Perhaps this is safe enough- it is Alistair after all; the boy that sleeps in stables and wears wet socks and finds every trap with his face and his feet and whines piteously over splinters but shrugs off seeping gutwounds to ask after someone else's sprained ankle. Everything in him is...
It is everything Zevran is afraid of ruining by being him- but if he were going to taint Alistair, to break him, wouldn't that have happened already?
Like touching something fine and silver till the blood on his hands caused it to tarnish. That is his expectation, that is his fear beyond the mere loss. But held like this, looked at like this- he doesn't know what to do. What Alistair wants other than to simply hold him. "I think you are doing quite well."
He tips his head down, easier not to look at him and feel his skin so red and thy aren't even naked yet, Maker, what is wrong with him. "For someone that has no idea what it is they are doing, that is."
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It is everything Zevran is afraid of ruining by being him- but if he were going to taint Alistair, to break him, wouldn't that have happened already?
Like touching something fine and silver till the blood on his hands caused it to tarnish. That is his expectation, that is his fear beyond the mere loss. But held like this, looked at like this- he doesn't know what to do. What Alistair wants other than to simply hold him. "I think you are doing quite well."
He tips his head down, easier not to look at him and feel his skin so red and thy aren't even naked yet, Maker, what is wrong with him. "For someone that has no idea what it is they are doing, that is."