ombranera | Open RP Post

"I didn't talk to her," Alistair says, scandalized by the very idea, "but she's alive and all of that. She was wearing clothes."

Real clothes. A dress. He's been keeping an idle eye out for children, mostly curious whether she ate hers or not, but if she hasn't eaten it she probably had the sense to keep it away from whatever is happening here tonight. He looks at Zevran again, long enough to check him for injuries or an uneven gait despite knowing he'd be able to hide it.

He's aware he looks like a bodyguard. He prefers that to everything else. Next fancy party, he's getting a plain mask and making everyone call him Allan.

"Josephine has a list of people who want to dance with you," he adds, which is likely a mix of people who want a word and people who want a scandal, "and Cullen needs help, he's been cornered and proposed to. But Leliana is fine."

"I should hope so, can you imagine the scandal?" A naked Morrigan- he has to squint into the middle distance, trying to place the shape of her from a memory ten years old. A lovely woman that would continue to be lovely. "Mmm. Dance with me first and then I will dance with the top three of her list- then help Cullen. Or perhaps I should help Cullen first."

He has become somewhat fond of the man. He means well. He tries hard and he means well and that normally is not enough but for now? it is.

They've just about reached the edge of the dancefloor when he offers Alistair a hand, brows raised expectantly behind his mask. "You do know how to dance, yes? More than just your Remigold?"

"I'd rather not," Alistair mutters, because this is a world where he's never had to see Morrigan naked, and he's very fond of that reality. He isn't going to tempt fate by thinking about it too much. And if he were at any risk of thinking about it despite himself, that risk evaporates at dance with me and Zevran's offered hand.

It should be easy. A few months ago he wouldn't have paused. He'd have curtsied invisible skirts and found opportunity to duck down low enough to let Zevran twirl him.

Now he looks at his hand, his own raised but not quite reaching. "That depends on what you mean by know how," he says, "and how much you like those boots. They'd probably be safer with Cullen."

"You are not so terrible as all that." He says easily, head tilted. Expectant. There should be a joke or a curtsy, should be some odd commentary about letting Zev dip him not-

Not this hesitance.

It doesn't fit the established pattern, doesn't fit what he knows of Alistair. "Afraid to be seen dancing with the Inquisitor, therefore garnering yourself even more attention, is it?"

It's the kindest assumption to make. He knows it isn't that he is an elf or a man.

"Afraid I'll fall and crush you and the world will end," Alistair says.

Afraid he'll look too pleased and Zevran will know everything, afraid that once he knows he'll look back and every opportunity Alistair's taken to touch him will be sullied and wrong and some sort of betrayal, afraid he'll lose all two inches of progress he's made this week in his quest to get a grip on himself.

But Zevran still has his hand out, and Alistair can't leave him standing there like that. He takes it.

"I'm exactly as terrible as that," he says. "You'll have to lead."

"I will roll out of the way if you are going to fall.Perhaps I'll let you trip into some lovely noblewoman's bosom. Or onto Morrigan!" Would that not be great fun?

His hand is gentle when it closes around Alistair's all the same, leading him out to a rash of murmurs and soft gasps. Maric's bastard and the Inquisitor? Oh shock! Oh scandal! In the interest of provoking more outrage than he probably should (it's funny to him) Zevran steps in closer than needed, letting his hand slip to the small of Alistair's back. He'll laugh, it'll be fine.

"I will need some help when it comes time to dip you."

He doesn't laugh. He does smile, though. It will take more than an unrequited crush (which is what this is, all it is; he loved Zevran before he wanted to kiss him and he'll love him when it passes) to make shocking some Orlesians feel like a bad idea. He holds his abs and his back too tightly wound, maybe, in a way that will make him sore later but also make make him feel a bit more like a stupidly toned Chevalier; settles a hand on Zevran's shoulder easily enough; and says, "Will you," flatly but lightly. The dog mask is fitting with how he tilts his head. "Give me a signal."

"I shall wink." He says, "You can see me blinking through your mask, yes?"

He should. It isn't so difficult, the way the lines rest against the face, the way he'd used Dorian's khol to darken his lashes and offer an even greater rakish appearance to himself. As though he needs it with the cape and the fitted trousers. One thing he can take as a point of pride- all of his entourage is ridiculously attractive. Even Alistair. The short coat does offer the best view to what he'd mentioned before- a well fed Alistair has a well rounded ass. There is a moment's temptation to goose him, to add to the joke- but the music is high and they are averting murder, cutting through the game's bullshit like a dagger, and Alistair seemed...unsettled, somewhat, by being here.

Too many Orlesians and questions about the blight, perhaps. He takes mercy.

For now.

A considering look, and then Alistair lets go of his shoulder to adjust his mask by the beak. Not much. Fractionally upward, to give him a better line of sight through the eye holes. Maybe touching masks is rude in Orlais; he hasn't spent enough time around the nobility to know and, also, doesn't care.

He tries to relax. This is harmless. A prank--and not one Zevran is playing on him, one he's included in, so not even his easily outraged feelings can be hurt. The music is loud enough and the dance is mobile enough that he doesn't feel like he's risking any matters of security when he asks, "Are we almost done?"

With the sneaking. The murder. The party. He would like to leave.

"Just about. I will probably be making some manner of quiet dramatic unveiling to Gaspard and Empress Celene shortly, after which there will be a more public unveiling and apprehension of the true assassin at work here. And then? I put the fear of the maker into the Empress and we have time for, perhaps, one last dance before we sweep out of this place and go somewhere I can take this mask off." All light and bright and easy, as though discussing the weather. Not many can read lips, he's learned, but tone? Is simple enough.

He draws Alistair close and, true to his word, gives him a wink before he attempts the dip.

It is quite a strain upon his shoulders- but he's carried heavier things for far less cause. "And then it is celebratory wine and ravishments for all."

There's a moment--because Alistair is helping, one foot braced back to support himself, arm tight enough around Zevran's shoulders that he's somewhat more manageable than a sack of potatoes--when the weight is balanced and no one has to fall down on their arse in front of everyone who's anyone in Orlais.

Then Zevran says ravishments. Ravishments while leaning over him, and Alistair helpless and dependent in a way he might like-like or that might just make him nauseated: the swooping, sinking feeling in his stomach is open for interpretation. And it will have to be interpreted later, because his braced leg slips out from under him.

The upside is that this will provide a reasonable excuse for the blushing. The downside is that he's moving to the Sunless Lands and never coming back.

Braced as he might have been he can't very well hold up against the sudden slump of Alistair's weight without warning. Down they go and he is just able to catch himself with some manner of grace rather than tumbling down upon him entirely. THere is the expected spatter of laughter but Zevran, breathless and crackling with laughter, leans up to peer into Alistair's eyes as though they are the only ones in the room.

For the moment? He is the only one that matters.

"I said I would need help holding you up, Bello."

Falling flat should be a reasonable excuse for his breath catching, too, in addition to the blushing. For not being able to move right away. But when he does move it's up onto his elbows, nearer Zevran's face, managing a smirk and an air of challenge. Blushing, yes. Virgin, no.

"And I said I couldn't dance," he says, pauses for a second to choose an appropriate retaliatory pet name--meatball is given brief consideration--"dearest."

For whatever game Zevran is playing. It's above Alistair's head, but he can try to keep up. He twists sideways and out from beneath Zevran, and he's still mottled red everywhere his skin is visible--because of the crowd's tittering, arguably, except he gives them a bow, with a performer's wide-sweeping flourish, like a classroom of snickering students just before he's dragged off to sit very still on his knees and meditate on the sanctity of the Chant. It's Zevran he doesn't look at.

There is something more than mere playing, here. Something more than the joke and the act they put on for the laughing crowd, waiting with baited breath. Somewhere distantly Zevran hears a hissed 'kiss him' from one of the nobles and he does in fact give the idea some consideration. Just a touch, before Alistair is pulling away and the moment is gone. Likewise he sweeps into a bow with a flourish of his cape, hooking an arm around Alistair's waist to take him off the floor.

Now, perhaps, it was time enough, their backs to the congregation, in full view-

To let that hand slip down and casually palm Alistair's ass.

"Keep walking, we're almost to the alcove." A soft aside murmured with all the warmth and desire he would give a lover's endearment.

Hand.

Hand on his ass.

Maker's breath.

To say he jumps would be an exaggeration, but he certainly straightens like he's been struck by a bolt, walking more rapidly for two or three steps before the surprise fades and he shoots Zevran a look. The parts of his face that are visible are still splotchy, and now mildly betrayed as well, like a dog that doesn't know why--why a treat is being withheld, that's the best analogy here--until Zevran's murmur makes the put-upon set of his mouth loosen.

He goes to the alcove. "I'd say they'll be talking about that for weeks," he says, mostly just to talk, unsure what Zevran plans to do with him and unable to leave a good stretch of silence unmarred, "but under the circumstances..."

They'll probably be talking about the assassination plot.

Once they reach the alcove and some manner of privacy Zevran lets his hand drop and steps away, giving Alistair his space back. "Now they shall assume anything we spoke of was mere lover's chatter rather than planning anything nefarious."

Because the two are mutually exclusive, of course.

"I know I did not warn you for that last but- I have crossed no lines, yes?" if he has he'd apologize- now that Alistair has expressed some interest (perhaps) in men he is no longer certain how far he might push in his teasing.

"No, ah," Alistair says, hands spreading in the air level with his hips, "what's mine is yours, ser. By all means."

It's the worst line he's ever used. Worse still for how true it is. As soon as they're out of here and he has a moment alone he's going to beat his head against a wall. For now he's still managing to smile, splotches and all, while he sinks deeper out of sight. Maybe he an stay here the rest of the night.

"I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"So generous." Zev reaches up to pat his shoulder- companionable rather than condescending. "I've others to dance with, I'm sure, Cullen to save, a plot to thwart, and an Empire to bend to my will."

The low crackling of laughter heard after might be just on this side of too pleased. Should anyone be this cheerful when contemplating murder? Probably not! "Ah, this is better than murdering corrupt politicians in Antiva City!"

It takes a moment for him to clear his throat and straighten out the lay of Alistair's coat. "Of course not. You never have and likely never will."

Alistair shakes his head, a gesture that's equal parts fond exasperation and token protest against the idea of murdering anyone being fun, and stands still to endure Zevran's fussing over his coat. He's of half a mind to rumple Zevran in revenge—make him look kissed, maybe, before he goes back out in front of everyone, but he can't sort the funny prank from the petty jealous display in his head. He keeps his hands at his sides and smiles a little wider at the trust.

When Zevran's done he pushed a fist against his shoulder—not a punch, friendly punches are for people closer to Alistair's size—and says, "Go get 'em. If you need me," which he won't, shouldn't, but just in case, "I'll be hiding behind Leliana."

Leliana, who touches his forearm when he settles in to stand next to her and gives him a look of entertained pity, then makes keen observations about the local fashion while he pretends to listen and watches Zevran dance with people considerably less oafish. But perhaps slightly more likely to hurt him anyway, Alistair supposes. Maybe it balances out.

It goes well, all told. He sweeps out, he dances, saves Cullen, vanishes into the shadows and only has to endure a few quiet cracks about 'teasing the poor fellow, honestly' from Dorian before the usual excuse is offered. They are not like that, Alistair prefers women, there is nothing of the sort about. Espionage is difficult enough without someone commenting on his lovelife, especially from someone that is somewhat a part of the same.

Somewhere between the blackmail and the grand reveal, the terribly unfortunate loss of Gaspard's life (It was self defense, you see) and a quiet confirmation that Celene will get her shit together or there would be consequences far, far worse than death should she fail to do so. It is gratifying to see that tense fear, that awareness that no. Birala is in his pocket, not hers. As though he'd ever hand someone back to the loving arms of a toxic woman.

The Inquisition saves Orlais and triumphs, hurrah! Go team! And there is, in fact, time for one last dance after everything, speaking with Morrigan, watching The Bull and Dorian settle in close and crackling with sentiment on the dance floor. At the quiet balcony he's claimed for himself he waits for a short while. To catch his breath. To peel off the mask and set it aside and consider all the risks he'd taken. The payout had been marvelous, yes, but-

It weighs upon him after the fact

Alistair sees Dorian and Bull begin to peel away from each other, sharing a look, and maybe it would be sweet of them to go after him. But Alistair is closer. Or getting closer, rapidly. He passes them before they've come to a conclusion and turns to walk backwards, head and eyebrows slanted into a playful, smirky glare. He points from his eyes to them, both of them, fingers wiggling sideways so they know they're both included.

Friendly, all of it. His concern for Zev, his inflated and posturing jealousy. He knows what they think, since Zevran told him, and right now he doesn't care. He might not be sleeping with him, but he was still here first.

Once he's outside he pushes his mask back off his face like a visor and nudges Zevran's calf with the toe of his boot.

"I think," he says with drawling import, "you should have given Orlais to Ferelden. I bet you could have. I bet you could have done it and made them say merci afterwards."

Whatever subtle drama plays out behind him- Zevran is unaware. It will only make the pointed commentary and looks later all the more amusing, he's certain. Footsteps and his shoulders go straighter for half a second before he places the gait.

Familiar as breathing, that stride, and the tension uncurls as though it'd never been. Alistair does not need him to be anything but himself.

"Anora might think I'm trying to flirt, an then Jonas would have to try to get one up on me." Which would be impossible but- well. Jonas. He turns his head enough to see him, really see him in the finery and moonlight and wonder again perhaps he could...but they are not that way. Alistair has a limited amount of time left. So does he, even if it seems less and less impossible with every win against Corypheus they manage. "I will take having the Empress in my back pocket and be content."

"If you like thinking small, maybe," Alistair says, all fake sniffing Orlesian-y disdain. He puts a hand around onto Zevran's shoulder and gives it a massaging sort of squeeze. It's been a long night. And Zevran is definitely more famous than he is now—probably has been for ages, probably more famous than Cousland—but he doubts that's something Zevran wants to hear. "Are you all right?"

"Sometimes it is about the bigger picture, when you think small." The elves, he'd thought. Put himself in their shoes, thought of their lives, their deaths. Counted himself among their number for the first time since he was a child, truly. Acted on their behalf and it still feels strange to have done so. But here he has leave to lean, to tip his cheek against Alistair's shoulder and sigh. "I am waiting for the other shoe to drop. I cannot feel as though things went too well, here. There must be something I am missing."

It's half subconscious, the way Alistair's hand slides down Zevran's shoulder to seek out his wrist; the intent to comfort comes first, and it isn't until he's lifting the hand up to hold against Zevran's chest, part of a one-armed hug, that he realizes it's the glowing one. That's the other shoe.

He doesn't say it.

"You're missing how great you are," he does say. "It went well because you did well. Sometimes it works out that way. I'm told, anyway."

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