"Oh," Alistair says. There's no tickling or falling to blame for the stutter in his inhale this time. There's also no point in blaming it on anything, because in the next breath he's pulling one of Zevran's hands out of his hair and down, back, past Alistair's hips on the desk to drag him a couple of inches closer so Alistair doesn't have to stand up to put both hands on his face and kiss him.
All of that without thinking. He doesn't think at all until his mouth is pressed to Zevran's, and then it's just, I'm going to lose him.
He won't admit it out loud. Out loud they're going to win, Zevran's going to chop his hand off, they're going to retire to Rivain. But silently: he's going to lose him. Usually it's the opposite. A countdown until Alistair will have to leave. Asking himself how willing he is to hurt instead of how willing to be hurt.
It turns out the answer is very. For this. For Zevran. Alistair slides his hand to the side of his neck, thumb on his jaw, and murmurs, "Please tell me this is what you meant."
Joking. He's pretty sure it is. Seventy-five percent sure.
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Date: 2016-07-17 04:40 am (UTC)All of that without thinking. He doesn't think at all until his mouth is pressed to Zevran's, and then it's just, I'm going to lose him.
He won't admit it out loud. Out loud they're going to win, Zevran's going to chop his hand off, they're going to retire to Rivain. But silently: he's going to lose him. Usually it's the opposite. A countdown until Alistair will have to leave. Asking himself how willing he is to hurt instead of how willing to be hurt.
It turns out the answer is very. For this. For Zevran. Alistair slides his hand to the side of his neck, thumb on his jaw, and murmurs, "Please tell me this is what you meant."
Joking. He's pretty sure it is. Seventy-five percent sure.