Alistair's nod is shaky, the first time. He takes another breath, grounds himself--a difficult task made easier by knowing that it's what Zevran needs--and nods again, evenly, before rolling back around to return to their standard and very platonic snuggle.
***
He's fine, he's fine, he's fine.
But he's also very pleased to see the back of Michel de Chevin, when they leave, and not because there's anything nice about his back side, which is just as Orlesian and capital-N Noble as the rest of him. He doesn't say so to Zevran, though. He doesn't say anything at all to Zevran. On the march he hands back with the soldiers--in particular a few Fereldans who know how to properly appreciate his noisy complaints about Orlais and its inhabitants--instead of with Zevran's inner circle, which he isn't quite part of. (That's fine, too. He's his own circle.)
So the next time he does see Zevran is in one of the busier taverns along the Imperial Highway, one with enough ale to support the Inquisition's brief invasion even if most people still have to sleep elsewhere in tents; Alistair might be among them, later, but right now he's splashing his face and arms out of one of the public basins. He has a hickey. He's miserable--that mix of shame and longing and helplessness that combines into faint nausea and can't be focused into anything productive--but he isn't angry, and when he sees Zevran he smiles.
"How many drinks does three sovereigns buy, here?"
no subject
***
He's fine, he's fine, he's fine.
But he's also very pleased to see the back of Michel de Chevin, when they leave, and not because there's anything nice about his back side, which is just as Orlesian and capital-N Noble as the rest of him. He doesn't say so to Zevran, though. He doesn't say anything at all to Zevran. On the march he hands back with the soldiers--in particular a few Fereldans who know how to properly appreciate his noisy complaints about Orlais and its inhabitants--instead of with Zevran's inner circle, which he isn't quite part of. (That's fine, too. He's his own circle.)
So the next time he does see Zevran is in one of the busier taverns along the Imperial Highway, one with enough ale to support the Inquisition's brief invasion even if most people still have to sleep elsewhere in tents; Alistair might be among them, later, but right now he's splashing his face and arms out of one of the public basins. He has a hickey. He's miserable--that mix of shame and longing and helplessness that combines into faint nausea and can't be focused into anything productive--but he isn't angry, and when he sees Zevran he smiles.
"How many drinks does three sovereigns buy, here?"