Don't. [ Sharp and raw, cut from him before he can smooth it into something, anything else. A beat passes and he attempts to paint over it with a joke. To tease. For they are teasing, not thinking of this awful thing. ] Say. Such things, of course you will like it. I am the one doing it I wouldn't give you anything less than complete satisfaction.
[ Zevran manages a thin twist of a smile, the barest edge of his waggled eyebrows before sitting back and setting his needle aside. If they were speaking of this his hands wouldn't remain steady and certain for much longer.
Least of all when he dangles hope before him. Hope is a thief, is a bastard, and he's never had a use for it but- he reaches forward to clasp Alistair's face in his hands. Stone cold sober he might be but- that? Alistair can't dangle that before him and sweep past into something different. ]
Yeah, maybe. Maybe that's all. Should be easy, right? Maybe you can slip in while he's sleeping, and--
[ A cutting motion with the needle. Never mind that the only reason they had Corypheus in prison to begin with was that they couldn't figure out how to kill him. Never mind that he has a Blighted dragon and Templars and mages and--perhaps, if this is all connected--Grey Wardens. They stopped a Blight. And the Inquisition already has an army. No need to wander around the countryside begging for one.
So his smile isn't one of those sad brave soldier smiles. It's a real one, if brief, and he holds one of Zevran's wrists for a moment before he stands up, kicks out of his unlaced boots, and sits back down next to Zevran on his mattress. He has to reach around him to replace the needle he stole. ]
You can't throw me out now just because I might live. I'll cry.
[ All they have to do is kill an 'elder one'. An ancient darkspawn that had been trapped in some prison and was some manner of unkillable that had an army, a blighted dragon, and demons.
Alistair's smile is bright and blinding and Zevran- kisses him.
A sharp, sudden press, less sensual and more jubilant- a chance for life. To have a few more years, to enjoy this having a sibling thing before it truly becomes tragic. An army and an impossible foe and the end of the world- they've done this before. The Inquisition is well armed. It will take nothing to see them well trained.
He pulls back, resting their foreheads together while laughing. Cackling. There may or may not be a few relived tears but he will never own up to it. Hope is such a rare, fragile thing but for once, for this one, good thing? He will cling to it.
Zevran shakes his head and drags his hands up to ruffle Alistair's hair before settling back on the mattress. ]
You little shit. I was prepared to mourn you! I admitted having feelings-
[ Being kissed surprises but doesn't shock him; his face scrunches up childishly, but he's still grinning. He doesn't try to move out of reach. But then while Zevran is laughing, Alistair's face only turns more serious, his smile more subdued. A little overwhelmed. He'd gotten used to the idea of dying, and whatever possibilities may exist, the song is snaking its way through his consciousness even now. It's Zevran's relief, not Kaidan's theories, that make him feel like he could actually survive it.
And, by the same token, like he has to. Like he'll be letting someone down if he doesn't. It was easier having it out of his hands, in a way.
Regardless, he brightens at the hair ruffling (still not a puppy) and ducks his head to one side in a halfhearted and ineffective attempt to escape it. ] Yes, of course, it was all a ruse. [ He's too old and tired for faked maniacal laughter, but he flops back to lie on the bed, legs still hanging off of it, and gestures expansively with one hand. He's gesturing at his invisible evil plan. ] I'm not even really running from the Wardens. I just wanted to hear you say you loved me.
I take it back. I take it all back- you are not my brother, I do not love you at all, you sneaky little bastard.
[ He leans over on one arm to run a hand up Alistair's ribs, tickling him mericlessly to lighten the seriousness of his statement- and no his eyes are not damp. No he is not grinning and laughing with the joy of the hopeless given hope. He has a target.
He has a task.
He can keep this thing from being taken from him- that is more important to him than he'd ever expected. He can keep it.
After a moment's thought he swings a leg over Alistair's hips and renews the ticklish assault, up each side from hip to armpit and back again, swearing fondly in Antivan. How dare he terrify him like this, how dare he make Sevran DRINK so much, how dare he make him a miserable, moping shit for weeks while it wasn't something to mope over. This is JUSTICE.
And harmless. Completely harmless.
He slows in his assault, hands braced upon Alistair's shoulders, grinning. ]
Truly, Alistair- that knowledge was yours but for the asking.
[ Let's take a moment to fully appreciate that a master assassin and one-man scourge of the Antivan Crows is pinning and viciously attacking a large and occasionally formidable Grey Warden, yet there is a zero percent chance that anyone is going to be hurt. #friendship.
To that end, mindful of his own strength and of the recent needling of Zevran's skin, Alistair doesn't put up much of a fight outside of useless attempts to bat the elf's quicker hands away. During a brief moment of self-control he manages a full sentence--I am thirty-one years old Zevran--but otherwise he's all spluttering until the onslaught stops.
He tries to scowl while he catches his breath, with mixed results, and then gives up entirely. ]
I know, [ he says, less coolly than Han Solo. He did know. Of course he'd have been too embarrassed to bring it up, and Zevran wouldn't have told him about Rinna--not now, at least, probably--so the whole crushing sense of despair and impending loss wasn't a total waste.
He props up on his elbows without dislodging Zevran's grip on his shoulders. ] And you better know I love you back, even if I'm not as good at presents. [ He isn't sure he said before. ]
[ Thirty one or not, Alistair is still so much that laughing boy who'd given him a begrudging hand up on the dirt road. Who'd glared and muttered and sulked and joked and eventually trusted, laughed. Who teased without wanting or expecting anything. Many in the Warden's party treated him as a person, not a possession, not a thing. Not a weapon. Even Alistair's suspicion had been deeply personal. You tried to kill us- not The Crows tried to kill us.
It'd been deeply satisfying to stand at their side.
More satisfying still to maintain this odd friendship, this strange twist of sentiment he has no name for. Anyone else he would have bedded by now. That is his world, how he works. Not sleeping with Alistair- well. Not fucking Alistair is as confusing as it is a boon. Alistair has no need of him as a lover. Only a brother. As he's never been that before it is a fun role to feel out. ]
You do realize that most of the gifts I was given on the road, save for certain exceptions, were not gifts at all? [ Bars of gold, bars of silver. ] They were payment.
[ Which, honestly, he understood better than the boots or the gloves, the little things Alistair would find to point out to him, the scarf Wynne eventually knitted for him that he still carries, the few flowers he'd pressed from a crown Leliana wove him-
Much as he says he loathes sentiment, Zevran finds himself terribly sentimental. ]
[ You do realize, Zevran says, and Alistair's face does a thing that it does pretty often: it tries valiantly to look knowing and unsurprised, and fails. He focuses too much on smoothing out the line that appears between his eyebrows and forgets not to clench his jaw.
So that would be a no. He thought Zevran just liked shiny things.
But it was a long time ago, and his face smooths out--genuinely, without effort--into a faint, warm smile, which is all the warning he gives Zevran before sitting the rest of the way up and giving him a proper hug. The hug is careful of his freshly inked spots, but otherwise unabashed, bare skin and all. ]
You're getting soft, [ he says. It isn't an insult. ] But I was always soft, so you have a long way to go if you want to catch up. Now get off of me. [ He hasn't let go yet; he does now, as an afterthought. ]
[ Something his face does often, and something that never fails to make Zevran feel slightly guilty for showing him how many ways in which the world might disappoint him. Zevran reaches up to pat his cheek ]
None of the fearsome scowling. It is long past, yes?
[ Over and done and all the better to be put behind him-
then suddenly Alistair's arms were about him. Inked skin against cotton and it may get a little blood on Alistair's shirt but it wouldn't bother him. He snorts a soft laugh and sighs, leaning into it. The embrace is comfortable- and terribly warm.
Humming under his breath he presses his nose against the skin peeking out at the collar of Alistair's shirt. ]
Mmm...no. I think I am comfortable here. You are so warm and soft, after all.
Not really soft, right? [ That's the only part of all of this that he protests. Blood on his shirt: fine. Cold elf nose on his neck: all right. The rest of said elf taking up prolonged residence on his lap: kind of nice, not in a sexy way, just your run of the mill lifetime-of-starving-for-affection way, etc. But soft? ] Soft in the heart, I mean, sure. Maybe in the head. But otherwise rock solid and muscular and such. Right?
[ He isn't serious. He's perfectly aware of having to cinch his armor straps a little firmer around his sides and his belly and of the soft spot under his chin, and he knows he's handsome anyway. But if he's going to be an chair, he reserves the right to demand praise.
Comfortably so. Like a firm cheese, not like a custard. Otherwise, yes, you are a solid example of unadulterated machismo. Were you not a sibling to me I would ravish you where you sit.
[ He rubs his nose back and forth over that warm skin, ridding himself of the chill in his nose. He has half a mind to press his cold hands to the small of Alistair's back but that would earn more squirming- and some of his humor drops away at the question.
He hasn't spoken of her, not in truth, not in years. ]
Beautiful. Vicious. She had a rumor to her I think you would have appreciated, a laugh like music, eyes like sapphires. I had never before met a woman that was so skilled or so certain.
How do you ravish someone while they're sitting? I've always though of ravishing as being more horizontal or--mobile, [ Alistair says, brow furrowing, but he's quick to follow up with, ] Don't tell me. It's rhetorical. Let me wonder.
[ He has his limits, and having Zevran explain sex in any amount of detail while on his lap and nuzzling his collarbone is somewhere beyond said limits.
And another kind of limit: he'd asked about Rinna with some degree of scheming, a plan to narrow down the field of candidates for Zevran's eternal true love and all of that, but once Zevran begins talking about her Alistair isn't able to think that way, suddenly aware of how callous it might be. So no comparisons, no extracted list of requirements. He raises a hand to rest on Zevran's back and nudges his head with his chin with thoughtless affection. ] Did you know her very long?
Years. We worked as a trio for some time before Fereldan. It was a slow fall; neither of us truly understood what was happening. Sex is sex. Sentiment is- everything we had been told, everything we were said it was wrong. That it was unwise. Finding time to be away from Taliesin became difficult the longer we were together, he likely suspected something but we would sneak away. Not even to make love but to simply be. To talk. To hold one another.
[ Without the flirting or the groping or the kissing. It'd been baffling and strange and wonderful to him then- so young and so enthralled with the newness, the depth of this emotion. The fragility and secret of it. He closes his eyes and listens to the steady thrum of Alistair's heart. ]
She would have left with me if I'd asked- if I'd thought to ask. We would have been killed in short order but for a day, perhaps a week? We might have been free. [ a beat. ] She would have liked you. Not even to bed you but- to tease you. Be friendly. I do not know what makes me say that but- she would have.
You're biased, [ Alistair says, quite serious, and then shifts to less serious sing-songing: ] because you love me.
[ He'll be cooler about that someday. In his defense, no one's ever told him so before. At least not anyone who meant it. Also in his defense, he returns to seriousness immediately, arm wrapping firm around Zevran's ribs. ] I'd have liked her, too. Or. Well. I'd probably have been afraid of her. But after that.
[ It is enough, that little twist of sing-song, that little lilt to the word that lifts some of the weight. That gives way to some of the sentiment that terrifies him almost as much as the thought of losing Alistair before he was ready.
It will always be terrifying, he will never be ready. ]
[ Still light, however seriously he means it; he'll save the serious tones and solemn puppy eyes for when one or both of them is dying instead of maybe-probably-living. ]
What? You were terrifying. [ False. ] Still are. [ Less false. But Alistair isn't terrified, no. Alistair is drumming his fingers cheerfully on Zevran's bare shoulder blade. ] I'll be sleeping with one eye open.
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[ Zevran manages a thin twist of a smile, the barest edge of his waggled eyebrows before sitting back and setting his needle aside. If they were speaking of this his hands wouldn't remain steady and certain for much longer.
Least of all when he dangles hope before him. Hope is a thief, is a bastard, and he's never had a use for it but- he reaches forward to clasp Alistair's face in his hands. Stone cold sober he might be but- that? Alistair can't dangle that before him and sweep past into something different. ]
All we must do is murder Corypheus?
it's fine i'm fine
[ A cutting motion with the needle. Never mind that the only reason they had Corypheus in prison to begin with was that they couldn't figure out how to kill him. Never mind that he has a Blighted dragon and Templars and mages and--perhaps, if this is all connected--Grey Wardens. They stopped a Blight. And the Inquisition already has an army. No need to wander around the countryside begging for one.
So his smile isn't one of those sad brave soldier smiles. It's a real one, if brief, and he holds one of Zevran's wrists for a moment before he stands up, kicks out of his unlaced boots, and sits back down next to Zevran on his mattress. He has to reach around him to replace the needle he stole. ]
You can't throw me out now just because I might live. I'll cry.
HAHAHAHAHA
Alistair's smile is bright and blinding and Zevran- kisses him.
A sharp, sudden press, less sensual and more jubilant- a chance for life. To have a few more years, to enjoy this having a sibling thing before it truly becomes tragic. An army and an impossible foe and the end of the world- they've done this before. The Inquisition is well armed. It will take nothing to see them well trained.
He pulls back, resting their foreheads together while laughing. Cackling. There may or may not be a few relived tears but he will never own up to it. Hope is such a rare, fragile thing but for once, for this one, good thing? He will cling to it.
Zevran shakes his head and drags his hands up to ruffle Alistair's hair before settling back on the mattress. ]
You little shit. I was prepared to mourn you! I admitted having feelings-
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And, by the same token, like he has to. Like he'll be letting someone down if he doesn't. It was easier having it out of his hands, in a way.
Regardless, he brightens at the hair ruffling (still not a puppy) and ducks his head to one side in a halfhearted and ineffective attempt to escape it. ] Yes, of course, it was all a ruse. [ He's too old and tired for faked maniacal laughter, but he flops back to lie on the bed, legs still hanging off of it, and gestures expansively with one hand. He's gesturing at his invisible evil plan. ] I'm not even really running from the Wardens. I just wanted to hear you say you loved me.
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[ He leans over on one arm to run a hand up Alistair's ribs, tickling him mericlessly to lighten the seriousness of his statement- and no his eyes are not damp. No he is not grinning and laughing with the joy of the hopeless given hope. He has a target.
He has a task.
He can keep this thing from being taken from him- that is more important to him than he'd ever expected. He can keep it.
After a moment's thought he swings a leg over Alistair's hips and renews the ticklish assault, up each side from hip to armpit and back again, swearing fondly in Antivan. How dare he terrify him like this, how dare he make Sevran DRINK so much, how dare he make him a miserable, moping shit for weeks while it wasn't something to mope over. This is JUSTICE.
And harmless. Completely harmless.
He slows in his assault, hands braced upon Alistair's shoulders, grinning. ]
Truly, Alistair- that knowledge was yours but for the asking.
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To that end, mindful of his own strength and of the recent needling of Zevran's skin, Alistair doesn't put up much of a fight outside of useless attempts to bat the elf's quicker hands away. During a brief moment of self-control he manages a full sentence--I am thirty-one years old Zevran--but otherwise he's all spluttering until the onslaught stops.
He tries to scowl while he catches his breath, with mixed results, and then gives up entirely. ]
I know, [ he says, less coolly than Han Solo. He did know. Of course he'd have been too embarrassed to bring it up, and Zevran wouldn't have told him about Rinna--not now, at least, probably--so the whole crushing sense of despair and impending loss wasn't a total waste.
He props up on his elbows without dislodging Zevran's grip on his shoulders. ] And you better know I love you back, even if I'm not as good at presents. [ He isn't sure he said before. ]
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It'd been deeply satisfying to stand at their side.
More satisfying still to maintain this odd friendship, this strange twist of sentiment he has no name for. Anyone else he would have bedded by now. That is his world, how he works. Not sleeping with Alistair- well. Not fucking Alistair is as confusing as it is a boon. Alistair has no need of him as a lover. Only a brother. As he's never been that before it is a fun role to feel out. ]
You do realize that most of the gifts I was given on the road, save for certain exceptions, were not gifts at all? [ Bars of gold, bars of silver. ] They were payment.
[ Which, honestly, he understood better than the boots or the gloves, the little things Alistair would find to point out to him, the scarf Wynne eventually knitted for him that he still carries, the few flowers he'd pressed from a crown Leliana wove him-
Much as he says he loathes sentiment, Zevran finds himself terribly sentimental. ]
I know, Cucciolo. I know.
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So that would be a no. He thought Zevran just liked shiny things.
But it was a long time ago, and his face smooths out--genuinely, without effort--into a faint, warm smile, which is all the warning he gives Zevran before sitting the rest of the way up and giving him a proper hug. The hug is careful of his freshly inked spots, but otherwise unabashed, bare skin and all. ]
You're getting soft, [ he says. It isn't an insult. ] But I was always soft, so you have a long way to go if you want to catch up. Now get off of me. [ He hasn't let go yet; he does now, as an afterthought. ]
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None of the fearsome scowling. It is long past, yes?
[ Over and done and all the better to be put behind him-
then suddenly Alistair's arms were about him. Inked skin against cotton and it may get a little blood on Alistair's shirt but it wouldn't bother him. He snorts a soft laugh and sighs, leaning into it. The embrace is comfortable- and terribly warm.
Humming under his breath he presses his nose against the skin peeking out at the collar of Alistair's shirt. ]
Mmm...no. I think I am comfortable here. You are so warm and soft, after all.
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[ He isn't serious. He's perfectly aware of having to cinch his armor straps a little firmer around his sides and his belly and of the soft spot under his chin, and he knows he's handsome anyway. But if he's going to be an chair, he reserves the right to demand praise.
And ask personal questions. Like: ]
Hey, Zev, what was Rinna like? Can I ask that?
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[ He rubs his nose back and forth over that warm skin, ridding himself of the chill in his nose. He has half a mind to press his cold hands to the small of Alistair's back but that would earn more squirming- and some of his humor drops away at the question.
He hasn't spoken of her, not in truth, not in years. ]
Beautiful. Vicious. She had a rumor to her I think you would have appreciated, a laugh like music, eyes like sapphires. I had never before met a woman that was so skilled or so certain.
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[ He has his limits, and having Zevran explain sex in any amount of detail while on his lap and nuzzling his collarbone is somewhere beyond said limits.
And another kind of limit: he'd asked about Rinna with some degree of scheming, a plan to narrow down the field of candidates for Zevran's eternal true love and all of that, but once Zevran begins talking about her Alistair isn't able to think that way, suddenly aware of how callous it might be. So no comparisons, no extracted list of requirements. He raises a hand to rest on Zevran's back and nudges his head with his chin with thoughtless affection. ] Did you know her very long?
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[ Without the flirting or the groping or the kissing. It'd been baffling and strange and wonderful to him then- so young and so enthralled with the newness, the depth of this emotion. The fragility and secret of it. He closes his eyes and listens to the steady thrum of Alistair's heart. ]
She would have left with me if I'd asked- if I'd thought to ask. We would have been killed in short order but for a day, perhaps a week? We might have been free. [ a beat. ] She would have liked you. Not even to bed you but- to tease you. Be friendly. I do not know what makes me say that but- she would have.
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[ He'll be cooler about that someday. In his defense, no one's ever told him so before. At least not anyone who meant it. Also in his defense, he returns to seriousness immediately, arm wrapping firm around Zevran's ribs. ] I'd have liked her, too. Or. Well. I'd probably have been afraid of her. But after that.
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[ It is enough, that little twist of sing-song, that little lilt to the word that lifts some of the weight. That gives way to some of the sentiment that terrifies him almost as much as the thought of losing Alistair before he was ready.
It will always be terrifying, he will never be ready. ]
As you were so afraid of me?
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[ Still light, however seriously he means it; he'll save the serious tones and solemn puppy eyes for when one or both of them is dying instead of maybe-probably-living. ]
What? You were terrifying. [ False. ] Still are. [ Less false. But Alistair isn't terrified, no. Alistair is drumming his fingers cheerfully on Zevran's bare shoulder blade. ] I'll be sleeping with one eye open.
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[ He snorts, peeling himself away enough to fetch his needle and resume his work on that last line of his ribs- while still in Alistair's lap.
No homo. ]
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