He makes a quiet noise as Zevran starts touching him, bending his head forward and beginning to relax. Having someone's hands on him in a gentle manner is something entirely unfamiliar after so many years.
"I'm, mm. Not feeling picky. Who could be, with this much promise?" Sure, plenty of people would probably be picky but Anders is so definitely a beggar in this situation, and a beggar being presented with the ultimate feast no less. "It's been longer than I'd care to admit." He hasn't even had coin for buying attention for the length of an evening, forget having the time for it. Being on the run is exhausting.
"I take it this is when I don't ask if you do this for all apostates who have, well." He's not going to list all of it. Especially when the true joke of the matter is that there's no one else quite like him - mass murderer and sane abomination both. For a relative value of sane. He reaches back, gently running his hand over one of Zevran's thighs as he had earlier.
"It is difficult to relax enough while on the run, but you are no longer hiding- or so the cover goes." Zevran murmurs, tugging Anders close enough to continue massaging the lather down his spine. When he smooths it down as far as the water might permit he rinses it carefully before he loops his arms around his waist and lean in properly. With their difference in height he can easily rest his cheek between Anders' shoulder blades for a moment and simply be, giving that extended contact that he's likely been aching for as much as Zevran had during his first few terrifying weeks of freedom after the blight.
He keeps his hands above Anders' hips- for the moment.
That may or may not change.
"Only the truly pretty ones that I am fond of." And he is- despite what Anders has done. He has no room to look at him and spit for the murder- it is not how he might have done it and he might not agree entirely with the logic behind such a move- but it is done. Nothing can be changed.
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?"
"Then you have been keeping poor company." Survival is not pretty, this Zevran knows- but the spark in Anders, the humor, the passion? That is lovely. The angle of his jaw might be sharper and the ache in his bones more intense, but he is still the handsome mage Zevran met years ago with a twist of humor to his lips and a wariness to his frame. Power and paranoia- Zevran has ever found such things attractive; he is wise enough not to say anything when Anders' breath goes thin.
He knows this pain. Knows this reluctance to trust a change of pace. It only makes his desire to make this good for Anders stronger still. Zevran presses his lips to Ander's shoulder, holding him for a little while longer. A few moments to find their center and while this easily could become a part of the seduction; better to make Anders feel clean and pampered first. It'll make what comes after worth more.
"Come. Sit against one of the boulders and I will rinse your hair, trim it, and shave your stubble. A little is manly and virile but at the moment it obscures your very fine jaw." The same jaw he leans up enough to drag his teeth against in a subtle tease.
What? He's working to Ander's comfort, and part of that is easing the discomfort. Fear is not sexy.
It's a great comfort to be held. That Zevran allows him this means even more than the drag of the elf's teeth along his jaw or the promise of being clean again, and it's all too tempting to think that maybe he can have touch again. The last person... Ages and ages ago. A lifetime, really, before Justice, before Kirkwall. He'd gone so long without anything intimate, and even years without a friendly embrace.
He'll be dead soon enough. Surely it's not too bad to have a few moments while he's indulged. It's with this thought that he obeys Zevran's suggestion, sitting, leaning back, and breathing out.
"If a little bit is virile and manly, perhaps you should take some of the shavings and glue them on. They'd be close enough to the right color." If he can get a laugh, a chuckle, then at least he can feel like he's done something right for once rather than wounding. It won't last. He doesn't know if the certainty is his or Justice's or both, but he leans toward both. Nice things have never lasted for him. "Though I'm not sure you need it, with your reputation."
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"I'm, mm. Not feeling picky. Who could be, with this much promise?" Sure, plenty of people would probably be picky but Anders is so definitely a beggar in this situation, and a beggar being presented with the ultimate feast no less. "It's been longer than I'd care to admit." He hasn't even had coin for buying attention for the length of an evening, forget having the time for it. Being on the run is exhausting.
"I take it this is when I don't ask if you do this for all apostates who have, well." He's not going to list all of it. Especially when the true joke of the matter is that there's no one else quite like him - mass murderer and sane abomination both. For a relative value of sane. He reaches back, gently running his hand over one of Zevran's thighs as he had earlier.
no subject
He keeps his hands above Anders' hips- for the moment.
That may or may not change.
"Only the truly pretty ones that I am fond of." And he is- despite what Anders has done. He has no room to look at him and spit for the murder- it is not how he might have done it and he might not agree entirely with the logic behind such a move- but it is done. Nothing can be changed.
no subject
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?"
no subject
He knows this pain. Knows this reluctance to trust a change of pace. It only makes his desire to make this good for Anders stronger still. Zevran presses his lips to Ander's shoulder, holding him for a little while longer. A few moments to find their center and while this easily could become a part of the seduction; better to make Anders feel clean and pampered first. It'll make what comes after worth more.
"Come. Sit against one of the boulders and I will rinse your hair, trim it, and shave your stubble. A little is manly and virile but at the moment it obscures your very fine jaw." The same jaw he leans up enough to drag his teeth against in a subtle tease.
What? He's working to Ander's comfort, and part of that is easing the discomfort. Fear is not sexy.
no subject
He'll be dead soon enough. Surely it's not too bad to have a few moments while he's indulged. It's with this thought that he obeys Zevran's suggestion, sitting, leaning back, and breathing out.
"If a little bit is virile and manly, perhaps you should take some of the shavings and glue them on. They'd be close enough to the right color." If he can get a laugh, a chuckle, then at least he can feel like he's done something right for once rather than wounding. It won't last. He doesn't know if the certainty is his or Justice's or both, but he leans toward both. Nice things have never lasted for him. "Though I'm not sure you need it, with your reputation."