Open RP Post

[ombranera]

SFW, NSFW, AU, OU, etc. Drop a prompt like it's hot and let's go!

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[byblow]

Alistair shakes his head, not looking away from the wound quite yet. Still no darkening edges. That's all he wants. That and for Zevran to stop treating him like one of his followers, and—

He isn't going to hug an elf with a rib wound. He hugs too hard as it is. And he's still angry. He says so—"I'm still angry with you"—while he leans down, hand grabbing the side of the stool for balance, and sticks his face against the juncture of Zevran's neck and shoulder, just to rest there. Presumably. If he isn't kicked in the face first.

[ombranera]

"You and half the Inquisition-" But this is the one that stings. He locks up at the approach, tense and silent and not flinching so hard for the space of the moment it takes him to realize there are no grasping hands or teeth in play.

Lighter hair, different nose, not a ghost.

Zevran remains tense under that press- uncertain what it means. Angry means walking away, means sleeping in different tents, means not being around one another, let alone touching if it isn't to cause harm. No harm is forthcoming. "What do you want, Alistair?"

The Brother, the Assassin, the Hero? What mask does he want? Zevran cannot keep up.

[byblow]

There's a question. And there's a swelling feeling in Alistair's chest, his throat, that falls short of anything recognizable. Anything actionable. He turns his head so his mouth and his nose—mostly his nose—have more neck than shoulder underneath them, inhales, and stands back up.

"I want you to be safe and happy," he says, "and I want the world to not end, and right now it looks like I can't have both."

And he can't choose the first over the second. He's not built that way.

And he's still angry.

"I'll go," he says. "I'll see you tomorrow."

[ombranera]

Were it possible (it is) Zevran goes all the more tense and still, not even breathing. Habit more than anything else has him shifting his grip on the needle, instinct has him ready to jab and that this is what they have come to should rankle. But it is all he knows, this fear. The only familiar thing left to him. Alistair moves away and he can breathe again.

"So you are allowed to want such things and be upset and act upon them but when I do so it is not fair?" He cannot keep Alistair from Adamant. But he can keep him as safe as he can manage until the moment his foolish nobility might kill him.

And that is apparently terrible.

It is selfish, he knows this, it is unreasonable and he does not care. He has been dragged by the hand into being this thing, this figure for so many people and the few he might wish to be more to, to be mortal and flawed and personable do not want that from him. Even during the fifth blight Jonas was permitted to be himself.

[byblow]

"You can't keep me from doing my job," Alistair says—he was going to leave, honestly, but here he is. "Do you think I never worry about you? Do you think I wouldn't prefer it if you left the blighted Crows alone and took up farming?"

[ombranera]

"I am not a farmer." He has never been a farmer. "I suppose you have your wish, it is terribly difficult to be doing any work as an assassin when I trail an army wherever I go."

How pleased he must be, now that Zevran can no longer kill for coin. Influence, certainly, but profit? Never.

[byblow]

"Yes, this was exactly what I wanted to happen," Alistair says, and he has, at least, moved out of fist-clenching fury and into the loose gesticulation of passionate irritation. "For years I've been thinking, you know what Zevran really needs? Weird and potentially fatal magical powers and a religious following. That will keep him out of harm's way."

That's sarcasm. This, less so:

"And you would make an excellent farmer."

[ombranera]

"Antivans do not farm. We fish." He could, perhaps, be a fisherman if he could envision a future where he would put down his blades at last. But even that slim thing has been taken out of his hands now.

No Rivain, no fishing boat, no bordello in Antiva City.

[byblow]

"Fish smell terrible," Alistair says, with emphatic authority, as if this is very important. Radcliffe is a fishing village. He knows.

[ombranera]

"So do farms." Pig shit and cow shit and horse shit. To be a farmer is to be covered in dirt and shit.

[byblow]

"They smell better than fish."

He pauses. Not because he's realized that they're arguing about fish and farms and it's ridiculous—it's not, it's very important—but because he's concerned about Zevran's wound, which he tips his chin toward questioningly, as a reminder.

[ombranera]

"I'm fine." Going back to stitching like he'd never meant to stop, twisting thread through skin in neat, parallel lines. It will hold. He'll bleed when he peels out the elfroot, but it will hold and he will be good to fight another day.

[byblow]

"Clearly," Alistair says, and restlessly half-turns away to run a hand through his hair and try to remember what they were actually arguing about and why he was angry.

He needs a moment. It kills his momentum—and reminds him, tracing back, that half of the problem is that Zevran gives a shit about him. So he doesn't drag it back up.

Still obviously annoyed, visibly exhausted by all of it, he says, "Can I sleep here?"

[ombranera]

"No." It's out before he can correct himself but that same fear where he'd tried to dissuade rumors of his and Alistair's involvement after Haven remain. No matter what he cares after his name-

It is dangerous, involvement with him. All the more so now that he would have to judge the wardens whenever they do catch up.

He cannot have that fall down on Alistair's shoulders. Nor does he truly wish the man in his tent when he is so quietly, sullenly angry. "I do not think it wise, no."

[byblow]

"All right."

He isn't surprised enough to look or sound like a kicked puppy. It was a big ask. He's no more bothered than if Zevran told him he couldn't rename all of the Inquisition's horses things like Bunny and Wilbur.

"Then I should go."

[ombranera]

"I will see you in the morning, Alistair." There are other holes full of Darkspawn that need tending. Other missions where a warden may, perhaps, be of use.

Nevermind the knowing looks given him by Dorian and the Bull the next day. Nevermind Sera's rather fluid and obscene gestures- or the quiet aside from Dorian about, maybe, there are some things he might deserve to know?

The next march down is exhausting- catching a moment alone is almost impossible, but begging leave to search for one of those veilfire rune bullshit things that Solas soils his drawers over seems reason enough to let him stand with the flickering torch and no audience for sagging against the nearest wall.

[byblow]

Alistair should leave him alone; if he didn't want to be left alone, he'd have invited company. Probably Dorian. But Alistair is shockingly terrible at leaving anything alone, so Zevran is not left to sag very long before there's the creak and clank of armor in the dark, and, "When did the dragon decide it'd had enough to eat?"

There's a beat. It isn't long enough to allow for a guess, however, mostly because he's fairly sure Zevran has heard this one before. From him. And will steal his punchline.

"About mid-knight."

[ombranera]

Armor and he straightens, squinting at the wall like that was all he'd been doing- but the voice makes up for it.

Alistair.

He squints, instead, into the darkness where Alistair hides, the veilfire torch causing his eyes to glint and glimmer. "That joke was awful ten years ago."

And yet Oghren had nearly pissed himself laughing.

[byblow]

"I was hoping it would age like wine. No luck?"

No luck. Another day, another cave, he might have covered Zevran's eyes for a moment. This day and cave, he leans one shoulder against the wall at the edge of the torchlight and inclines his head to peer at him.

"They wolf whistled when I left to come after you."

[ombranera]

"None." There's a shade of a smirk in his voice all the same. A terrible joke can still be somewhat funny, depending upon the context.

It grows into something a little closer to normal until the mention of whistling. Then, he scowls.

"How many times must I explain that is not what we are? Dorian was beside himself when he saw you stalk out of my tent last night. 'I can stand aside if it's true love' he says, The Bull looks at you and looks at me and asks if we can't bring you in to join." He scrubs a hand through his hair, more vexed than usual.

[byblow]

Alistair, unvexed, tilts his head the rest of the way to rest the top of it against the wall. "I don't think I would survive that," he says, sounding as if he is actually thinking about it, which he is not. He wouldn't survive thinking about it either.

His fond smile fades a little, though. Not jealous, really not jealous, he refuses to be jealous. Not bothered by the gossip. Maybe a little bothered that Zevran is so bothered, but on that note:

"Last night, when I--I wanted to hug you, but I was afraid I'd hurt your ribs, so--" So he was weird. He substitutes a sheepish grimace for saying so. "And you did that thing where you don't move. I'm sorry."

[ombranera]

"Ah, but what a wonderful way to go, mm?" Much better than fighting to the death in the deep roads. It'd be marvelous fun and Zevran will admit- there have been moments when he wondered. When he' thought about it-

But Alistair does not care to share the bed of men and it makes him safe. At least when they are not fighting.

"...You were angry." He says, wary. "And leaning."

And weird, that goes without saying. "Taliesin would...rest there, often. When he was making a point. Normally there were knives involved. Or I was naked."

[byblow]

Zevran rarely says anything about Taliesin that doesn't make Alistair want to bring him back to life and kill him again, so he doesn't say it out loud. He only frowns and nods, swallowing hard. Even if it hadn't been weird and sort of embarrassing in hindsight, it won't happen again.

"I'd never hurt you, you know," he says. He couldn't even hurt him when Zevran was nothing but a man who'd just tried to kill them and was too unconscious to be endearing. "You can be a difficult, infuriating bastard all you want. I don't stop caring about you when you're annoying." Mild teasing turns into full teasing as he reaches out a boot to nudge Zevran's. "That's true love."

[ombranera]

"So asking you to wield the cleaver when I get rid of this-" A finger waggle from his glowing hand. "Is out of the question?"

He wouldn't make Alistair do it. The hand is his, it will be his choice, his blow to remove the damn thing from him once this business has been settled. After all, he still means to leave. This is not his mess to fix. He refuses to be dragged through more than what Alistair asks of him, and as this has been his only demand? This is all he sees to.

There are things he can ask. Demand. True love means-

He doesn't know what it means. And thus, says nothing. "If you say so."

[byblow]

He considers it. Considering it makes him wince, mouth open to try to offer to do it if necessary but not quite able to agree. He couldn't, no. He shuts his mouth and shakes his head. No cleaving. But, "I'll clean up afterwards," he offers for the sake of being supportive.

It might still make him a bit sick--not bothered by blood generally, but by Zevran's specifically--but it won't give him nightmares. He's had enough of those.

"I do say so," he says, and for a moment--safely restrained by those nightmares, the song, his potential impending death the gossip, Zevran's vexation, Dorian and Bull, the countdown until Zevran flees for Rivain and Alistair has to watch him go; comfortable in the certainty that it would be the stupidest thing he'd ever done--he lets himself really, really want to kiss him. It's a nice moment. It passes and the door shuts behind it. "Do you want to shout at each other some so they know we're not having sex? If you tell me I need to lose weight I can probably work up a real sulk."