"Next time," Alistair repeats. As if he'd actually make Zevran sleep in the hay. He might be able to find a way to make rolling in the hay something slightly better than just itchy and unappealing, but sleeping, when there is that obscenely comfortable bed to consider—

Anyway, mostly he just likes the words. And he likes Zevran's hand in his, but he lets go of it, finally, to get both arms around him.

"How long," he says, haltingly—"I mean, when—you don't have to tell me."