"Yes," Alistair echoes, smiling mostly with his eyes, which are very close to Zevran's eyes. The world hasn't changed, really. The ground doesn't shift. But he stops holding all of the want in the pit of his stomach and lets it unfurl all the way out to his fingers and toes, where it's only warm instead of aching.

If he has doubts he'll have them later. Watching Zevran sleep, maybe, or watching him carry on with his friends or disappear into the war room to make important decisions with important people. Alistair will have plenty of time to feel reckless and selfish and inadequate then. Right now is for kissing Zevran's mouth again, one hand falling to hold him at mid-back.

"Your friends are going to be smug," he says, not because he's a mind reader, but because it's a very obvious and pressing concern. "If you want to tell them it didn't work out I can try not to look at you like—"

Like he's been looking at him for months every time his back was turned. While trying not to.

"I could hide somewhere," he amends, rather than pretending he'll have any control over his face.