But this isn't the time to argue. He knows that. This is—
"That's not fair," he says.
It is at least quiet, subdued, more sad than irritated. He still helps with the shirt as carefully as before, a glance at Zevran's face reproachful but not lingering before he ducks his head down to—not his neck and shoulder.
He remembers at the last moment. Even if he isn't angry in a way that frightens. His head jerks back up more quickly than it lowered and he tries pressing his forehead against Zevran's instead, nose next to nose, looking down at his cheeks. He really does have the best skin Alistair has ever seen. The hands that settle flat on his bare back rub in a way that's meant to be more soothing than exploratory, but. Maker.
"I thought something was off," he says, teasing—more weakly this time, distracted. He's going to kiss him. He does kiss him. Slowly, but not chastely; he doesn't know how to be worth ten years of wanting, however idle it might have been, but he makes a go of it.
no subject
But this isn't the time to argue. He knows that. This is—
"That's not fair," he says.
It is at least quiet, subdued, more sad than irritated. He still helps with the shirt as carefully as before, a glance at Zevran's face reproachful but not lingering before he ducks his head down to—not his neck and shoulder.
He remembers at the last moment. Even if he isn't angry in a way that frightens. His head jerks back up more quickly than it lowered and he tries pressing his forehead against Zevran's instead, nose next to nose, looking down at his cheeks. He really does have the best skin Alistair has ever seen. The hands that settle flat on his bare back rub in a way that's meant to be more soothing than exploratory, but. Maker.
"I thought something was off," he says, teasing—more weakly this time, distracted. He's going to kiss him. He does kiss him. Slowly, but not chastely; he doesn't know how to be worth ten years of wanting, however idle it might have been, but he makes a go of it.