ombranera | Open RP Post

"They won't let me." He turns enough to press his face into Alistair's shoulder, fingers uncurling easily. "They need their figurehead. Someone to...point to and say that it is so because they say it so. Letting me step down would be admitting they were wrong. The rank and file would be confused, disheartened."

He doesn't care. He does. Not. Care.

"I should have let everyone think me dead at Haven." It would've been easiest to run then. He would not have gotten far in the snow, probably would have died frozen somewhere in a cave- but he would have done so under his own power, of his own choosing.

With the dagger set aside and Zevran's other arm looking closer to the right color, Alistair is free to slide a hand to the back of Zevran's head and hold him in place. "I'd miss you," he says.

He knows that isn't worth much. He tries to think of something that is and ducks his head down, nose against Zevran's hair.

"If you just hold on and survive this, I'll go with you," he says. "After we've seen to Corypheus. I can't before then, but afterwards--anywhere you want. If the Wardens won't call it an assignment, I'll walk away. I'm too handsome for them to kill." Too well-known, more seriously. A decade, and he hasn't asked for any special treatment or thrown his considerable weight around for anything. He could throw it into this. He adjusts to nudge Zevran with his nose, a chin up gesture. "I'll swear it. But you do have to promise let me have a dog."

He shouldn't snort a bitter laugh- but he is drunk enough to do so. To list away and shake his head because Alistair had made such promises once before, and the goal had been simple. Save the wardens. He's done that. And now? Now it is save the world. "What more after that?"

Because there would be something else. Some other thing Alistair needs of him for some reason or another. "What else when we are on the march and you change your mind again?"

Perhaps he shouldn't have taken Alistair for granted for so long. It'd be easier to bear the weight of his disagreement. But hearing 'yes' and 'sure Zev' for years has not made this simpler to swallow.

He earned that doubt. It still hurts, of course, but it's a deserved hurt. The kind he can accept without whining because he understands the justice in it. And there may be something else, someday. But even if the world is set to try to end every ten years now, on the dot, Alistair probably doesn't have that long to live.

He spits on his palm and holds it around to shake. Maybe that's just a Fereldan thing. "Just the dog."

"...fine." He spits in the palm of his glowing hand and shakes Alistair's, gripping as tightly as possible to help with the pins and needles ache. "It is a deal."

As though he will live long enough for it to matter. "...I suppose we should find the aforementioned cart."

A beat.

"Don't tell Dorian." About the hand. About any of this.

That hurts, too, in another way he can accept without whining, because it's the kind of hurt that means he's doing the right thing.

"Of course not," he says, while he wipes his hand on his thigh, and turns Zevran by the shoulders to straighten his coat and smooth his hair on one side so he's presentable. The Inquisitor.

The ride back to the encampment is silent. Conferring with his Inner Circle is spent mostly congratulating them for work well done, reassuring them that all is well, and avoiding Dorian and Bull. Hiding with Sera on the rooftop and talking about cookies seems to do some of the work for him.

Halamsiral calls and he- cannot be bothered with it. It is not his affair, he doesn't care, let them kill one another- but spending time in the frozen mess that is the Emprise does sooth his ire somewhat. Innocent people are dying, how terrible, how sad, it is the way of the world. Demons wandering about, now. He supposes that is his business. Little by little the bone deep resentment simmers and cools, hardening into something like resolve.

The day after they run into a deliciously handsome and charming Chevalier Zevran makes it obvious Alistair is welcome in his tent- not that Dorian or The Bull seem to have anything to say. He has finally convinced them of their relationship not being in such a way.

Which, of course, gives him leave to strip out of grimy clothes without a thought to Alistair's eyes as he marvels out loud, again, about how prettily that Chevalier blushed. "Skin as fair as his? He likely goes rosy from nose to mid thigh. What I would not give to see that."

Alistair--clothed, cold for one of the few times in his life, and suddenly keenly aware of his freckles--glares at his boots while he unties them. "Your life, I'd hope," he says, "or maybe your dignity. The way I've heard it Chevaliers usually take one or the other."

Edited 2016-07-10 05:24 (UTC)

"Ah, but did you see how he looked at me? He was intrigued." And looked like he could use a solid tumble after this Imshael demon had been tended to. "I have a bet with Bull and Dorian- three sovereigns to whomever might first wrangle a kiss."

He yanks too hard. A bootlace--brittle from the sun in the desert, now half-frozen--breaks, and he swears under his breath. He hates Orlais. One would think living somewhere for a decade would soften it, but no. He hates it.

"Thinking you're attractive and thinking you're a person aren't the same thing," he says without looking up, abandoning any pretense of untying the boots neatly and instead jerking at the laces until they loosen. "If you let him hurt you, I will punch him, and he will kill me."

"It is only a kiss, Alistair. Or perhaps fucking him- which would mess with his head more than mine." Zevran found those pamphlets about elves and considering them animals, oh yes. Without missing a beat he tugs a spare lace from his pack and offers it over.

"He will not hurt me. I have handled men twice his size with half his consideration." Trousers, gone- flicked to the side of the tent while he rummages about for something to sleep in- there is bound to be something appropriate in his pack.

Only a kiss earns a disgruntled sound. There is no sound appropriate for fucking him. Alistair goes still, instead, staring hard at his feet. So hard it takes him several beats to notice and take the lace.

"If you let him insult you," he amends, unconsoled. Knife-ear in passing is one thing. It makes Alistair grit his teeth, but he can't fight everyone who does it. Knife-ear to someone stupid de Chevin should be grateful to even have the opportunity to look at, let alone kiss--Alistair would punch him. Then he would die.

Boots off, he looks up. It's a mistake.

"Are you sure--" Nothing he hasn't seen before. Less than he's seen before. It's fine. Andraste's sword. He takes a breath and leans sideways to reach his own pack, pull out one of the formless shirts he wears beneath his armor, and toss it into Zevran's line of sight. For Zevran's sake. It's too cold for anyone to be sleeping unclothed. "Are you sure," he goes on, "you wouldn't rather sleep with, uhm."

Whoever he's sleeping with. Both of them. The Right Thing ache makes a faint return.

(He got lost in thought, not many days ago, thinking about Zevran on the beach again--white haired this time, old and lined and leaning happily into someone, and Alistair couldn't put himself into that picture. Only other people. Then he looked up from his stew and found Cole staring at him, like a weirdo. Fortunately the kid is easily distracted by any mention of nugs.)

"I have heard worse than anything he might say to me." The Crows are not so kind masters, Taliesin not so sweet an owner for him to be new to such things. But again, darker times for another night. For now there is a flask he sips from and offers over before accepting the shirt. It saves him the trouble of stealing one from Alistair later.

Another thing that makes the Bull squint on occasion, how often he smells of Alistair. Dorian gives him A Look and Cole makes noises and Sera makes Gestures but they are friends that do not fuck. It is a rare and precious thing, that.

It makes Alistair safe in ways he cannot quite explain, having someone that likes him without wanting him.

"Dorian or The Bull or both? I think, perhaps, something is brewing there and I know better than to wander in where I might become a complication." He might wish to be a complication, he might ache a little in want of that level of attention, that focus, that devotion and his voice may be a touch wistful- but he knows better. Such things are not for him. "It leaves my bed empty, so to speak."

"Dosnmakitalrit," Alistair mutters mutinously, for the sake of having registered his disagreement rather than to spur the argument any further. There's nothing to argue about. If the Chevalier steps out of line—especially if he touches Zevran before, during, or after—Alistair will give his life for the chance to break his pretty nose. In death, sacrifice.

He almost waves away the flask, but at the last moment converts the wave into a reach and takes a drink. A small one. He tips his head back far but blocks the liquor with his tongue. Popular opinion aside, he isn't stupid, isn't imperceptive. He knows that Zevran needs him to be steady.

The flask is set down where Zevran can reach it, if he wants it, and Alistair stands up to strip down with less grace but and only slightly more self-consciousness than Zevran did. Only because he still looks a touch ill. Too pale, sunken in places where he shouldn't sink, some of the chubbiness that blends well when he's at his most muscular still clinging awkwardly now that he's at his least. But he's improving quickly. It's not so bad. And he knows Zevran isn't looking, and hasn't looked for years.

Tangled halfway through the process of getting out of his coldsweat-drenched shirt, he says, "They'd be lucky to have you complicate anything, Zev."

Zevran ignores the comment as it is one that is meant to be ignored. The day has been fine, his spirits relatively high, and they've a mission to hunt and slaughter a demon in the morning. No strangeness with his hand, no politics required, no grand speeches. He can be Zevran for a little while and it becomes easier and easier to let the act slip and simply be himself. Especially now that the others seem to be warming to it.

Alistair never really needed that grace period, once he'd decided they were going to get along? They simply did. Strange thing, that. Zevran has never spared it much thought, simply taken it as truth that they are what they are.

"Ah, but I have been through that particular ride once before-" His lips twist faintly as he takes another brief swig of brandy, capping off the flask. "And it does not end well."

It ends in blood, in fact, and he would rather avoid that. "I shall content myself with sharing my bedroll with you, mm? All of the warmth, none of the fun- but none of the mess to clean up afterward."

If Alistair's frown weren't hidden in his shirt, the pity in it might be insulting. But it is hidden. By the time he's shirtless and trading for a clearn garment, he's brightened. "Hey. We could have some fun," he says. "We could play I Spy."

He pulls the shirt on. Leaves his trousers where they are. Those aren't sweaty.

"Or arm wrestle. I'd let you use both arms."

"I spy with my eye- someone that needs to eat more." He reaches out to rest his hand against Alistair's stomach, frowning. The usual slab of fat that he likes to rest his head against is still present- but it does not quite fit Alistair's hungry frame. "Seriously, Alistair. Tomorrow? We are hunting and finding something rich for you to eat."

The Calling is gone, he is sleeping better, he should be less haggard. That is Zevran's job. "Mmm. I suppose I would need two hands for you, wouldn't I?"

Ah, innuendo. Will it ever get old? Alistair will blush and sputter and roll his eyes, nudging him to the bedroll and they will both laugh.

Alistair pushes Zevran's hand away, mildly embarrassed but smiling. "Mm, snoufleur." Delicious. Maybe he'll make Sera sit on his feet and make him do curls for bites. She likes him well enough—

On cue, he blushes.

But he doesn't sputter, doesn't roll his eyes. He shakes his head instead, smile slipping and going crooked like it's barely managing to hang onto his face—exasperated, but shy, too, and furious with his own feelings—and nudges Zevran's foot with his foot before brushing past him to crawl into the bedroll. "I'm cold," he announces on the way to excuse his own abruptness. It's rare. He doesn't like it.

Blush yes- sputter no. Zevran blinks a bit at the odd angle of Alistair's smile, trying to place what has changed, for something must have changed. Was it the threatening to leave? Wishing to be rid of his hand? The argument he never really apologized for? Reason after reason click through his mind as he stands and peers after him, trying to make sense of this.

"Of course. At least we've extra furs, yes?" There are perks to being the Inquisitor, apparently. And they all involve keeping him warm. Zevran tugs a few of them over to the bedroll, tossing them on top before nudging Alistair with his elbow to slide in. There is the usual shifting and nosing along his shoulder before he is comfortable, arms looped about Alistair's middle, hands slightly chilled from the air resting against the small of his back.

It's fine. It's really fine. It's easier like this, curled up in a familiar way, where he can't second guess the appropriate length of a look and he knows from practice what he's allowed to do with his hands without making anything weird. There's nothing sexual about it. He was raised in a pile of dogs, warm bodies breathing on every side; the only way he could feel more at home would be if Zevran licked him to wake—

Scratch that.

"Ahhh," he says in flat, whiny protest at Zevran's cold fingers, but he doesn't flinch. It will be warm in a minute.

Maybe it isn't a Zevran thing, he thinks. It sounds fake even in his head, but he thinks it again anyway, stubbornly. Maybe it isn't a Zevran thing. Maybe it's a man thing. Maybe it's a two years since he got laid thing. Both. Maybe he'll flirt back at the next fellow who tries—it does happen, now and then—and get it out of his system.

"I spy," he says, shutting his eyes, which is probably not how the game works, but he doesn't have to look, "something that begins with T."

"You cannot use the whole tent for your item, Alistair. We are in a tent. That is like saying 'mud' in Fereldan or 'oppressive nobles' in Orlais. Or 'sand' in the Western Approach." Or darkspawn in the deep roads but he is trying to put such things out of his mind. Alistair is not climbing down into the depths to die anytime soon.

They are, on the whole, in the clear.

Alistair is quiet for a moment, contemplating his chances of success if he insists that wasn't what he was thinking of. Other things start with T. Tattoos. Trousers. Toes.

But he's a bad liar.

"I spy something that starts with S," he says instead, unmoving. "A smartass."

"You love me." He singsongs, much in the same tone Alistair uses to say the same to him. Turnabout is fair play. "Even when I am a smartass."

Otherwise they'd never have gotten on at all.

"That's true," Alistair says, and if the words stick in his throat a bit he pushes past it without allowing it to slow him down. No doubt, no hesitation, no teasing to make him squirm. There are already too many uncertainties for Zevran to deal with. Alistair won't be one of them if he can help it. He squeezes Zevran with his cradling arm for a second, then observes, "You're feeling better."

"Mhmm." He noses against Alistair's shoulder, sighing. This is certain, this is stable. The world may be wild and weird and strange, people may look at him with all the hope in the world in their eyes- but this? This is the same. "Leliana apologized. Apparently she did not consider the implications of what she did, why I found it so distasteful. Even Josephine was quite flustered to realize how it looked from my point of view. I am not...pleased, but I feel as though I can manage this so long as I am permitted to do so my way."

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