Alistair's face falls, for a second, and for that same second he's at risk of taking it personally, making it about his problems, doubting. For a second. Then he smiles again, less smirky this time.
"It's all right. You don't have to," he says.
Doesn't have to say it, doesn't have to love him—whatever makes Zevran press into his side at night, whatever prompts all of the tenderness and affection, it's either love or the closest and best thing Alistair has ever had, whatever Zevran wants to call or not call it.
Alistair remembers he's standing there naked and moves, crawling onto the bed to settle alongside Zevran—not over him—and draw his rough fingertips curiously up his bare thigh and over his hipbone. His smirk returns. Cautiously. If it's possible for a smirk to be cautious. "Just tell me I'm your favorite human again."
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Date: 2016-07-23 01:47 pm (UTC)"It's all right. You don't have to," he says.
Doesn't have to say it, doesn't have to love him—whatever makes Zevran press into his side at night, whatever prompts all of the tenderness and affection, it's either love or the closest and best thing Alistair has ever had, whatever Zevran wants to call or not call it.
Alistair remembers he's standing there naked and moves, crawling onto the bed to settle alongside Zevran—not over him—and draw his rough fingertips curiously up his bare thigh and over his hipbone. His smirk returns. Cautiously. If it's possible for a smirk to be cautious. "Just tell me I'm your favorite human again."