Alistair nods merrily behind Zevran's wrist, bright-eyed and pleased that Zevran has noticed. He is ridiculous. There's nothing to be frightened of.
The teasing mischief in his smile sharpens for a second when Zevran turns a color Alistair has never seen on him: that's my job, he could say, or you're not so tough. But he really isn't so tough, is the thing. Alistair's face softens again, goes a little overwhelmed on his own behalf; he's never had anything as rare or as nice or as easily damaged as a lapful of Zevran Arainai with his guard down.
He kisses his cheek, where the blush is. He feels like he's been kissing everything in reach, constantly, but he's a little giddy off the fact that he can (without being a bastard or getting his heart broken) and the almost-as-new fact that he wants to. "Your hands," he says again, in belated confirmation, and moves the one he's holding to his own shoulder for safekeeping. "On me." Sheepish. Conscript the boy out of the Chantry— "I'm going to stop trying to flirt with you now."
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The teasing mischief in his smile sharpens for a second when Zevran turns a color Alistair has never seen on him: that's my job, he could say, or you're not so tough. But he really isn't so tough, is the thing. Alistair's face softens again, goes a little overwhelmed on his own behalf; he's never had anything as rare or as nice or as easily damaged as a lapful of Zevran Arainai with his guard down.
He kisses his cheek, where the blush is. He feels like he's been kissing everything in reach, constantly, but he's a little giddy off the fact that he can (without being a bastard or getting his heart broken) and the almost-as-new fact that he wants to. "Your hands," he says again, in belated confirmation, and moves the one he's holding to his own shoulder for safekeeping. "On me." Sheepish. Conscript the boy out of the Chantry— "I'm going to stop trying to flirt with you now."