ombranera | Open RP Post

***

Leliana is furious (but a little entertained, Alistair thinks, secretly); Josephine will never love him now. Still: totally worth it.

He's pleased with himself all the way back to Skyhold, regardless of any victory ravishments Zevran dispenses along the way. He deserves them. And Alistair knows from experience that he can outlast his own loneliness and be fine. If everyone lives and he goes to Rivain and spends the rest of his life working for that laughter and those hands in his hair, and sleeping outside with the dog (that he's getting) when Zevran has someone over, he'll be happier than most people ever are.

In the meantime he just needs to avoid Sera (looks like your heart's about to fall out your eyeballs, beaky) and definitely Cole and obviously Dorian and Bull and probably Cassandra,while he's at it, with her romance serials and a moment in the courtyard when she looks like she might like to actually speak to him and acknowledge his existence before she flushes and walks busily elsewhere—

Everyone but Zevran and the red shirts. (Many of them do in fact wear red.) Which is a small part of why he's up in the luxurious bedroom at the top of the highest tower in Skyhold, sitting on the edge of a fancy desk and looking through the balcony doors at the mountains. The larger reason is the same as the reason he's here at all anymore, instead of with the Wardens in Orlais or riding to Weisshaupt with Hawke.

Alistair brought food—bread and cheese—and he's not so committed to his half-conscious mission to be attractive in Zevran's presence that he won't talk with his mouth full like a barbarian. He has ancestors to make proud.

"You're really going to give this up?"

Remarkably-

None. Of the victory ravishments. He himself had seen it coming but to know that Dorian and The Bull are working on being a little more exclusive, on putting one another first? That eases something in him on their behalf. It is a strange feeling and one he does not quite know if he enjoys or not- but apparently the offer to join them now and again will be extended and for him? That is more than enough. He is content with their friendship-

Which is something he has not felt quite so contented with since Alistair, honestly. He certainly did not expect it to happen again and yet- Sera whom takes after him, whom he minds like a younger sister, Cole with his questions and his eyes and is newfound humanity, Varric with his stories, Blackwall with his lie that is not as terrible as it could be working for redemption, even Cassandra. Vivienne is...useful and they are civil. As far as Solas is aware they are terribly great friends and Zevran hangs upon his every word.

It is an easy act to play. He has done so for most of his life.

But to have all this, the fort, the army, the influence... "Yes."

Without hesitation. "The first Inquisition, as I have been told, knew when to put their swords away. Which is bullshit seeing as they became the Seekers and the Templars and the Chantry. So it could very well continue without me but I more than most understand the value of quitting while one is ahead. Save the world, move to Rivain."

He reaches out without thinking, brushing crumbs from Alistair's cheek. "Where you will have a dog and all the little bottles of hair oil to fiddle with your terrible hair as much as you like."

"My hair is fantastic," Alistair says, head turning too slightly to actually evade Zevran's brushing or register as more than an instinctive and token protest. He chews and swallows and looks back at Zevran. He doesn't stop smiling, but it turns thoughtful. "You should teach me how to braid."

While he still has both hands to demonstrate, so in Rivain, between lying around with the dog and fiddling with his own hair, Alistair can make himself a little useful.

"Your hair-" He says, shaking his head "Needs more attention."

Like oil. Or regular combing- but it is better than that little tuft he used to comb into place back during the Blight. "I suppose there is no time like the present."

There is no pressing business and so long as cheese crumbs do not end up in his hair? It is not so terrible. Zevran reaches back to unbind the current braid, shaking it loose- he has not had time to trim it yet, leaving the slightly waved mass falling to mid back. Mm. "I may be due another oiling."

If the Maker weren't sitting on his divine arse beyond the Beyond, Alistair would think he was being tested. But the Maker is sitting on his arse, and Alistair did this to himself. He doesn't even bother trying to keep a straight face, but he breaks into wider, fonder honestly Zevran sort of smile rather than tears. Or drool. Zevran can't help the way he looks, poor thing, and it wouldn't be kind to get slobber on him because of it.

"You're due something all right," he says. That doesn't make any sense. He doesn't mean it to. Empty banter. He slides off the edge of the desk to move behind Zevran and—wipe his hands on his trousers, first. Good manners before sticking them in anyone's hair. Zevran's he combs his fingers through, crown to tips, with an experimental air. "How are things with Bull and Dorian?"

"A good soak and a massage." He'll call for water later- but his masseuse of choice is otherwise occupied. No matter. Here he stands with his back to Alistair and not even the slightest bit of hesitation or fear. Not a moment's reservation.

Due to a lifetime of taking care and regular oilings to keep from drying out his hair is fine and silky, glimmering gold in the daylight. A point of pride, honestly. "They have chosen to take up with one another exclusively, it seems. Words were bandied about, Kadan and Amatus. It is terribly sentimental and quite adorable- and profitable as I made a bet with Varric months ago. I saw this coming miles away."

Alistair—who does actually know how to braid, sort of, when it's a horse's mane or strips of leather, but a head of hair is different, and this isn't only an excuse—smiles wider for a moment out of instinct. Instinct to be happy for Dorian and Iron Bull. Instinct to be happy for himself that Zevran isn't included. But a frown follows quickly on its heels, while he makes an attempt at parting Zevran's hair with his fingers.

"Where does that leave you?"

"As a friend." A beat. "Terribly strange, that. There may be offers to join them in their bed in the future that I may or may not accept but- we are friends. None of us are jealous. I, perhaps, might be if I gave weight to sentiment in the same way they seem to."

Love is- it is not for him, not that kind. He had it once and killed it and that went to show how well he knew to care for it. But this? This bloodless, sexless thing with Alistair? This he knew how to mind.

How to care for, how to react to. Loving without wanting. Liking, needing, yes, but no desire. Or- no desire that was so black and so jealous as to unravel the rest. "So they have one another and I? I have you."

Some of the sisters at the Abbey used to hold their hands over candles, close enough to hurt but not to burn, to punish themselves for sin or to prove they could withstand the pain. Alistair thought it was stupid. But here he is with his hands in Zevran's golden hair, listening to him say he gives no weight to sentiment (which is such a thin and fragile-sounding word for a thing Alistair's so hungry for) but he has this, in its place. A line. Alistair renews his resignation not to cross it. There are things he wants more than Zevran's mouth on his skin—his trust, his approval, to be a safe place where he can rest.

It hurts to lean on a stone for too long, Cole told him once while he was trying to get a blighted snack on the middle of the blighted night, so it's good you're soft. After Alistair had recovered from jumping out of his skin, he said, Stop calling me fat.

The braid is all wrong. One strand is too small. It curves to one side. Alistair rakes and ruffles his hands through it to start again. "If you do ever want more, you know there will be line out the door," he says, because he is a stone, and he can hold his palm that close to the flame, and if he beats the wanting into a small enough ball in his stomach then maybe it will go away. "Down the whole mountain."

Edited 2016-07-16 16:29 (UTC)

There's a moment, here, that Zevran can feel a tug somewhere under his ribs. Little hints he's been ignoring, pointed glances and questions he has put from his mind because-

Alistair is not like that. They are not like that. They have not been, they do not need to be, all is well as things are. Neither of them have much time as Alistair is a Warden and Zevran has this thing in his hand that he remains certain shall be the death of him. The hero always dies. And after Adamant, after Halamshiral, what else could he see himself as but a hero? What other ending could there be to his tale? And oh, how tragic to have a lover he might lose or that might lose him in turn.

Something for ballads and songs.

Again there is this moment that he ignored on the dancefloor, that he ignored in Adamant- that never had a chance to come up in the Fade. All the Nightmare would have had to do was lay the broken body of Alistair at his feet.

He still has not spoken of that future where he put a knife to the heart of Alistair as he smiled and joked, blood hard from lyrium. He knew then what he could not say, knew then what he would not be. And yet- standing on a cliff again. On a roof. Waiting for the wind to nudge him one way or another. Cowardice, perhaps, with how Cole looked to him about sparklers- how they had such light and such heat but died too quick. But weren't they pretty while they were lit? Zevran thought he meant Dorian.

But no. Now with a timid hesitance he can't quite swallow he slips a hand back to touch Alistair's wrist. Voice oddly quiet, he murmurs. "And where-"

He swallows. "Where would that put you, Alistair?"

There's a correct and selfless answer here. And it's the answer Alistair gives, even while his heart is in his throat and he's letting go of the strands of Zevran's hair to twist and catch his hand: "Right behind you. Always. I'm sure it will get a little awkward for your lovers, sometimes, having me standing here over your shoulder, but we have a deal."

That's it. That's his line. Reliable and teasing. He squeezes Zevran's hand and lets it go, like he's supposed to, and his fingers return to combing through and parting his hair, like they should. But it doesn't sit right. Alistair's line was perfect but Zevran's wasn't—his voice too small, either trying to brave or trying to be careful of Alistair's feelings, and Alistair doesn't want him to have to do either. He crosses strands of hair once, twice, three times, trying to think, until his fingers brush the nape of Zevran's neck and he drops his hands at once and steps backward to sit on the edge of the desk again, with his palms cupped over his own knees, where they aren't violating any trust.

"No, Zev," he says, riding a burst of impulse, "I'd—I'd be fighting my way to the front of that line. And I'd fight dirty. I'd shove people off the bridge and everything." That's a lie. He'd wait his turn. Stand aside if he was bested. Cry for a few days and then stay, like he promised, except if it hurt him then Zevran wouldn't ask him to—

This is all so stupid. And now he can't take it back.

"I'm all right," Alistair says, "if you're happy. I'm happy. And we have... bigger things..." Now he's talking to himself. And he's not crying, but he rubs one eye with his knuckles, mostly as a precautionary measure. "You have bigger things. I'm sorry."

"Ah." A beat, and he should laugh. Should be pleased with his certainty, with how he knew this to be true, that Cole and Dorian and The Bull had all been mistaken. Alistair is his in this way and only this way and he ought to remain content. He scrapes for that usual composure, that contentment. Aches for his usual nonchalant manner because this? Is expected.

How else should they be aside from this? Friends. Amicos.

They need be nothing more.

Seeing things, that is all. He had been seeing things. The moment has dragged on for to long for that 'ah' to be anything but disappointed and there is a glancing brush of skin against his nape that only causes his eartips to dip lower a hair. His one tell.

"That is-" Fine! To be expected- and then Alistair retreats. Alistair speaks and he has ever been braver than Zevran, ever more willing to put his heart on the line when something mattered. Now it is Zevran with his heart in his throat, Zevran frozen in the moment once more. No longer on the roof but in free fall and terrified of the landing. At least, and this is truly selfish, he is not falling alone. He turns slowly, hands slipping out to rest against Alistair's. To comb through his hair as is their custom and for a brief, blinding moment he wonders how he ever didn't know this thing to be true. How willfully ignorant had he been, for how long? "I am...content. But I could be happy."

Still small, still wary, but so, so achingly hopeful. "With you. I could be happy with you."

"Oh," Alistair says. There's no tickling or falling to blame for the stutter in his inhale this time. There's also no point in blaming it on anything, because in the next breath he's pulling one of Zevran's hands out of his hair and down, back, past Alistair's hips on the desk to drag him a couple of inches closer so Alistair doesn't have to stand up to put both hands on his face and kiss him.

All of that without thinking. He doesn't think at all until his mouth is pressed to Zevran's, and then it's just, I'm going to lose him.

He won't admit it out loud. Out loud they're going to win, Zevran's going to chop his hand off, they're going to retire to Rivain. But silently: he's going to lose him. Usually it's the opposite. A countdown until Alistair will have to leave. Asking himself how willing he is to hurt instead of how willing to be hurt.

It turns out the answer is very. For this. For Zevran. Alistair slides his hand to the side of his neck, thumb on his jaw, and murmurs, "Please tell me this is what you meant."

Joking. He's pretty sure it is. Seventy-five percent sure.

Zevran is not often surprised when it comes to such signs of affection or desire- but everything in this with Alistair is unprecedented. To say he did not see the kiss coming would be quite honest. To say it was inevitable-

Probably true.

That his first thought is not how good or how warm or how sweet this is but Bull is going to be insufferable probably says more as to where his head is at than anything else. That the second is finally goes to show how much he has wanted this without allowing himself to want it at all. It is easy to kiss Alistair- easier to cling, to curl his arms tight around those broad shoulders and drag himself in as though that will make the world less frightening.

For a few moments? It does.

"I- ah." No easy line, no joke, no quick smirk. Just the idle curl of his fingers in Alistair's shirt and a quick nod. "Yes. This is- yes."

"Yes," Alistair echoes, smiling mostly with his eyes, which are very close to Zevran's eyes. The world hasn't changed, really. The ground doesn't shift. But he stops holding all of the want in the pit of his stomach and lets it unfurl all the way out to his fingers and toes, where it's only warm instead of aching.

If he has doubts he'll have them later. Watching Zevran sleep, maybe, or watching him carry on with his friends or disappear into the war room to make important decisions with important people. Alistair will have plenty of time to feel reckless and selfish and inadequate then. Right now is for kissing Zevran's mouth again, one hand falling to hold him at mid-back.

"Your friends are going to be smug," he says, not because he's a mind reader, but because it's a very obvious and pressing concern. "If you want to tell them it didn't work out I can try not to look at you like—"

Like he's been looking at him for months every time his back was turned. While trying not to.

"I could hide somewhere," he amends, rather than pretending he'll have any control over his face.

"Yes." Again, as though the whole of his body hasn't curved to fit against Alistair's like it belongs there just as it always has, as though he has not been saying yes with every gesture and word and look since midway through the Blight. It is so strange now to think he can, that this is and not some manner of dream he takes a moment to rest his forehead against Alistair's to breathe.

Leliana will be smug. Morrigan insufferable. Varric will have a field day but-

This one thing. This one, impossible, inevitable thing he wants and has and will keep without weighing the opinions of others. The hand not in Alistair's slides up to rest against his shoulder, his jaw, fingers smoothing over the curved shell of his ear. Human. He knows so, so much better than to be involved with a human like this. They are large and brutish and selfish and jealous and Alistair is...some of these things but not all. He has never hurt him on purpose.

He never would.

"So?" He leans away smiling- not the grin of the conquering Inquisitor, not the sly smirk of Zevran the lothario or the sharp flinty bite of the Ombra Nera. Something smaller and far more sincere. Far more fragile. "I don't care. They can be as smug as they like- I have you."

A beat.

"I have you. You're not going back to the stables to sleep tonight, Alistair."

"No?" His smile would be confident if he weren't blushing. He is, so it's mildly bashful at best—but his hand sinks to the small of Zevran's back. "You could come down with me. Get the full Fereldan experience—except I'd kick the dogs out of the stall, just for you."

"I have, here, an obscenely comfortable bed that I tire of sleeping in alone." Dorian and Bull had never been up here. Too much risk of seeing them walk out, too much tension in their shoulders. Zevran, himself, never truly liked spending the night with either of them if he could help it.

They did not need the additional scrutiny that came with his favor.

But that Alistair has his favor is well known and documented. What further harm could there be in this? "Perhaps next time."

"Next time," Alistair repeats. As if he'd actually make Zevran sleep in the hay. He might be able to find a way to make rolling in the hay something slightly better than just itchy and unappealing, but sleeping, when there is that obscenely comfortable bed to consider—

Anyway, mostly he just likes the words. And he likes Zevran's hand in his, but he lets go of it, finally, to get both arms around him.

"How long," he says, haltingly—"I mean, when—you don't have to tell me."

"How long?" Zevran raises his brows, smirk growing wide and wicked. "You've seen me naked, Alistair, you know perfectly well how long."

Oh he means the sentiment.

That is harder still. "How long have you felt this way? Is this why you tried to have sex with 'Your Highness' man?"

Alistair's face does a thing where he's trying to glare but also struggling not to smile, so everything goes a bit crinkly and grimace-y, and he bends one finger to poke Zevran in the back, not what I meant and now he's thinking of him naked and still experiencing that brief flare of guilt before he realizes he probably has permission. Most likely. Under the circumstances.

"—yyyes," he says, with some reluctance. The blushing shifts toward a deeper red. He's not usually one for using people. The only saving grace is that he didn't go through with it. "It wasn't his fault. I thought I was going to do something stupid if I didn't... And I didn't. So here I am, doing something stupid."

Good-stupid, though, probably. His smile comes back.

"I think this is one of the smarter things you have done, Alistair. Giving into the inevitable allure that is my charm." That hadn't felt inevitable until, well. This precise moment. He noses along Alistair's jaw because he can, drags his lips to press against Alistair's- again, because he can and this idle, meandering affection that goes nowhere and needs to go nowhere...

It's wonderful. To have this with someone he trusts.

"If you meant to ask how long I have wanted you? From the first moment I looked up with blood in my teeth. I have a soft spot for gingers with distinguished noses."

"Mm, it's good for something after all."

He nudges his nose against Zevran's, which is charming without being half so ridiculous. That wasn't really what he was asking, but it's all right. His hand on Alistair's wrist and that quiet, hesitant voice were enough vulnerability for one day.

"I think you'd have broken me, back then. Not in any good way. But you're right. I was always going to end up here." Like being caught in a force mage's pull, except instead of magic it's humor and heart and Zevran's head against his chest at night. "I have a soft spot for heroes."

Zevran nudges back, smiling in a way that is more felt than seen. Every word brushing against his lips and he is content with this distance. They can close it whenever they like. Why rush?

The hand, the Calling, that is why. But this is as new as it is familiar and he does not wish to spoil it by being overeager.

"How long have you...?" He closes the distance, lip to lip, chaste and light before pulling away enough to look Alistair in the eye. "Since Haven?"

Alistair hesitates—because if he's trying to mark a start, there's the moment in the caves in the Western Approach when he admitted what he wanted, or the moment in the stables when imagining life in Rivain meant imagining the back of Zevran's neck—but then he nods. Barely. He doesn't want to put out Zevran's eye with his Distinguished Nose.

"I was going to kiss you," he says, "as a joke, because you were worrying about my reputation. But it wouldn't really have been a joke, so I didn't. I probably should have. But I liked that you were—with me, you didn't have to—" Stuttering. That's what he's been reduced to. He shifts back a couple of inches to get a sheepish handle on his mouth. "I know everyone wants you."

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