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Cullen’s days in Skyhold are long, they drag on. Sitting behind a desk, eyes straining in the candle-lit grey, he tires quickly, feeling like the stone walls above him have caved down. He takes regular breaks, stands on the battlements and drinks in the mountain air, eyes taking in all of Skyhold’s grounds.
Samson’s days in Skyhold are hard, they don’t stop. Sparring, teaching, shouting, his muscles fatigue quickly but he carries on regardless. When he stops to take a draught from his waterskin, panting under heavy armour, his eyes find that tower, protruding from the ramparts.
Cullen is softer now. Desk work fills his days. He has taken no lyrium for well over a year. He feels fresh, and free, like waves of clarity are breaking in his mind. He gave up physically training the troops. His game is tactics now, so smart, so focused.
Samson is hard and taunt, raw power. He still takes lyrium, the blue. It gives him strength, gives him energy. He can feel himself slowly coming back to him, back to the Samson from before. He took charge of their forces, throwing all his extra vigour into fighting.
By the end of the evening, as low sun dances of puddles of lingering water, Cullen still has much to do. Meetings to attend, reports to file, movements to oversee. Friends to meet. Chess, tavern, chatting, catching up. Warm candlelight and warm food and maybe warm wine, and always warm company. His mind drifts only slightly, only occasionally
By the end of the evening, when the cold creep of night air has began to roll over the training ground, and the men are dismissed with aching limbs, Samson is at a loss. He walks alone. He eats alone. He as made no friends, not in the year he has been here. Too hard, to trust the man who served under a would-be god. Too hard to forgive. He sits in his quarters alone, or maybe with a book, perched on the sill of his window.
When Cullen looks at Samson, he sees something broken, but not fully, and also fixable. First, it was red seething hate, and then dark blue pity. But here was a man who he had cared for once, he could not deny. A once proud man, fallen and left to rot. He wants to help, to shoulder the burden and help. Right now, he sees Samson, all harsh lines, silhouetted against pale white moonlight. Spindly muscle and tough ribs under the thin cotton of his undershirt. Long, beautiful, exposed neck, thick black hair brushing his shoulders.
When Samson looks at Cullen, he can’t help but avert his eyes, most of the time. He sees a man, so strong and so determined. He sees what he could have been, had he had more resolution. At first, slumped in his cold, dirty cell, body feeling as though it was coming apart from withdrawal, Samson had not cared about with who he spoke - Inquisitor, Spymaster, Commander - it did not matter to him. But as weeks passed, he remembered, the time they had spent together, in Kirkwall, almost something but not quite there. He became more responsive, but only to Cullen’s ever longer and always more frequent visits. But with the memories came a nauseating sense of grief, as he mourned over the life he’d lost to the drug he’d become so dependent on. Right now, he sees Cullen, thick limbs filling the doorway, bathed in warm orange light from the corridor beyond. Soft lines under thick fur cloak. Shining, forgiving eyes. A tender smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, at his scar.
When Cullen crosses the room, to scoop Samson into his arms, to press soft lips against chapped ones, he thinks of all those times, long ago, when he had wanted this. When Samson parts his lips for Cullen’s tongue, he thinks the same. They kiss, for maybe an eternity, and the moments drag out. When they pull away they are panting, hard and fast and desperate.
On the bed, Cullen cannot think about much else other than tearing Samson’s clothes from him. His hands roam newly bared white flesh, his head dips now and then into that gorgeous throat, grazing with teeth and tongue and hot breath. Samson, for once, cannot take his eyes away from Cullen. He watches Cullen’s gaze move across his body, he watches Cullen’s mouth part slightly. When their eyes meet finally, it feels like the whole world has stopped moving. In the moment of stillness, Samson can slip Cullen’s own shirt away, and now it is his turn to touch. He does more than touch though, he worships. He presses kisses over every part of Cullen’s skin, he murmurs sweet prayers, forgetting his new god had long been defeated.
In Cullen’s arms, Samson can barely breathe. He cannot deserve this, does not deserve this. He does not make a move now to reach down and touch Cullen like he wants, how could he? And so it is Cullen who removes them both of their remaining clothes. It is Cullen who grasps them both with one fist, takes a few fumbling messy strokes before setting a rhythm, steady. Cullen who once again covers Samson’s mouth with his own, eating up the low and still constant stream of whimpers mixed with indecent praise. But it is Samson who finishes first, release causing him to squeeze his eyes shut, and it is only now, when he feels the damp on his eyelashes and tastes salt in the kiss, does he realise he is crying. He wants reach and and bring Cullen his release too, but his is dazed, boneless. All he can do is listen to Cullen come with a grunt.
Cullen wipes away the tears, kisses his cheeks. Neither say a word, too many unsaid things to start now. Cullen drifts first, leaving Samson staring up at the stone ceiling.
Neither man starts their next day in Skyhold alone.