ombranera | Open RP Post

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."

That's good. It's all good. Alistair is taking it seriously. There's gravitas to his pause and his nod, chin brushing against Zevran's hair if he can't see it, so he isn't being a complete jerk when he says, "In a bird mask?"

"..." There is a moment where Zevran remains utterly still- and that is the only warning Alistair is given before his hands skitter along his ribs. Tickling him in punishment for doubting his way.

"Nooo," Alistair manages, half yelp, in the midst of squirming and laughing. It's not fair. He can't retaliate. He's trapped by the bedroll. The most he can do is roll sideways, protectively onto his belly, dragging the roll and Zevran sideways along with him. (He's fine. If he weren't enjoying himself the whole camp would know.) "You're the worst."

"I am the worst? You are the worst!" Zevran's attack does not relent, even if it does take a bit of shifting, a little tangling about to get the proper leverage to keep his hands moving along ribs and too pale skin and soft places that Alistair shouldn't have.

"I'm the--" Talking and laughing is hard. "--the second worst at--" At most. Because Zevran is the worst. But Alistair doesn't get that far, because the tangling and hands turn a corner into something that isn't awkward but could get there if left unchecked. He stops squirming and says, "Zevran"--serious, now, even if it's stuck between helpless laughs.

"Yeeeeeeeees?" An easy mimicry of Alistair's own drawn out quip, hands going still for the moment. He may start up again, who can say? Not him. But that sounded somewhat serious and-

There are lines, he knows. He is not always aware when he crosses them but- Alistair is ever kind and patient when pointing them out.

Alistair is quiet for a moment. Catching his breath. Which is inspiration for a lie that's at least plausible, and maybe his chronic poor delivery is masked by the breathlessness and muffled by the furs, or maybe Zevran is acquainted enough with the signs of genuine suffocation for it to be hopeless: "Couldn't breathe."

"You know, when someone tells me I take their breath away- this usually is not what they mean." And he is still too pleased, too content to have this one, simple thing that isn't so odd any longer to worry about more than perhaps making it difficult for Alistair to breathe. One hand slips up to rest against his cheek, considering. "You are alright now, yes? Shall we call a truce?"

Alistair's nod is shaky, the first time. He takes another breath, grounds himself--a difficult task made easier by knowing that it's what Zevran needs--and nods again, evenly, before rolling back around to return to their standard and very platonic snuggle.

***

He's fine, he's fine, he's fine.

But he's also very pleased to see the back of Michel de Chevin, when they leave, and not because there's anything nice about his back side, which is just as Orlesian and capital-N Noble as the rest of him. He doesn't say so to Zevran, though. He doesn't say anything at all to Zevran. On the march he hands back with the soldiers--in particular a few Fereldans who know how to properly appreciate his noisy complaints about Orlais and its inhabitants--instead of with Zevran's inner circle, which he isn't quite part of. (That's fine, too. He's his own circle.)

So the next time he does see Zevran is in one of the busier taverns along the Imperial Highway, one with enough ale to support the Inquisition's brief invasion even if most people still have to sleep elsewhere in tents; Alistair might be among them, later, but right now he's splashing his face and arms out of one of the public basins. He has a hickey. He's miserable--that mix of shame and longing and helplessness that combines into faint nausea and can't be focused into anything productive--but he isn't angry, and when he sees Zevran he smiles.

"How many drinks does three sovereigns buy, here?"

The Emprise has been managed- or at least as best he could at the moment. The Red Lyrium mine destroyed, people freed, a demon slain-

And a marvelous prize afterward. Making Michel an Agent of the Inquisition for his connections- or at least his techniques- is probably not the most politic notion after one has ravished him thoroughly. (He'd been right, the blush goes all the way to the knees.) But he'd done it all the same. Alistair's hanging back- well he did not know what to think of it. But he had gold in his pocket and a better mood with which to plan handling Halamshiral.

The tavern is a fine idea, a place to settle in, to pay more than they owe for goodwill, and to drink. Brandy in his belly and the promise of a warm night with Dorian and The Bull (he knows better than to step in but an open invitation? he will take) ahead, Zevran is positively whistling when he buffs his nails in the adjoining basin. "It depends upon the drink. Several rounds for the whole tavern of ale- or a few rounds for myself and a friend of the finest Orlesian Brandy. It is not quite Antivan, but it will have to do."

His eyes flick up and ah, he catches the hickey and his smile goes wide. "Ah-ha! That is why you drifted to the back of the march. You wished to find some company, yes? How was she?"

For three seconds that feel like twenty, Alistair considers lying. It would be a very easy lie--one letter--and arguably a harmless one. But if Zevran doesn't have ears everywhere, Leliana certainly does. It will be less harmless if it comes back around that way. If it's something Zevran decides Alistair believes anyone should be ashamed of.

So, "He," he says, awkwardly but without emphasis, something he wants to brush quickly past, "called me Your Highness, so I left."

That's not a lie. Not entirely. It was only an attempt at friendly cheekiness that Alistair might have handled better if he were in a better mood, though, and more than anything an excuse to get offended and disentangle himself without admitting that he was the problem.

"I don't want to talk about it," he adds, in case his scowling at the water in front of him didn't make that clear. "Congratulations on your--brandy."

"..." He blinks. 'He'. Alistair has never before truly expressed interest in men- that is not all of what makes him safe but it is a fair part in it. The idea of him with a man is...not unpleasing, honestly. He has a body meant to be appreciated this is true and for half a moment Zevran's eyes flick from the top of his head to the toes of his boots and drag upward in a way that they have not for roughly a decade.

Considering.

The glint leaves his face soon enough, brows lifting, taking that half step closer to catch his elbow. "...must I have words with this man?"

It does not feel like something so simple as calling Alistair 'your highness' and him leaving. Not with that scowl. "Pointed words?"

"No," Alistair says, and, "Maker," and then, "no," again for good measure--but there's relief in it, too, that that would be what Zevran asks, that there's no sudden understanding or pity on his face. "He didn't mean anything by it. I just--"

He stops, scowl shifting from troubled to fondly irritated as he gestures to the air between them with his free arm.

"This is that talking about it that I didn't want to do." You can't trick him, see. He's too clever. "But thank you," he adds, "for offering."

"You cannot simply say such a thing after so long chasing skirts that I might not have some manner of concern, Alistair." He crosses his arms, leaning against the wall to peer up at him. All seems well but-

Something twitches at the back of his mind. Something he has long since forgotten or ignored.

"What made you wish to attempt hopping the boarder, mm?"

It takes him a moment, first to realize Zevran isn't talking about a literal border and then to remember where he's heard that phrasing before, and then he huff a single ha while his focus returns to the basin.

"Well, now I've been to Orlais," obviously, "the Anderfels, the Marches, Nevarra, Rivain, Antiva--" In all cases spending most of his time underground, but it counts. "--so it was this or Tevinter."

He rubs water on his neck. Again. It's already clean. But he's never liked this--the aftermath of sleeping with strangers, even women, even with less abortive and embarrassing ends. Too much like what he imagines his father was like.

"..." This does not quite fit. Not well, not easily, and there is still something here he is missing. He opens his mouth to ask when the rubbing catches his attention, the attempt to wipe away the bruise. He sighs and steps in, like he always has, to take Alistair's jaw in hand.

"Let me see-" Like he can fix it, and he can. A small jar of salve from his pocket that smells of clove and faintly of elfroot that he could just leave for Alistair to use- but he thinks nothing at all of scooping out a portion and rubbing it against the mark himself. "Give it an hour or so after this soaks in, and it should fade."

Alistair goes as still and obedient as if Zevran had a knife to him--or a razor, more aptly, he isn't afraid--with his eyes angled to watch what little he can see of Zevran's hand rather than looking him in the face. All hands on necks and jaws aside, they're safe, he thinks. Maybe safer if he keeps joking. Deflection has gotten him this far in life.

He says, "You should see the other guy."

"I am tempted to seek him out- if only to see what it is that finally called you to trying something so foreign." Were they human, elven, Qunari? Were they nice but not too nice- Alistair did best with someone that bit back, so to speak, were they broad or blonde or ginger?

All...aesthetic curiosities, to be certain. His pride is not at stake here in the slightest. What they have? Means more. Because-

Because Alistair does not want him and that makes this safe. "And to, perhaps, offer you direction to someone that won't call you 'highness', yes?"

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