gave him a terrible bright aura. Red had almost forced the scarlet out of his fingertips. With the sunset at his back, the red magic was fully eclipsed in emerald.

“You have to let go,” Red said. “You tried enough. We all know you tried. You’re hurting him.”

“I can fix it.”

“You can’t.”

“I have to keep trying.”

Red stepped forward, and took the dog out of Mint’s grasp. He had to fight not to notice the tears. Mint didn’t stop him.

“I have to,” he repeated. His arms fell numb by his side.

Red carried the dog back into the hollow, and knelt down, resting him gently in the fallen leaves. The poor creature was hardly recognizable, swollen as it was with whatever strange thing Mint’s magic had done.

“Is he going to be okay?” He felt Tangerine behind him before he saw her. She sat next to him, and gently stroked the dog’s forehead. It shuddered.

“I…” He swallowed, and shook his head. “...I don’t think it was something Green could heal.”

“What do we do? We’ve gotta get the teachers, right? Maybe they can help?”

She went quiet, and they looked down at the little dog. Its breathing was labored. It struggled to turn its head to look at them.

Red reached out a hand and stroked the dog’s ears, and Red-the-archetype showed him the only answers.

“I have to…”

“Don’t,” Mint said before Red could finish. “You can’t. It’s gonna get better.”

“But it won’t.” Tangerine’s little intake of breath was barely audible, but Red continued on. “It… it’s not something Green can fix. He might… might live a few months, like this. Maybe a year. It’ll hurt.” Red paused, his face sinking. “I think it already does.”

“No. You can’t.”

“Mint—” Red started.

“I won’t let you! It’s cruel, it’s cruel and awful!”

“...There’s really no way to fix him?” Tangerine asked. “You’re really sure?”

“He was already dying,” Red said softly. “I think… I think before we ever came here. He’s been… too hungry, too long… too alone… and, and I’ve seen what green magic does. When you do too much.”

“No,” Mint said. The dog whimpered. It pulled itself to its feet, looking past Red and Tangerine to the place where Mint stood on top of the rise. Red followed its gaze. Mint’s back was turned. “No. You can’t.” He wouldn’t look.

The dog collapsed when it tried to go to him.

Tangerine beckoned it back with a soft click of her tongue, and scratched its ears when it managed to stumble to her lap. And Red reached out and held it. Tangerine watched him for a long moment. He swallowed, and tried to even his mind.

What he did was simple. He kept breathing.

“It’s going to be okay,” he murmured. “You did good.”

And the red came to him, soft in his fingertips, and the dog curled up to sleep as he pet it slowly until it went still.

He wrapped it in his cape, and tucked it in the hollow at the bottom of the tree. Tangerine stacked a couple stones beside it.

“I’m sorry.”

Those blue eyes flashed towards him. Then away again. “No, don’t... it’s fine.” He hesitated, then shifted, nudging Darren’s arm up so he could slide beneath it. His dark hair tickled Darren’s neck, soft and smelling of soap. “You’re just... a lot to get used to.”

“I can stop. Tone it down, or...”

Cyrus shook his head, the movement small but perceptible.

“No. I... want to get used to it. It’ll just take me a minute.”

A soft snort made its way past Darren’s defenses. More than a minute, that’s for sure. “Sure. That’s okay. Just... tell me if I go too far.” He chuckled. “You know I’m a sap.”

This time Cyrus laughed, and the sound was like a release, the tension flooding out of the room. Darren shifted, drawing him closer, sighing contently, his hand running absently up and down Cyrus’ back.

He could take his time. That was fine.