Only a kiss earns a disgruntled sound. There is no sound appropriate for fucking him. Alistair goes still, instead, staring hard at his feet. So hard it takes him several beats to notice and take the lace.
"If you let him insult you," he amends, unconsoled. Knife-ear in passing is one thing. It makes Alistair grit his teeth, but he can't fight everyone who does it. Knife-ear to someone stupid de Chevin should be grateful to even have the opportunity to look at, let alone kiss--Alistair would punch him. Then he would die.
Boots off, he looks up. It's a mistake.
"Are you sure--" Nothing he hasn't seen before. Less than he's seen before. It's fine. Andraste's sword. He takes a breath and leans sideways to reach his own pack, pull out one of the formless shirts he wears beneath his armor, and toss it into Zevran's line of sight. For Zevran's sake. It's too cold for anyone to be sleeping unclothed. "Are you sure," he goes on, "you wouldn't rather sleep with, uhm."
Whoever he's sleeping with. Both of them. The Right Thing ache makes a faint return.
(He got lost in thought, not many days ago, thinking about Zevran on the beach again--white haired this time, old and lined and leaning happily into someone, and Alistair couldn't put himself into that picture. Only other people. Then he looked up from his stew and found Cole staring at him, like a weirdo. Fortunately the kid is easily distracted by any mention of nugs.)
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"If you let him insult you," he amends, unconsoled. Knife-ear in passing is one thing. It makes Alistair grit his teeth, but he can't fight everyone who does it. Knife-ear to someone stupid de Chevin should be grateful to even have the opportunity to look at, let alone kiss--Alistair would punch him. Then he would die.
Boots off, he looks up. It's a mistake.
"Are you sure--" Nothing he hasn't seen before. Less than he's seen before. It's fine. Andraste's sword. He takes a breath and leans sideways to reach his own pack, pull out one of the formless shirts he wears beneath his armor, and toss it into Zevran's line of sight. For Zevran's sake. It's too cold for anyone to be sleeping unclothed. "Are you sure," he goes on, "you wouldn't rather sleep with, uhm."
Whoever he's sleeping with. Both of them. The Right Thing ache makes a faint return.
(He got lost in thought, not many days ago, thinking about Zevran on the beach again--white haired this time, old and lined and leaning happily into someone, and Alistair couldn't put himself into that picture. Only other people. Then he looked up from his stew and found Cole staring at him, like a weirdo. Fortunately the kid is easily distracted by any mention of nugs.)