There, that's plenty—unsettled pieces settling, wobbly feelings grounding, the resurgence of certainty that even if this will end soon and painfully it's the right thing in the meantime. They fit. Zevran's head belongs against his chest, and his hand—Alistair covers it with his own while he turns to kiss him on the forehead.

"You're my favorite person, too."

A kiss for the bridge of his broad handsome nose, and one for his mouth, though that takes some squirming and shifting to get level.

"And the love of my life." He means it, smiling and sincere, but he's quick with another kiss—a long one—so there's no silence for Zevran to fill, and Alistair's hand leaves Zevran's to slide around the back of his thigh and hitch him closer. If that's a language he's more comfortable with. "Zev, I—" he says, but there's too much feeling in that, too, so he shifts onto his side to push against him and looks a little sly, in his unsubtle way, before he amends to, "Your Worship."

See how he likes it.