Zevran had often reassured him that the details didn't matter, that he was a Chevalier, that he was a noble, that he was a human, that he was a man, that he was Orlesian. These were all the concerns of Zevran's friends and Michel had, naturally, brought it up, gauged his companion's reactions to all of his identities. He didn't seem to mind those identities or hold the same prejudices as others might, most of those identities were an illusion and he didn't seem to mind that either.
Still, the way he seemed to withdraw from Michel with a pleasant, almost cordial, but not at all familiar or affectionate tone that Michel had become familiar with. There was something about it that felt different, different, in spite of the pleasantness, not welcoming, but curious as to why he was here. He had a parcel in his opposite hand that he held snugly under his arm, keeping it there for now.
"I wanted to see how you were doing after...the illness, you seem much better," Michel eyed him up slowly before settling on his face.
"Well enough, the fever broke and I am as healthy as a fine Antivan Stallion." Cheerful, was he, or at least giving the impression of such. He even felt a little upbeat as he usually did when preparing for a mission. Something certain he could focus upon that wasn't so strange and questionable as whatever this mess is in his head, chest, and bed. Perhaps upon his return he would attempt to sort it out better, but doing so now?
The idea gave him the beginnings of a headache.
"Would you like to come in for a drink?" That much he could offer. Perhaps a fuck for good luck- not that he needed it but it would be a fine way to spend the rest of his evening.
"That's certainly good news," perhaps it was better than the reason for his own visit which was not quite so light, but he could not keep going at this pace. The constant knot in his chest simply would not allow it and he was finding it hard to focus on anything else. He couldn't be entirely certain if that was disruptive or not, but he certainly could not push forward from it until it was a settled matter.
"I would like to come in, but must decline the drink, thank you," false courage was not real courage and the last thing he needed was to be stumbling out of here drunk. He did, however, enter the room taking in the surroundings. He was packing...he might have heard something about it, but it was quite soon after his illness was it not?
"I did come here for a very specific purpose...I assume you're probably aware of that by now," Michel moved to set the parcel he was carrying down, his back was facing Zevran for a moment before he finally allowed himself to turn around, "I...want to know where I stand with you."
"As you wish." It did not stop Zevran from taking moment to set the belt of grenades aside in favor of pouring himself a small glass of brandy. Whatever was to come would be no simple thing- he could see that much already. There were three paths with this. One: play along, let Michel speak, have it out and have it done.
Two: Plead fatigue (reasonable enough considering his recent illness) or business and slip away.
Three: Distract with lust.
As Michel has proven himself distractable in the past and Zevran was quite certain he Did Not Want to have this conversation? What should have been a simple sip became a subtle production. He knew the lighting in this room well, the way shadows played upon his skin. How to stand, how to move, how to tilt his head back and to the side just so while taking a drink to invite the eye to his jaw and throat, to drag his tongue across his lips to smooth away the damp.
The question came all the same and Zevran hesitated but for a moment while Michel's back was turned to weigh his options. Again, three ways about it. Again, he chose the third, slipping up to press himself to Michel's back, hands settling upon his belt buckle in idle contemplation. "Mmm...Quite well, I should think."
Michel was almost surprised to feel Zevran at his back, he'd never tensed up before, well, not since their first encounter, but he did and his eyes dropped to the hands hovering over his belt. Michel was distractible when he allowed himself to be, and fiercly determined when he wanted to be. He'd played the Game long enough to know when his attention was tryig to be diverted and, arguably, Zevran was good at it.
"Non...please..." Michel murmured, he didn't stop him, but he hoped that Zevran would take his words seriously. He trusted that a 'no' would stay his hands. Knowing that he was going to have to be a bit more direct, Michel braced himself, pushing both hands against the nearest wall and pushing until his knuckles were white. He couldn't move the wall, but it almost seemed if he tried hard enough, then perhaps, "...I should put it another way, I'm in love with you, I have been for a while...but I've kept it to myself just to remain close to you. It's dishonest, it feels dishonest..."
"Soleil?" He's never been half so tense before and Zevran knew he could help him relax. Began to take steps to see it so, hands slipping up to stroke his chest, leaning up on his toes to nose at the hair at the nape of his neck. Pull him back, pull him into bed and leave him sated and satisfied while he left for Antiva.
That was the plan.
It was not the best plan but it was better than listening-
Had Michel only said 'please' he would have been able to do so. But a no? Zevran could not ignore that. His hands slipped back to where they'd been about Michel's waist, holding him instead of teasing him. He would hear this, then. Whatever this was.
"What other way is there to put it-" Oh. Oh.
That way.
One word from someone that knew, or was supposed to know, what it meant. One word with weight and it echoed in the back of his mind that he was a Chevalier, he could not understand, he'd never see him as an equal, what he'd done-
Alistair insisting that it was not a good match. Sabine's vehemence. Anders' quiet scorn. Beleth's threat. A game, he'd said, when speaking to Anders.
A novelty.
Cold and weary and terrified in no small way, Zevran withdrew. Returned to the brandy, the glass, and poured himself another measure. "I can understand the confusion, truly- but you do not."
A game, a mask, that was what Michel was infatuated with. "This is all very new and different for you and the feelings involved can be quite intense, this I know. It is a simple thing to confuse them for sentiment."
"Let me see if I understand what you're saying...either your are implying that I cannot differentiate infatuation from love...or you are telling me that I have misunderstood your intentions?" Michel turned away from the all, propped up against it now, still as tense as he was before, his arms folded around his waist as to hold on to something that to nothing at all. The look he gave Zevran was equal parts pensive and wretched, "the second is what I am here to understand and I would ask you why you might think that for the first?"
"I have been quite clear in my intentions." This was a pleasing diversion, something fun, something without demands to be placed upon either of them. That one moment of weakness in the barn aside he has fought with himself to ensure it would remain so. The scraps of sentiment involved here were erratic little things he did not mean to come to light. "And you have confessed you've never done anything like what we have shared before. It is a simple enough thing to mix up."
"I'm am afraid your intentions have been confused since the hayloft," if a diversion had been what he wanted then why not let Michel go then and there? Why would Michel be his escort to that soiree? Why would Zevran give him such a tattoo, "it is true that there are a many number of things I've not done with anyone other than you...but it is like slowly coming to realize you might not be dreaming. I realized that the things that I was doing, they were for you, not just a means to get into your bed. So you might want to spell your intentions out clearly now."
"Which is not that strange, in Antiva. What we are is simple enough. Sescios- friends that share a bed from time to time when life is good and things are going well. While there is familiarity and affection shared- it is not love, Michel. I am an assassin. I do not do 'love'. Passion, now..." Still trying to distract, to deflect, to twist this into something familiar as he leaned a hip against his desk and shipped his brandy. "Passion I feel quite often and you have quite a bit about you that I find enticing."
"So it is not my feelings that I am misunderstanding, but yours, then," Again Michel tapped his fingers at his side, at least Zevran admitted that much, Michel wasn't at all perplexed about how he felt. It was the other man he was trying to ascertain. He did not believe that Zevran did not love, for instance, he wasn't frozen in a painting or impervious. No one he'd ever met was, "I'm beginning to see what it is that you find so enticing about me."
Unfortunately it wasn't said with the same intent as Zevran seemed to imply, "I'm a Chevalier, a noble, a human, and an Orlesian--who could resist such a charmer, yes?"
"I am under the impression- and this is something I know more from observation and hearing of such things than experience- that love requires a greater depth of knowledge and understanding of a person before it can be considered more than a passing fancy." Michel knew things, this was true- but he did not know the worst. He did not even know the moderately questionable things of Zevran and he was content to keep it as such.
Where he knew little of sentiment and affection- he knew more than his share of this edging, petty, baiting game. "If that is what you choose to believe, who am I to contradict you?"
"That is looking at love in a vacuum, is it not? I grew up in the alienage where marriages were arranged, people grow into love. Sometimes people are together for long periods f time and they still do not know everything there is to know about that person...and everyday becomes a learning experience. Sometimes all it takes is knowing just enough," Michel scooped up his parcel.
"The one person I was hoping to say it doesn't matter."
"I would not know. I was raised first in a brothel by whores and then by the Crows." It should be a given that his understanding of such things is a touch warped and loose at best. That he was in a position to have friends, to build himself a new life- that was remarkable enough. What more was this one thing others might want of him that he did not dare understand?
"That you are a Human Noble, Orlesian, and Chevalier? Was part of the initial appeal, this we have discussed. But I find you pleasant company outside of the bedroom, amusing in your own way, and terribly handsome. You do not need me to remind you of that."
"Love has many...varied expressions, that much I am aware of," if Empress Celene was any indication of how varied those expressions of love could be.
"I...see," Michel was fixated on the floor now, thinking about his positon, he'd done quite a lot to be close to Zevran, out of love for Zevran. The most drastic thing had been allowing the other man to mark him. Shouldn't that have meant something? He wasn't aware that he was idly scratching his chest through his shirt...why that spot? "That settles quite a bit, doesn't it?"
"I...do not know what you expect me to say, Michel." They had an unspoken agreement, that this was something they could enjoy without placing claims upon one another. That he came to him now after thinking that yes, perhaps he might want something more with someone, yes, he had as much a right to that depth of affection as anyone else-
The fates were fucking with him again, clearly. Fickle bitches.
"I'm not expecting you to say anything...you don't have to say anything, I'm in love with you and that compromises everything. I didn't want to say anything...but I had to and the volley of arrows have shattered the comfortable truce," it was a scenario of his own making, of course, he could have kept his silence and died a little more every day, but he wanted to know where he stood and now he did and the symbol on his chest ached a bit more for it.
"Stop saying that." Whatever he saw, whatever he thought? It couldn't be true. Time and patience has taught Zevran that Michel is not entirely like those that made a ruin of him in the past for the simple joy of doing so; but this?
This felt too much like a trick. Too much like something out of a fairy story to possibly be real. It couldn't be.
"Whatever it is you feel- it isn't that. It cant' be that. Chevalier do not love elves. Nobles do not love elves. We are enjoyed and set aside." Perhaps befriended, true, bu not loved.
"You...don't see me do you? You're looking at me, but...you don't see me," what he saw was exactly what everyone else saw when they looked at Michel. Michel's head was still bowed, he remembered the threat against his life, he knew what many of Zevran's friends thought of him and saw him. A Chevalier, a noble...he was the same as the ones that abused elves, hurt them, kept them as pets...Michel had a totem of his own regrets, but he couldn't look back at them. He could do nothing for them, but they followed him here, and that is what people saw, "it is that, this love, it is...what I am is not compatible with what you want from me."
"I see a man that presents such things as truth with all the faith of a revered mother. That you are more does not make what you present to be any less true." It could be an accusation- it could be damning or angry, that statement. Whatever softness and sweetness he found in Michel he guarded for his own selfish desires, this was true, but Michel himself did not parcel out such things.
But he could no more be perturbed by those that saw what he put forward than Zevran could of those that saw an Antivan Elven assassin and dismissed him offhand.
There were many things he could possibly judge Michel for. This? Was not one of them. "I see a man unaccustomed to intimacy such as we share, to even kindness, a man made wary by it."
"And yet, to claim any less would see me hung in Val Royeaux, what we present is not always what we choose. It is how we survive. I could undo it all, death does not frighten me, but if I claim other truths does that change who I am on the inside? That I am more than all of the identities I carry on my back, or that I am neither--Orlesian, human, elven, Shem, êtes mélange, enfant naturelle, half-breed, Chevalier, noble? It is a crossfire between the camps, isn't it...why should any specific identity matter over the others or color what's inside of me or what you really see? Unless there is tunnel vision for nothing else, then what more can I do?" He could not make Zevran un-see the noble, human, Orlesian, Chevalier, male parts about him, he'd only hoped that the assassin was able to look at him beyond that. It really did not matter, what others saw, or what they choose to see, when they look at him, only what Zevran saw.
In the same vein, while he did not dismiss Zevran's identities, he embraced them and saw more, and some things just mattered more than others.
"That I might be used, blackmailed, manipulated, or toyed with...all considerations that I had to take into mind when forming bonds with anyone who wasn't Cheritenne. It meant loving very few people, but it has also given me a heightened sense of what love is," as opposed to infatuation which meant one night stands and never sharing anything about himself with anyone. All of his secrets buried and Zevran had not revealed a single one that he was aware of.
"You cannot talk me into feeling anything in return." Zevran snapped. He'd been calm- cordial, even. Some might even call it kind how gently he was attempting to treat this. But the words, the reminders of the supposed power he held over Michel, the circling of identities-
'This is what I am, no one else will have me. No one else knows me like you do, no one else matters like you do'
Words, promises, grasping things to hook him in until he was tied down. At least with Michel it might be figurative rather than literal; Taliesin had never been much a man for figurative measures when the literal worked so much better.
Perhaps he did not see Michel truly at the moment, he saw broader shoulders and a sharper jaw, darker eyes that always seemed so kind, seemed so honest when time had proved the opposite over and over. "You love a mask."
"I love a man," Michel was very firm in that particular statement, he'd seen enough masks to last a lifetime, and perhaps more, he was well acquainted with them, "but you are right, I cannot make you feel anything for me that you do not feel. If you do not love me, even in some small measure, then that is fine...it is what I needed to be certain of, so that I know what I can and cannot survive."
Sharing a bed with Zevran was out of the question and being in his presence was the same, "we will never speak of it again and you have my word, I will never touch you again. That seems right, yes?"
Not that he could keep how wrong it felt from creeping into his voice, but honor had to be stronger than what he wanted.
"An act." At first. His usual masks hadn't lasted all that long outside of the bedroom. Why that was- his usual excuse of being honest and open did not hold up half so well in the face of all this. He felt something for Michel- affection, an appreciation, some manner of fondness, but that-
That was not love. Was it?
When did this become so thoroughly complicated? When did he loose control of the situation?
The hayloft. One kiss, one gasped accusation. At the time he'd known better, known this was building into a mess- and did not care. He should have. Better to end it then than be faced with the very thing he might have ached for not a day ago wrapped in the complication that was Michel de Chevin. "If that is what you wish, so be it."
Not talking about it would be marvelous. Not being touched- less so; but he had other lovers. The pool was dwindling rapidly due to their finding emotional fulfillment in a way he was becoming to envy- he pushed the thought aside. He had his lovers. He had his friends. He did not need...this.
"Toying..." somehow it stung worse hearing it said like that, an act had a different connotation from a mask, people who wore masks could still be authentic at least. Michel had to turn his gaze to the floor to make sure the stinging in his eyes wasn't any more than that. There was no point to such a display even though he knew he could scarcely help it.
"It's not what I wish," Michel said, clearing his voice as he did, "it is what I have to do for the both of us. Can you claim that you would want to hold me knowing how I feel about you? No more than I can stop these feelings, it will just get harder. I can spend years of my life chasing you for just a taste of it, but if you do not feel it...how much love would go to waste?"
Michel exhaled slowly, knowing that Zevran would not want for him with his dance card as full as it undoubtedly was. It was a source of jealousy, but there was nothing for it, "it doesn't mean you will never be able to reach me if you need to, the sending crystals...you can always contact me if you wish it."
That sounded final enough for him and with that he tucked the parcel under his arm again and offered Zevran a nod, not quite able to look at him, but doing his level best.
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Still, the way he seemed to withdraw from Michel with a pleasant, almost cordial, but not at all familiar or affectionate tone that Michel had become familiar with. There was something about it that felt different, different, in spite of the pleasantness, not welcoming, but curious as to why he was here. He had a parcel in his opposite hand that he held snugly under his arm, keeping it there for now.
"I wanted to see how you were doing after...the illness, you seem much better," Michel eyed him up slowly before settling on his face.
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The idea gave him the beginnings of a headache.
"Would you like to come in for a drink?" That much he could offer. Perhaps a fuck for good luck- not that he needed it but it would be a fine way to spend the rest of his evening.
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"I would like to come in, but must decline the drink, thank you," false courage was not real courage and the last thing he needed was to be stumbling out of here drunk. He did, however, enter the room taking in the surroundings. He was packing...he might have heard something about it, but it was quite soon after his illness was it not?
"I did come here for a very specific purpose...I assume you're probably aware of that by now," Michel moved to set the parcel he was carrying down, his back was facing Zevran for a moment before he finally allowed himself to turn around, "I...want to know where I stand with you."
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Two: Plead fatigue (reasonable enough considering his recent illness) or business and slip away.
Three: Distract with lust.
As Michel has proven himself distractable in the past and Zevran was quite certain he Did Not Want to have this conversation? What should have been a simple sip became a subtle production. He knew the lighting in this room well, the way shadows played upon his skin. How to stand, how to move, how to tilt his head back and to the side just so while taking a drink to invite the eye to his jaw and throat, to drag his tongue across his lips to smooth away the damp.
The question came all the same and Zevran hesitated but for a moment while Michel's back was turned to weigh his options. Again, three ways about it. Again, he chose the third, slipping up to press himself to Michel's back, hands settling upon his belt buckle in idle contemplation. "Mmm...Quite well, I should think."
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"Non...please..." Michel murmured, he didn't stop him, but he hoped that Zevran would take his words seriously. He trusted that a 'no' would stay his hands. Knowing that he was going to have to be a bit more direct, Michel braced himself, pushing both hands against the nearest wall and pushing until his knuckles were white. He couldn't move the wall, but it almost seemed if he tried hard enough, then perhaps, "...I should put it another way, I'm in love with you, I have been for a while...but I've kept it to myself just to remain close to you. It's dishonest, it feels dishonest..."
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That was the plan.
It was not the best plan but it was better than listening-
Had Michel only said 'please' he would have been able to do so. But a no? Zevran could not ignore that. His hands slipped back to where they'd been about Michel's waist, holding him instead of teasing him. He would hear this, then. Whatever this was.
"What other way is there to put it-" Oh. Oh.
That way.
One word from someone that knew, or was supposed to know, what it meant. One word with weight and it echoed in the back of his mind that he was a Chevalier, he could not understand, he'd never see him as an equal, what he'd done-
Alistair insisting that it was not a good match. Sabine's vehemence. Anders' quiet scorn. Beleth's threat. A game, he'd said, when speaking to Anders.
A novelty.
Cold and weary and terrified in no small way, Zevran withdrew. Returned to the brandy, the glass, and poured himself another measure. "I can understand the confusion, truly- but you do not."
A game, a mask, that was what Michel was infatuated with. "This is all very new and different for you and the feelings involved can be quite intense, this I know. It is a simple thing to confuse them for sentiment."
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Unfortunately it wasn't said with the same intent as Zevran seemed to imply, "I'm a Chevalier, a noble, a human, and an Orlesian--who could resist such a charmer, yes?"
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Where he knew little of sentiment and affection- he knew more than his share of this edging, petty, baiting game. "If that is what you choose to believe, who am I to contradict you?"
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"The one person I was hoping to say it doesn't matter."
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"That you are a Human Noble, Orlesian, and Chevalier? Was part of the initial appeal, this we have discussed. But I find you pleasant company outside of the bedroom, amusing in your own way, and terribly handsome. You do not need me to remind you of that."
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"I...see," Michel was fixated on the floor now, thinking about his positon, he'd done quite a lot to be close to Zevran, out of love for Zevran. The most drastic thing had been allowing the other man to mark him. Shouldn't that have meant something? He wasn't aware that he was idly scratching his chest through his shirt...why that spot? "That settles quite a bit, doesn't it?"
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The fates were fucking with him again, clearly. Fickle bitches.
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This felt too much like a trick. Too much like something out of a fairy story to possibly be real. It couldn't be.
"Whatever it is you feel- it isn't that. It cant' be that. Chevalier do not love elves. Nobles do not love elves. We are enjoyed and set aside." Perhaps befriended, true, bu not loved.
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But he could no more be perturbed by those that saw what he put forward than Zevran could of those that saw an Antivan Elven assassin and dismissed him offhand.
There were many things he could possibly judge Michel for. This? Was not one of them. "I see a man unaccustomed to intimacy such as we share, to even kindness, a man made wary by it."
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In the same vein, while he did not dismiss Zevran's identities, he embraced them and saw more, and some things just mattered more than others.
"That I might be used, blackmailed, manipulated, or toyed with...all considerations that I had to take into mind when forming bonds with anyone who wasn't Cheritenne. It meant loving very few people, but it has also given me a heightened sense of what love is," as opposed to infatuation which meant one night stands and never sharing anything about himself with anyone. All of his secrets buried and Zevran had not revealed a single one that he was aware of.
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'This is what I am, no one else will have me. No one else knows me like you do, no one else matters like you do'
Words, promises, grasping things to hook him in until he was tied down. At least with Michel it might be figurative rather than literal; Taliesin had never been much a man for figurative measures when the literal worked so much better.
Perhaps he did not see Michel truly at the moment, he saw broader shoulders and a sharper jaw, darker eyes that always seemed so kind, seemed so honest when time had proved the opposite over and over. "You love a mask."
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Sharing a bed with Zevran was out of the question and being in his presence was the same, "we will never speak of it again and you have my word, I will never touch you again. That seems right, yes?"
Not that he could keep how wrong it felt from creeping into his voice, but honor had to be stronger than what he wanted.
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That was not love. Was it?
When did this become so thoroughly complicated? When did he loose control of the situation?
The hayloft. One kiss, one gasped accusation. At the time he'd known better, known this was building into a mess- and did not care. He should have. Better to end it then than be faced with the very thing he might have ached for not a day ago wrapped in the complication that was Michel de Chevin. "If that is what you wish, so be it."
Not talking about it would be marvelous. Not being touched- less so; but he had other lovers. The pool was dwindling rapidly due to their finding emotional fulfillment in a way he was becoming to envy- he pushed the thought aside. He had his lovers. He had his friends. He did not need...this.
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"It's not what I wish," Michel said, clearing his voice as he did, "it is what I have to do for the both of us. Can you claim that you would want to hold me knowing how I feel about you? No more than I can stop these feelings, it will just get harder. I can spend years of my life chasing you for just a taste of it, but if you do not feel it...how much love would go to waste?"
Michel exhaled slowly, knowing that Zevran would not want for him with his dance card as full as it undoubtedly was. It was a source of jealousy, but there was nothing for it, "it doesn't mean you will never be able to reach me if you need to, the sending crystals...you can always contact me if you wish it."
That sounded final enough for him and with that he tucked the parcel under his arm again and offered Zevran a nod, not quite able to look at him, but doing his level best.
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