He exhales noisily as Zevran's hands work their way down and then around, eyes tightly shut as he tries to drown out the thoughts about how this isn't really happening, he's fallen asleep somewhere, and so on. It's difficult to accept that someone is willing to touch him like this. And yet Zevran is here, solid and warm against Anders' back and holding him. There's a sting in Anders' eyes and a tickle in his throat that must most definitely be the steam and nothing else, despite how his next breath in is shaky.

Maybe only an assassin who had traveled with Jonas as well could understand Anders enough to offer this.

"It's been some time since I've been called pretty." That's probably what happens when one can as easily count ribs as fingers in the baths. He remembers distant time spent tending to his looks and his outfit, practically preening. Showing off. Enjoying fabrics and oils and scents. Anders sighs again, and a little of the tension Zevran can undoubtedly feel leaves him. He doesn't have the freedom to go back completely - it would strain Justice too far - but there are little things he can afford. Lives aren't hanging on every minute here. And the disguise must last.

"That the source of the words is gorgeous himself gives it some meaning. And I've always been fond of flattery and the feeling of strength in the frames of anyone I've slept with." He reaches up and traces his hands along the arms wrapped around him. "It's highly attractive."

It felt good to be held, which meant it felt scary, which meant Anders was going to fill this silence with words.

"Is this when I find a seat and trust myself to your hands and blade?"