[ It is stupidly easy to fall back into sleeping with another body in his bed again- especially one he knows and trusts. The lingering concerns of the day smooth into nothing once Alistair curls around him, there is the usual shifting and grumbling as they sort out where to put their limbs each night but rest? Is actually restful.
He's jarred awake by the nudge, blinking into the darkness from where he's tucked against Alistair's chest. ]
[ He nudges Zevran again for good measure. Wake more up. But otherwise he stays put and stays still. Moving too much will let cold air under the blankets. ]
I don't know how old you are. It's going to keep me up all night.
[ He scrubs at his eyes as he attempts the math in his head- counting back as far as he can recall. It isn't easy but- at least he knows the year he was bought and how old he was at the time.
I'd have guessed younger, [ Alistair says, for the sake of Zevran's vanity. It's only a lie because he wouldn't have guessed at all. ] Which one is it, six or seven? You're clever. You can do math.
You were born on First Day? That's convenient. Half the time I can't remember—
[ Wait. One moment while he checks his privilege; while he's doing so, he curls his arm further around Zevran. It's half affection and protection. The other half is wanting to be able to poke him in the ribs a couple times, gently but not too gently. No sleeping yet. ]
You are going to make that face, aren't you? That 'I am trying not to be sad on your behalf but honestly Zev that is so sad' face? [ As ever, when quoting Alistair, Zevran trips into his impression of him, drawling Fereldan accent and all. It's a fair impersonation. ] Yes, I was born on first day.
[ Lies. Lies, but he would very much like to not have this discussion. Sleep, they were sleeping, why is this a thing? ]
I'm not making that face. That isn't a face I make.
[ Yes he is, and yes it is, but it's dark, and Zevran's head is against his chest, and for good measure he moves his hand to cup the back of his head and hold him there so he can't easily lift up to check. There's no proof. ]
Don't lie to me. I never lie to you. [ Except about the faces he's making. He's not serious; he knows Zevran knows. ] Do you know what season it was?
You are so. I can hear it, the way your eyebrows are full of feelings.
[ And the way his lips twist change the shape of his words from the fond 'aw zev' to the sadder 'aw zevran'. He endures the hand, endures the question knowing full well that it out of kindness. Mostly. ]
I was born in a brothel, Alistair. That and how old I was when the Crows bought me is all I know.
[ Ugh, Crows. Ugh, buying. There's a moment of palpable unhappiness—literally palpable, Zevran can probably feel his chest and his arm going all tense, and the interruption to his otherwise steady breathing—but he doesn't say anything. He exhales the tension out and uses the hand on Zevran's head to rub the back of his neck with all of the sympathy that Alistair isn't going to voice because it's stupid and useless and unwanted. ]
Well, you should pick one. A birthday. Choose one during your favorite season so the weather will be nice.
[ Even while it is no longer new to him- the tension and anger on his behalf is something to which he will never become accustomed. It is what it is- it happened, this is how he lives- getting upset about it feels pointless and yet- Alistair winces when he is bruised, bleeds when he is cut. It is a kindness he still does not understand- but he softens under his touch. Loops an arm around his waist to squeeze him back.
He's here. He's fine. He's survived it. ]
Why? Counting my age by First Day has been good enough.
If you like First Day you can pick First Day, but then you have to share with everyone celebrating all these other things, and it will always be cold.
[ He tugs on a strand of hair as a stand-in for another harmless, chastising poke. This will go much faster if Zevran plays along. ]
You do have to pick one. I'm no good at presents, but if we're going to be seeing more of each other for a while I can at least make sure you have a good day.
I do not mind giving you things on yours- but I do not see much point in celebrating mine. I failed to die for another year. Hurrah.
[ He twitches away from the tugging, actually going so far as to untangle himself from where he's pressed against Alistair and move away. If they are going to be awake he may as well be doing something. Like relighting the coals, Maker, it's cold. ]
I think it's more like, you failed to die for another year, hurrah, [ Alistair says, with too much enthusiasm for the hour, probably, but at least no jazz hands. He might have done jazz hands if he weren't lying down and busy shifting around to let Zevran disentangle.
In his wake, Alistair sits up to watch him, stubborn-and-sad-but-mostly-pleasant expression fading to something just plain concerned. ]
[ Little things he can fix. He finds his flint and steel to spark it, blowing a cool stream of air to ignite them- soon there is a warm glow for him to stare at rather than back at his bed. Their bed.
The bed. ]
It is not something that is done, not in the brothel and not in the Crows. Why make a fuss over it? I am alive. What more do I need to mark a day I do not remember and, on my worse days, genuinely regret?
[ It's sharp; a preface for don't say that, maybe even using his rare ability to sound fully commanding. But Zevran looks small, and cold, and unhappy even from the back. Alistair swallows it back. If nothing else—if he can't really understand—he can remember desperately, sincerely wishing he'd died at Ostagar, and how being told to snap out of it didn't help at all.
He stands up and brings a blanket up with him. Not for him. He's bare chested but just fine, very hardy and Fereldan and all of that. He drops it around Zevran's shoulders instead and stands next to him without touching him, because the urge to shake him by the shoulders until he loves himself as much as everyone else does is very strong and also very unhelpful. ]
[ He is cold enough, tired enough, and mentally weary enough that he can't push down the instinctual flinch- in that he doesn't flinch at all but rather go very, very still. It's deliberate care in how he does not flinch to that tone, flinching is baiting, flinching is inviting.
Safety in stillness.
He'd taken a chance, telling Alistair that last bit. He is trying this 'honesty' thing a little more often. His worse days do not come near as often as they once did back during the Blight; then it was rare when he had a good day in truth. But they do come.
And he does feel that way.
It's not enough to keep him from twitching at the drop of the blankets. He could fake being fine with it, paste on a smile- Alistair would know it for the lie that it is. ]
Who else would darn your socks and rub your feet when you are cold, mm? Of course you're glad.
[ That's not true at all. Alistair holds his hands—the only part of him that's cold—toward the coals. ]
You know you're the only friend I have who really chose me, right? Not during the Blight, I know you were... [ Under duress, or being a hero, or varying combinations of the two. ] But afterwards, you didn't have to write me, and you did. That's one of the nicest things anyone's ever done for me. My feet would survive without you, but the rest of me—ehh.
[ Overdone, wincing uncertainty, followed by a quick sideways glance to see if it's working at all. ]
...You are the first person to call me Zev without wanting to bed me.
[ It comes slow, dragged out. This honesty thing- it is honestly exhausting. But this is him, trying, because Alistair tries and has always been honest with him when it mattered. He can't think of a single time when Alistair has wronged him, has meant him harm aside from when he was trying to die. Looking at him now is- he can't say this and see him. Weary, he lists to the side, leaning against him. ]
You helped me stand after I attempted to kill you. [ Jonas couldn't be bothered. ] You didn't see a Crow. You didn't even see an elf. You saw me. You've always just...seen me. I wasn't going to let the first person I've known that did not want anything from me but was still kind vanish. Not after Rinna.
[ Alistair has his arm out to go around Zevran as soon as he starts drifting his way, though he accidentally knocks him a little in the process and ruins how smooth it could have been, but otherwise he stays still, listening, still worried about Zevran's mood but content. As content as he can be. The Wardens are in trouble, he can no longer remember what it was like not to have this song winding around every thought and through every memory like it was always there, a talking darkspawn is trying to destroy the world, but hey. He's important to someone who's important to him. That's luckier than some people ever get. ]
Guardian is even colder than First Day, [ he says, instead of anything sappy, but he might sound a little choked up. Not in a crying way, just. Manly emotions. You know. ] But if that's what you want, that's what you get.
[ It wasn't when they met- that was muddy and dreary and past. But it was when 'Zevran' became 'Zev', when Alistair went from someone that was somewhat wary of him to someone willing to take a blow. It is hard to forget such a thing- and he would never wish to put it behind him.
Whether or not Alistair realizes this, he won't ask. ]
It gives me an excuse to use you as my personal warmer.
[ He murmurs, turning to press his nose against the bare skin of Alistair's chest. Icy nose- icy hands. Such is what siblings do, yes? ]
[ This might not be what siblings do, but in Alistair's experience what siblings do do is never speak to you once in your life despite being king and thus able to speak to whomever the like, or ask you for money and tell you it's your fault your mother is dead, so he'll take this instead, whatever it is, thank you, even though it's rude. ]
Aahhhhh. [ That's not a startled or alarmed aahhhhh, though his muscles do twitch at the touch; it's flat, calm, a little affronted. Again: rude. ] Since when do you need an excuse? Honestly—
[ He doesn't realize, for the record. Zevran didn't become Zev all in one day for him, and it was a busy year, and he's bad with dates. But he knows Guardian is cold, and he knows Zevran doesn't like cold. Thus the icy nose. Alistair tries ushering him back toward the bed. ]
If you picked a day in summer I could try to find somewhere to take you that has scantily clad somethings.
I was of the opinion days of birth were less about wanting them at a certain time and more about significant events?
[ Busy year, busier months, and he doesn't expect Alistair to remember. Not even a little. He'd been wrapped up in trying to keep up with Jonas, deal with his emotions and Morrigan and miles of grief, with vengeance and disappointment and death.
So much death.
But they'd lived in their own way, made it through. Made their way afterwards. Zevran makes his way to the bed, tugging at Alistair's hands to get him to lie down first- he could curl wherever he liked once he was settled. ]
If we spend it in the North, there will still be scantily clad somethings.
[ He flops down on his side and squirms back toward the far side of the bed to make room, kicking at the remaining blankets to work them down where he isn't on top of them and they can be pulled back up. It's all very graceless. ]
What's significant about the fifth of Guardian? Give me your feet, I wasn't joking.
Fine, if you must. But your hands had best be warm.
[ He lounges next to Alistair, slinging his feet into his lap- laying back on the bed to stare at the stones above them rather than Alistair proper when he makes mention of this.
He doesn't want to see the face. ]
We were in the Deep Roads at the time. A glenlock came in at my right quicker than I could see. You took a blow to your ribs and were laid low long enough to be vulnerable. I killed the darkspawn and when I offered you a hand up, you said "Maker's Breath, are you ok Zev?"
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He's jarred awake by the nudge, blinking into the darkness from where he's tucked against Alistair's chest. ]
How...what?
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[ He nudges Zevran again for good measure. Wake more up. But otherwise he stays put and stays still. Moving too much will let cold air under the blankets. ]
I don't know how old you are. It's going to keep me up all night.
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[ He scrubs at his eyes as he attempts the math in his head- counting back as far as he can recall. It isn't easy but- at least he knows the year he was bought and how old he was at the time.
The crows kept their receipts, as it were. ]
Six or Seven and Thirty.
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Apparently they are not yet done. ]
First Day has come and gone, so that would make me seven and thirty. [ It is the only way to keep track. ]
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[ Wait. One moment while he checks his privilege; while he's doing so, he curls his arm further around Zevran. It's half affection and protection. The other half is wanting to be able to poke him in the ribs a couple times, gently but not too gently. No sleeping yet. ]
You don't know your birthday.
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[ Oh no. ]
You are going to make that face, aren't you? That 'I am trying not to be sad on your behalf but honestly Zev that is so sad' face? [ As ever, when quoting Alistair, Zevran trips into his impression of him, drawling Fereldan accent and all. It's a fair impersonation. ] Yes, I was born on first day.
[ Lies. Lies, but he would very much like to not have this discussion. Sleep, they were sleeping, why is this a thing? ]
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[ Yes he is, and yes it is, but it's dark, and Zevran's head is against his chest, and for good measure he moves his hand to cup the back of his head and hold him there so he can't easily lift up to check. There's no proof. ]
Don't lie to me. I never lie to you. [ Except about the faces he's making. He's not serious; he knows Zevran knows. ] Do you know what season it was?
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[ And the way his lips twist change the shape of his words from the fond 'aw zev' to the sadder 'aw zevran'. He endures the hand, endures the question knowing full well that it out of kindness. Mostly. ]
I was born in a brothel, Alistair. That and how old I was when the Crows bought me is all I know.
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Well, you should pick one. A birthday. Choose one during your favorite season so the weather will be nice.
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He's here. He's fine. He's survived it. ]
Why? Counting my age by First Day has been good enough.
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[ He tugs on a strand of hair as a stand-in for another harmless, chastising poke. This will go much faster if Zevran plays along. ]
You do have to pick one. I'm no good at presents, but if we're going to be seeing more of each other for a while I can at least make sure you have a good day.
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[ He twitches away from the tugging, actually going so far as to untangle himself from where he's pressed against Alistair and move away. If they are going to be awake he may as well be doing something. Like relighting the coals, Maker, it's cold. ]
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In his wake, Alistair sits up to watch him, stubborn-and-sad-but-mostly-pleasant expression fading to something just plain concerned. ]
Are you upset?
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[ Little things he can fix. He finds his flint and steel to spark it, blowing a cool stream of air to ignite them- soon there is a warm glow for him to stare at rather than back at his bed. Their bed.
The bed. ]
It is not something that is done, not in the brothel and not in the Crows. Why make a fuss over it? I am alive. What more do I need to mark a day I do not remember and, on my worse days, genuinely regret?
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[ It's sharp; a preface for don't say that, maybe even using his rare ability to sound fully commanding. But Zevran looks small, and cold, and unhappy even from the back. Alistair swallows it back. If nothing else—if he can't really understand—he can remember desperately, sincerely wishing he'd died at Ostagar, and how being told to snap out of it didn't help at all.
He stands up and brings a blanket up with him. Not for him. He's bare chested but just fine, very hardy and Fereldan and all of that. He drops it around Zevran's shoulders instead and stands next to him without touching him, because the urge to shake him by the shoulders until he loves himself as much as everyone else does is very strong and also very unhelpful. ]
I'm glad you were born.
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Safety in stillness.
He'd taken a chance, telling Alistair that last bit. He is trying this 'honesty' thing a little more often. His worse days do not come near as often as they once did back during the Blight; then it was rare when he had a good day in truth. But they do come.
And he does feel that way.
It's not enough to keep him from twitching at the drop of the blankets. He could fake being fine with it, paste on a smile- Alistair would know it for the lie that it is. ]
Who else would darn your socks and rub your feet when you are cold, mm? Of course you're glad.
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[ That's not true at all. Alistair holds his hands—the only part of him that's cold—toward the coals. ]
You know you're the only friend I have who really chose me, right? Not during the Blight, I know you were... [ Under duress, or being a hero, or varying combinations of the two. ] But afterwards, you didn't have to write me, and you did. That's one of the nicest things anyone's ever done for me. My feet would survive without you, but the rest of me—ehh.
[ Overdone, wincing uncertainty, followed by a quick sideways glance to see if it's working at all. ]
If you pick a birthday, I'll rub your feet.
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[ It comes slow, dragged out. This honesty thing- it is honestly exhausting. But this is him, trying, because Alistair tries and has always been honest with him when it mattered. He can't think of a single time when Alistair has wronged him, has meant him harm aside from when he was trying to die. Looking at him now is- he can't say this and see him. Weary, he lists to the side, leaning against him. ]
You helped me stand after I attempted to kill you. [ Jonas couldn't be bothered. ] You didn't see a Crow. You didn't even see an elf. You saw me. You've always just...seen me. I wasn't going to let the first person I've known that did not want anything from me but was still kind vanish. Not after Rinna.
...the fifth of Guardian.
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Guardian is even colder than First Day, [ he says, instead of anything sappy, but he might sound a little choked up. Not in a crying way, just. Manly emotions. You know. ] But if that's what you want, that's what you get.
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Whether or not Alistair realizes this, he won't ask. ]
It gives me an excuse to use you as my personal warmer.
[ He murmurs, turning to press his nose against the bare skin of Alistair's chest. Icy nose- icy hands. Such is what siblings do, yes? ]
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Aahhhhh. [ That's not a startled or alarmed aahhhhh, though his muscles do twitch at the touch; it's flat, calm, a little affronted. Again: rude. ] Since when do you need an excuse? Honestly—
[ He doesn't realize, for the record. Zevran didn't become Zev all in one day for him, and it was a busy year, and he's bad with dates. But he knows Guardian is cold, and he knows Zevran doesn't like cold. Thus the icy nose. Alistair tries ushering him back toward the bed. ]
If you picked a day in summer I could try to find somewhere to take you that has scantily clad somethings.
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[ Busy year, busier months, and he doesn't expect Alistair to remember. Not even a little. He'd been wrapped up in trying to keep up with Jonas, deal with his emotions and Morrigan and miles of grief, with vengeance and disappointment and death.
So much death.
But they'd lived in their own way, made it through. Made their way afterwards. Zevran makes his way to the bed, tugging at Alistair's hands to get him to lie down first- he could curl wherever he liked once he was settled. ]
If we spend it in the North, there will still be scantily clad somethings.
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[ He flops down on his side and squirms back toward the far side of the bed to make room, kicking at the remaining blankets to work them down where he isn't on top of them and they can be pulled back up. It's all very graceless. ]
What's significant about the fifth of Guardian? Give me your feet, I wasn't joking.
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[ He lounges next to Alistair, slinging his feet into his lap- laying back on the bed to stare at the stones above them rather than Alistair proper when he makes mention of this.
He doesn't want to see the face. ]
We were in the Deep Roads at the time. A glenlock came in at my right quicker than I could see. You took a blow to your ribs and were laid low long enough to be vulnerable. I killed the darkspawn and when I offered you a hand up, you said "Maker's Breath, are you ok Zev?"
..it was the first time you called me that.
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