ombranera | Open RP Post

"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?"

He's very quick to shake his head. "No. I'm done," he says, "with everyone, forever."

With another Warden he'd joke: is a vow of celibacy still noble if you know you won't have to live with it for very long? But Zevran doesn't think that sort of thing is funny. It is a rock and a hard place, though, so to speak. He wants someone who cares. He doesn't want anyone to miss him when he's gone. He wants to touch Zevran's hair.

"You'll have to sow enough wild oats for the both of us," he carries on. "I mean, you probably already have. But keep up the good work."

"Don't be like that." He pats Alistair's cheek, pocketing the salve once again. "Come. We shall find you a nice, sarcastic Fereldan to bed. Perhaps if you try your luck with a woman your boyish charm will prevent any potential 'your highnessing', yes?"

Clearly all Alistair needs is a proper tumble with someone that will smile at him in the morning and make fun of his hair.

"When you swing and miss, all there is to do is try again."

Some parts of that suggestion are appealing. The we is not. The we sounds like torture.

"Maybe another time," Alistair says, which is at least a step back from being done with everyone forever. He touches his neck where the ointment is cooling on his skin. "I'm tired. And sitting next to you makes me uglier in comparison. I know you mean well but you're really the opposite of helpful."

That's not true. Some people, for whatever reason, genuinely prefer enormous lumpy gingers, and Zevran is surely deft and kind enough not avoid poaching those who don't. But Alistair really is tired (in his heart) and really is going to bed. Alone.

"Hardly. You know you are charming, even with the nose and how you do your hair-" easy, harmless picking, even as he reaches up to tease the hair at Alistair's temples. He remembers the stuck up fluff he used to have forever ago.

It'd been adorable. "And you've almost all of your old color again! Why you are the picture of rakish health and handsomeness."

Still. One can lead a horse to water. "I, myself, have an appointment with Dorian and The Bull- providing they have not decided to start without me."

Alistair—speaking of boyish charm—screws his face up and ducks his head in fake protest, simultaneously smiling and fairly obviously pleased at the attention. He's so pleased that he manages not to crumble like a dry leaf when Bull and Dorian are mentioned. He keeps smiling. If it's subdued, verging on sad—he did say he was tired.

And it isn't insincere. Like he said, they'd be lucky to have Zevran complicate things. And from what he's heard (mostly via Sera picking on them), they might have enough rope and ideas to sustain his interest.

"Yes, yes," he says. "Important Inquisition business, I'm sure. Go on. Have fun."

"Don't make that face." It is not a familiar one- but there is a sad bend to his eyebrows that Zevran knows to be something like pouting but not the usual overblown childish gestures they both tease one another with. No this is- something sincere? He tries to find something to smooth it away, something to make the smile wide and bright again.

"We shall share a room at the next tavern, yes? A proper bed where my toes will not be quite so cold and waking you in the night." There. That ought to do it, yes? Yes.

"...Perhaps you ought to try Harding. She likes your humor, finds you attractive- or so she has said in my hearing- and would likely not mind the whole Warden thing." A bone, someone that Alistair could share the night with- even if only over a drink. He ignores the usual twinge- Alistair is not for him, not like that, he feels nothing he shouldn't- and he has two rather attentive lovers that are willing to offer him one last tumble before they throw themselves over the edge fully. "She is sitting by the hearth, last I checked. She might like your company."

A companionable squeeze to his shoulder before slipping away, heading back to stairs and Dorian and Bull and Katoh.

***

Alistair's mask--because they are wearing masks, not to do so at a gathering hosted by nobility who consider a bare face at gauche as a bare ass (if not more so, for its lack of tantalization) would be incredibly foolish--looks like a mabari. It's enough to make him consider not smashing it and burning the pieces as soon as they leave. Maybe he'll give it to Harding--who he did have a drink with, who he is trying very valiantly to like as anything more than a charming friend and source of anecdotes from home. One step forward every time she's funny, ten steps back every time Zevran presses against his side at night.

Anyway. Right now he's learning toward the smashing and burning. It itches. And he can't turn his back to the ballroom to rub his nose beneath it, because he's heard whispers of hands on Cullen's ass, and his is better. Lately. Now that he's been filled up on meat for a while. That leaves trying to rub his nose against the inside of the mask, mouth wiggling from the effort. It's not very sneaky. A good illustration of why he's stuck here instead of sneaking around the servants' quarters and royal wing with Zevran and the others.

That and being an oddity capable of distracting at least a handful of nobles wondering where the Inquisitor has gone. Veteran of the Fifth Blight! Alleged son of Maric the Savior, who they all consider very roguishly charming now that he's dead rather than actively defeating their army! When he's done smashing the mask he may jump out a window.

But for now: mouth wiggling. It stops abruptly when Zevran passes near enough for Alistair to step out of his safe corner and fall in beside him. He's capable of enough subtlety that he looks at the tiny spatter of blood on his shoulder but doesn't ask about it, or touch it, or do anything Concerned with his face that isn't obscured by the stupid mask.

"I saw Morrigan," he says instead.

"How is she?" Offhand and easy as though he had not had a rather intense scuffle with an assassin and unearthed some delightful blackmail material for his use. As they are nearing the public quarters he pauses a moment to shift the lay of his half cape - something he'd demanded for the occasion- to cover it. If he is to be here? He shall do so in true Antivan fashion- which leaves so much room for subtle armor and knives in pockets and such.

Perfect for an assassin.

So too is his mask- a Kestrel rather than a crow but a concession to Alistair's humor.

All in all this is far better than what he might have expected. Only one woman so far has called him a rabbit and ordered him about, only to faint when he charged a standard (in Antiva) finders fee for collecting her ring. It still rests in his pocket whenever she changes her mind. Smiling sweetly and viciously to ever noble that sniffs at him or Sera or Solas or so much as glares at bull has been viscerally satisfying. This is how he plays the game. His rules, his daggers, his moves.

"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."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject