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peopleofthedas2011-12-22 06:43 pm
DA Slashfic: Secret Service Part 7: Celebration
Pairing: Alistair/Zevran/M!Cousland
Rating: M (M! I've never managed an Secret Service below AO yet! I must be slacking.)
Word Count: about 5.5k
Those of you who enjoy SS may thank xlionxlambx over on SiB for this. It's my Secret Swooper gift to her cos she likes Alistair/Zev/Cousland and smut, so I had no hesitation in diving into 'Wot the SS boys do for Satinalia'.
Unfortunately it has come out astonishingly smut-lite. *runs away before anyone can lynch me*
Warning: references to D/s and BSDM relationships, but nothing hugely explicit. (Boooo!)
-oOo-
Come landlord fill the flowing bowl,
Until it doth run over,
Come landlord fill the flowing bowl,
Until it doth run over,
A thick fog of smoke lay heavy in the air, competing with the warm yeasty scent of beer and the sharp tang of raw spirits for olfactory attention. The Crown and Lion was packed with revellers and when the door opened to let in the bite of a cold winter’s night and a fresh influx of convivial souls, the flush of fresh air caused quite a few overheated faces to turn towards it.
For tonight we'll merry, merry be,
For tonight we'll merry, merry be,
For tonight we'll merry, merry beeee…
Tomorrow we'll be sober.
The landlord winced as half the pub failed to hit the long note, and the other half wavered off it partway through. Thirty years in the trade had singularly failed to destroy his pitch; every year, when Satinalia rolled around, he prayed for temporary deafness.
In a tiny lull between customers, he mopped the wet bar down, clearing spillages. Sorcha staggered past, loaded to the gills with empty glasses. “Oi!” she called as she passed, and when he looked up, she jerked her head towards the door. “You’d best shake a leg, boss. It’s the Arl and all his men.”
A swift look past the crowd at the bar confirmed her words. A throng of blue and white were in the process of setting up camp in one corner, pulling together tables and snagging spare chairs and benches. Towering above them he could see the Commander’s blond head. He quickly wiped his hands on a cloth and scurried over.
“Your Grace! You honour us.” He bowed for form’s sake and then looked up, grinning. The Commander might be a graceless reprobate among the nobles, a blot on his Cousland name, but to the common people of Amaranthine he was a hero, a right good ‘un, and not too high and mighty to sup a pint with his people.
And he was open-handed when it came to entertaining his men; a trait any landlord in his right mind would encourage.
Aedan Cousland, Warden Commander of Ferelden, Arl of Amaranthine, turned at the greeting, blotting out a fair bit of the light. When the Maker made him, he hadn’t stinted on materials. “Benson, you old dog!” A slap on the back almost made the landlord’s knees buckle.” “Start pulling pints. Thirsty Wardens here!”
“Of course, my lord, right away.” Benson shot a curious look at the Commander. There were a fair few in the pub tonight in festive attire: garlands wrapped around their throats, wreaths in their hair. Mainly the ladies, mind, but quite a few men with a bit of holly or mistletoe tucked behind their ear. The Commander had gone one step further, wearing an ornate mask painted in Warden blue and white, which covered him from brow to cheek. In fact, now he came to look, quite a few of the men and women shedding coats and weapons, and getting comfy in the corner, were also wearing masks of one type or another. The one sported by Zevran - the Commander’s permanent bedwarmer, as everyone and his dog knew - was particularly fine, the delicate gold and brown markings painted on it appearing to be an extension of the tattoo on his face.
“What’s with the mask, y’r grace, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“This?” The Commander adjusted the mask and stuck a dashing pose, grinning. “Don’t you like it, Benson? The ladies love a mystery man, though, don’t they?”
Yeah, right. ‘Cept you’ve had pretty much every woman in Amaranthine worth having, already. And a fair few of the men, too. You didn’t need an air of mystery when you were a Teyrn’s brother, an Arl and a hero as well. Not to mention six foot six and built like a brick shithouse.
“Ah, Benson, our favourite locandiere.” Benson wasn’t sure what one of those was, and didn’t want to. Slippery language Antivan was, just like them who spoke it. Knowing amber eyes regarded him from behind a golden mask; the elf had slipped up beside his lover and overheard their exchange. “You ask about our masks? In my homeland, bella Antiva, we hold Carnevale at Satinalia, one of many, many celebrations throughout the year. Everyone wears the bauta, masks such as these.” Zevran smiled up at the Commander. “My Warden decided that, this year, we would celebrate as Antivans do. Amusing, no?”
Benson agreed for politeness’ sake and excused himself in order to get their drinks. Masks didn’t mean nothing to him. The heavy pouch of coin he’d be getting for what the Wardens threw down their throats tonight held all the meaning he needed.
-oOo-
Here's to the man who drinks small ale,
And goes to bed quite earnest,
Here's to the man who drinks small ale,
And goes to bed quite earnest,
Fades as the leaves do fade,
Fades as the leaves do fade,
Fades as the leaves do faaaade…
That fall off after harvest.
Alistair hummed along happily with the caterwauling of the patrons, squashed in between Zev on one side and Nate on the other, secure in the anonymity of his mask and borrowed Warden surcoat. No Kinging tonight. No bowing or scraping, no barbed conversations, no manoeuvring for his favour.
Someone had jostled him in the doorway, when he entered the pub.
Fantastic.
He sipped his beer. Mmmm, beeeeer. It never tasted as good as it did in a taproom.
It made him all toasty warm inside knowing that the Wardens, his brothers and sisters who he’d live with if things had been different, were prepared to don masks to hide him like this. Aedan had been all set to arrange one of his infamous play parties for Satinalia when it had slipped out in conversation that Alistair hadn’t been able to sit in a pub and have a drink for years. He’d tried, at first; escaping into Denerim with his guards, looking like an off-duty guard himself, but someone always wound up recognising him. And then it was all spoilt.
Aedan had scrapped his plans in the blink of an eye, and Zev had disappeared down to the Amaranthine docks for a few hours, returning with a handful of these strange painted masks.
Alistair’s tankard sloshed slightly as he put it down, slopping a little ale over his fingers. “Tch, and now you are all wet.” Zev took his hand and licked his fingers clean slowly, making a face at the sour taste. “I do not understand this Ferelden obsession with hops.” He leaned closer, kissing Alistair, his own mouth warm with spiced brandy. “There now, cucciolo mio. Is that not better?”
Alistair’s face burned, even as the rest of him yearned towards his padrone.
They were in public.
In a tavern.
“Zev!” The horrified squawk brought a wicked smile to Zevran’s face.
He’d found it difficult enough at Vigil’s Keep, the first time Zev and Aedan had kissed him, touched him, in front of the others. In here, with total strangers watching…
… except…
… except they weren’t. A furtive look around confirmed it. Nope, not a single person was looking his way.
He was so used to being on display it hadn’t occurred to him. But jammed on a bench, between a bunch of laughing, joking, drinking Wardens and men-at-arms, he was just another masked man in blue and white. Some nobody being kissed by Zevran, who was so renowned for his easy ways that no-one was in the least surprised.
Nobody was watching.
Nobody cared.
Fantastic.
-oOo-
Here's to the man who drinks strong ale,
And goes to bed quite mellow,
Here's to the man who drinks strong ale,
And goes to bed quite mellow,
Lives as he ought to live,
Lives as he ought to live,
Lives as he ought to liiiive….
And dies a jolly fellow.
Aedan leaned back in his chair, enjoying the sight of Alistair’s glowing happy face opposite. Maker knows, his friend deserved it. Five… no, nearly six years now on the throne, removed from the life he wanted, locked in a loveless marriage. Putting Alistair on the throne was one of Aedan’s worst regrets, but what alternative had he had? Anora had no real claim, her father a commoner raised from the ranks, not to mention being a manipulative bitch. If he’d know Fergus was alive… the Landsmeet may well have accepted a Cousland, and his brother would have made a good King.
Aedan shook his head, taking a swallow of his mead. Alistair made a good King, better than any of them had expected, but it made him miserably unhappy. Or it had. It seemed, since the fateful day when the King had first walked into a bedchamber with Aedan and Zev, that things had improved for Alistair. He flourished in their affection, their admiration and their approval.
And there’s a lot to admire, thought Aedan, running his gaze over the powerfully built man opposite. Zev was licking at Alistair’s fingers, making him blush, which was ridiculously easy even now, after all that had happened.
“Enjoying the view, Commander?” The voice in his ear was smoke and velvet; Aedan looked up to find that Nate had slipped from his seat beside Alistair and was leaning over the back of his chair.
“You can’t deny he’s pretty, Nathaniel.”
There was a soft snort from the man behind him, and the pressure of his forearms on Aedan’s shoulders as Nate leant against him. “Pretty is an understatement. He’s outstandingly beautiful,” Nate leant even closer, so his mouth brushed Aedan’s ear and spoke low, “and submissive if I’m any judge. I see how he looks at Zevran... and at you.”
Damn. He was going to have to face it; they could never keep the knowledge from the Wardens, especially one with tastes and preferences as specific as Nathaniel’s. Aedan twisted a little further in his seat, so his own mouth was close to Nathaniel’s ear. “Not a word about that, Nate. When the news breaks fully, the nobles will stomach that he takes male lovers, I hope, particularly now that he and Marie have produced an heir in little Moira, but submission from one in his position? It’s not to be thought of.”
“Ah yes, Moira.” Nathaniel’s chuckle was close enough to Aedan’s skin to cause a trace of a shiver. “Clever of them to name her after the Rebel Queen, emphasising the bloodline. Marie and Eamon’s choice, I assume?”
“Of course.” Alistair was over the moon to have a daughter. They could have called her anything; it wouldn’t have dimmed his beaming smile of pride and love. On Aedan’s to-do list was finding a way to ensure that the power-hungry duo didn’t prevent Alistair from spending time with his child. The baby was currently sequestered in that entirely feminine holdfast: the nursery. Not that Marie did anything as plebeian as feed her daughter. Maker forbid. Instead, a wet nurse had been installed, leaving Marie free to receive guests and show off The Heir.
“And what of you, Aedan?” Nathaniel’s deep voice, his breath against the delicate lobe of his ear, brought Aedan back from his musing. “When was the last time you had the chance to just… let go?” Nate’s warm weight against his back shifted, freeing up his hands to skim across the Commander’s shoulders. “I’m feeling quite a lot of tension in these muscles.” Strong hands kneaded Aedan’s back, highlighting knots he hadn’t even known were there. The smoky voice rumbled, so close he could feel the vibration. “Nothing a good whipping wouldn’t cure, though, hmm?”
A half-smile crooked Aedan’s mouth, his eyes half-closing as tension melted under that deft touch. There was a time when he’d thought, truly thought, that the only person he could submit to – and even then under extreme physical duress – was Zev. Nate, with his own personal brand of subtle control and delicious cruelty, had cured him of that notion. He was right, it had been a long time since they’d played, too long. But…
“Hold that thought, Nathaniel.” Aedan leant his head back against his childhood friend’s chest, tipping his head back and smiling up at him. “Tonight is spoken for, but if you think you’re up to the task, I’m at your disposal some other time. I warn you though,” he reached up and caught Nate’s jaw between strong, blunt fingers, pulling him down close, “I won’t be making it easy for you.”
A tilt of the chin, a tensing of the jawline, dislodged Aedan’s hold. Grey eyes shifted from warm amusement to a very specific brand of cool distance, promising an interesting time ahead.
“I’ll look forward to it.”
-oOo-
Here’s to the man who drinks us dry,
The volume of a river.
Here’s to the man who drinks us dry,
The volume of a river.
He shall live until he dies,
He shall live until he dies,
He shall live until he diiiiies…
But bugger up his liver.
“Oi, sparklefingers. If yer want to keep those digits, you’d better let go o’ my drink.”
The blond mage frowned at Oghren, his hand still wrapped around the tankard of strong spirits. “Aren’t you meant to be going to see your wife and daughter tomorrow? Felsi won’t let you in if you’re hungover, you know that. Not since the time you threw up on her dinnertable.”
Oghren scowled ferociously, hoping the flash of fear and shame he felt was well hidden. “Bah, that was just a bad nug.” Bad for the nugget, whispered the tiny traitorous voice in his mind, bad for her to see her papa like that. “I never barfed from ale yet, I’ve a stomach of cast iron. Now gimme back my drink!”
Anders sniffed at the tankard and made a disgusted face. After a short struggle, Oghren re-secured his lifeline and took a comforting swig that burned down his throat in a satisfactory manner. “If that’s ale, Oghren, then I’m a Qunari. Andraste’s tits, what’s it made from? It smells like fermented goat piss.”
“S’not my drink yer smellin’, it’s that ratty bit o’ fur around yer neck.” Oghren glared at Pounce, who determinedly stood on Anders shoulder, despite no longer being a kitten but a full grown cat. All four paws were trying to occupy the same bit of collar bone. “An’ I don’t mean yer girly robes!”
-oOo-
Here's to the girl who steals a kiss,
And runs to tell her mother,
Here's to the girl who steals a kiss,
And runs to tell her mother,
She's a very foolish thing,
She's a very foolish thing,
She's a very foolish thiiiing…
She'll never get another.
Several rounds of drinks later and Oghren’s eyes were glazed, his nose glowing cherry red. Anders had a girl on each knee; a pretty blonde soldier from the Vigil garrison, who he hooked up with for fun when they both felt like it, and a curvy brunette stranger with a wreath of paper garlands in her tumbled hair. Nate was murmuring in Aedan’s ear, the Commander’s eyes half-shut as he listened. Everywhere Alistair looked there was revelry, warmth, fun, with only the occasional inevitable bar scuffle to break the mood. Zev’s fingers were dancing up and down his spine, moving Alistair’s mind slowly and inexorably to the time when he and his lovers would return to the Vigil and seek their bed.
There was a brief commotion in the packed mass of bodies near the door, a shrill voice raised, and a couple of virulent curses in response as elbows found ribs. The crowd parted to reveal a small sharp-featured woman, her bony fingers wrapped tight around the wrist of a wriggling, crying girl.
“Which one of you is the Commander, eh?”
“Hey! Why are you hurting Sophie?” While Warden heads were still turning, and Aedan was blinking in confusion at the newcomers, Sigrun had already bounced out of her seat. “You’re making her cry.”
“I knew it!” There was triumph in the older woman’s voice, at odds with her apparent anger. “I knew it was the Vigil she’s been at, and now one of his own Wardens names her, just like that!” She whisked out a handkerchief and pressed it to the corner of her eye. “My poor child, led astray by hardened reprobates. Led into bad ways and then abandoned by that rascally Arl Aedan.”
Her performance was drawing attention from the locals; mixed in with the “tsk”s and “tut”s and “they should be ashamed”s were some raucous and ribald comments suggesting that Sophie was well known to at least a few of them. Popular, too, it seemed to Alistair, as he watched the proceedings, round-eyed.
Unexpectedly, Aedan’s deep laugh rang out, capturing everyone’s attention. Far from seeming put out by all of this, he was sat at his ease, one leg crossed over the other. “Congratulations, madam, I’ve rarely seen a finer display of melodrama, not even in the theatres of Val Royeaux. Now release your daughter…” rarely had Alistair seen Aedan grin with more vicious mischief than in that moment, “she bruises easily.”
The mother’s gasp of outrage was drowned by a shout of laughter from the gathering crowd. A low chuckle sounded from Zevran, seemingly relaxed at Alistair’s side, although tiny tell-tale signs showed him to be far more alert than his posture suggested. Under cover of the rising wave of noise, he murmured to Alistair, “Sofia is a fine woman who enjoys her pleasures. The mother, however, is another matter. Do not worry. My Warden knows her type and how to deal with her.”
“Sophie.” The Commander’s voice cut through the din, capturing the attention of the rather cross-looking girl. That she’d been crying was clear enough, but it was obvious also that she resented her mother’s intrusion into her affairs. “What’s all this about?”
“She’s pregnant, that’s what! And what I want to know is: what are you going to do about it?” The pointed question, forcibly inserted before the unfortunate Sophie could so much as open her mouth, gained only a raised eyebrow from Aedan, although his large hand closed tight on the chair arm. Alistair, knowing him rather well, caught the brief glance he flickered Anders’ way, and the tiny shake of the mage’s head in response. He recalled what Aedan had told him months ago at his first orgy: “All the women drink a potion on arrival. No-one’s going home pregnant.” He didn’t recall seeing Sophie at either of the play parties he’d attended, but that meant nothing. He’d encountered only a few of the participants and a fraction of the activities at either event.
“Why, the same thing I do for all my tenants on such a happy occasion.” A jerk of Aedan’s head brought the worried-looking landlord scurrying over. “Benson, get a round of drinks for everyone, so we can drink a toast to the new baby!”
The roar of approval from many thirsty mouths drowned out any retort from Aedan’s bristling opponent. As Benson headed for the bar, where the bulk of the crowd were already surging in hopes of being amongst those first served with the Commander’s largesse, Aedan stood, looming above Sophie’s mother. For the first time, largely unobserved by any but Alistair and a few of the Wardens sat close by, contempt shone in his eyes. In the hubbub it was not possible to hear what he said, but it was enough to make the hopeful mama glare poison at him before turning on her heel and making for the door. Sophie yanked her hand free and vanished into the crowd before her mother could seize her again.
-oOo-
Here's to the girl who steals a kiss,
And runs back for another,
Here's to the girl who steals a kiss,
And runs back for another,
She's a boon to all mankind,
She's a boon to all mankind,
She's a boon to all mankiiiind…
And soon she'll be a mother.
“Such encounters are not uncommon, caro mio.” Zevran remained unruffled. “When a famous, and supposedly wealthy, man like Aedan has such a reputation, it is inevitable that some will seek to take advantage of it.”
“I know.” He really did; in the first couple of years of his reign several women had publically claimed to be carrying the King’s bastard, and that was despite Alistair having practically no reputation at all. Since then, there had been no further claimants coming forward. He sometimes wondered what exactly Marie and Eamon had done to cause such a convenient dearth. “But what about the girl? I mean, could it be his, or… yours?”
Alistair couldn’t help but notice that Aedan and Sigrun had their heads together, whispering. Finally, the dwarven Warden beamed at her Commander and dropped a kiss on his cheek. At the same time she expertly palmed a fat pouch from Aedan’s belt and then melted into the scrum of bodies surrounding their little haven.
“I do not believe so.” Zev sipped his drink, reflectively. “I have no recollection of spending any time with Sofia outside of our… ah… more sociable occasions. The father is most likely a man of the town, or the garrison.”
“Zev…” Alistair leaned towards him, to hiss in one pointed ear. “Sigrun just- she took-”
“Yes, my dear one, do not trouble yourself. Aedan knows full well what he is about.” Amusement shone in Zev’s golden eyes and he stroked Alistair’s cheek along the edge of the obscuring mask. “Oh, you think that, because he won’t allow that grasping mignotta to fleece him, he doesn’t care?” A soft tsk and a gentle kiss soothed Alistair’s bewilderment. “Little Sigrun will find bella Sofia and ensure that all is well with her, yes?”
“Ohhh…” Whatever it was that Eamon and Marie had done to discourage people from claiming that they were bearing a royal bastard, Alistair was willing to bet that helping them was not an option. All in all it seemed that Zevran was right; there really was nothing to worry about.
-oOo-
Come walk along this leafy lane,
And don't be so particular,
Come walk along this leafy lane,
And don't be so particular,
If the grass is soaking wet,
If the grass is soaking wet,
If the grass is soaking weeeet…
We'll do it perpendicular.
After the fug and smoke and noise of the inn, the streets of Amaranthine seemed quiet, the icy air fresh and cooling on their over-heated faces. The somewhat tuneless singing faded behind them, rising in volume as the inn door opened to admit new revellers, cutting off sharply as the door banged shut in their wake. Aedan had remained with his Wardens, after pulling both Alistair and Zev into deep kisses that curled heat in Zevran’s groin.
“I’ll be back by dawn, even if I have to leave half of them behind.” Another swift kiss had followed the promise, together with the feel of his lover’s callused hand smoothing over Zev’s jaw. Brown eyes smiled down at him with so much love it still took Zev’s breath away, even after all these years. “Take good care of our boy, sweetheart.”
“Do not concern yourself, amore mio.” There had been a huge debate over whether it was safe to bring Alistair out completely without guards. Tonight, just for once, they wanted him to feel normal again. “I am by far the most dangerous thing on the streets of your tame little town, am I not?”
And so it was, indeed. The streets were by no means empty; noisy, rowdy groups of men and women staggered from inn to inn on, what Aedan had taught him, was called a ‘pub-crawl’. Such a processional was not unknown in Antiva, but ah, the difference. In his homeland, every taverna would have tables outside, pergolas of vines protecting them from the hot sun and stoves to guard against the evening chill. In the Piazza, one could meet all of Antiva City, sooner or later, merely by relaxing over a drink and watching the world stroll by. Nowhere in Antiva did the chill bite so hard as to make the populace scurry from place to place. There was no need for the scarves that wind around and around, the unbecoming woollen hats, the heavy clumpy boots that stomped over slushy, ice-rimed cobbles.
And yet here, in wet, cold, muddy Ferelden, Zevran had found people willing to open their lives and hearts to him. Perhaps it is easy to believe you need no-one when the climate does not threaten, he mused. When one must huddle with others for warmth merely to survive the cold months, you cannot afford to worry about whether your neighbour holds a dagger at your back.
“Zev?”
“Hmm?” He moved closer to the large warm body beside him, bundled in a heavy coat, and slung his arm around Alistair’s waist as they walked. “What is it you wish of me, amoroso?”
“I…
“ er…
“um…”
Alistair sighed, a strangely doleful sound, considering how happy he had seemed just a little while ago. “Nothing.”
“Oh?” A tug of his hand against Alistair’s hip through thick wool brought them to a stop and Zevran looked up at the handsome face that was, perhaps, a little pinker than the cold air demanded. Alistair wouldn’t meet his eyes, his gaze shifting away to linger with unconvincing interest on a shop window display of linens. “Something is bothering you, tesoro? Tell me.” If it had been Aedan behaving so, then Zev would have left him alone, knowing that nothing would create more resistance than for him to persist. Alistair, though, was another matter; his Chantry-bred restraint and repression had been, to some extent, broken down, but occasionally he must be pushed in order to breach hidden boundaries.
There was a hint of command in those words: tell me. A whisper of the games they played together, the private life they led far away from the censorious public gaze. The tone brought Alistair’s head back around, forced his honey-brown eyes to meet those of his padrone. His colour flushed higher, creeping up to meet the mask he still wore.
“I-”
The syllable was choked off short and the red-gold head dipped, shying away again. Zevran took Alistair’s face between his hands and gently brought his head back up. He knew this dance of old, knew what would force unwilling words past years of tight-wrapped emotion. It was puzzling, though; usually only a request for something Alistair’s early training named as ‘perverted’ caused this kind of a block. “Tell me, caro mio, let me hear you.” Zev stroked the strong jaw of his lover, holding his troubled gaze with his own. “You know I wish to hear your voice, you know it pleases me when you speak.”
“No- not this- I mean, you might not-” Again they seemed to have reached the edge of what was possible, again he saw Alistair’s throat lock up tight.
Enough.
Two fast unexpected steps forward caused Alistair to stumble back; a hand at his hip guided him to the right side where a dark empty alley beckoned. Off-balance, it was easy to press him against the wall, to close in, hands now gripping the front of his coat, pulling him into a kiss, an embrace that warmed them despite the chill air, the dusting of ice below their feet. With Zev’s mouth moving against his, with his padrone taking control, Alistair relaxed, melting against him.
He pressed a dusting of kisses over cold skin, from the corner of his mouth over the square jaw and up to Alistair’s ear. A snowflake lingered there and Zev licked it off, savouring the tingle on his tongue. “Is that not better, tesorino?” Another kiss, planted in the tender spot just behind the lobe, while his hands pushed beneath the woollen coat to explore the body that arched against him. “Perhaps I should take you here, where it is dark and private, hmm?” Mere yards away another group of revellers passed, giggling as they tried to form slushy snowballs from the half-formed ice. But the alley Zevran had chosen was angled, the gable end of the house overhanging to block out the flare of lanterns and bonfires. Here there was only the solid weight of Alistair pressing against him, the soft moan that escaped his dear one when an expert hand traced the outline of his erection through straining breeches.
“Is that what you long for, Alistair, is that what you wished to say?” Warm encouragement and hot desire battered at the gates of Alistair’s inhibitions, taking Zevran along for the ride as need crashed through his own body. But curiosity burned higher. Surely this thought which had so clammed up his brave lover must be wildly naughty. He wished to hear it, to fulfil it without delay. “Tell me, schiavo mio, tell Zevran what it is you desire.”
“I love you.” The words were blurted out between one kiss and the next.
Hands and mouth stilled instantly as shocked amber eyes stared into humble brown ones in the dim light.
“I-know-you-don’t-like-it-don’t-want-to-hear-it-but-it’s-true. And-I-know-that-you-and-Aedan… I-mean, I-know-I’m-not-…” Alistair was babbling with apprehension. “I just wanted you to know.” A tentative, slightly clumsy hand came up to touch Zevran’s immobile face, the fingers shaking with nerves. “I love you.”
Ti amo.
Aedan had never said it, never needed to. They had been together so long, been through so much. Love was in action, in deeds, in faith and belief and loyalty. The last person to say she loved him had been Rinna and even after all these years that memory squeezed his heart. That too had been from behind the comforting anonymity of a mask, at Carnevale, the night before their ill-fated mission. He had put his heart into the kiss he gave her then, but had never said the words.
Never said them before or since.
“I’m sorry.” Alistair was already starting to withdraw, masking his hurt in a hundred tiny ways, in the dip of his head, the nervous brush of his hands over the dusting of snow on his coat, the little shuffle of his feet. A moment more and he’d be gone and this would never be said again.
“Alistair; wait.” A delaying tactic, a stopgap, anything to prevent hurt from being inflicted on his sweet boy. Didn’t he understand? Some things were just too difficult, some training, some inhibitions were harder to overcome than anything the Chantry could inflict. Zevran’s mind raced, trying to find a way to deal with this. “You have an Antivan ambassador at Court, do you not? Have you learnt no Antivan words at all?”
“Um, some. I had to learn a bit of Antivan, Orlesian, Rivaini, just enough so I don’t stick my foot in it at receptions.” The question clearly confused Alistair; he hovered on the verge of bashful flight, waiting to hear more.
Zevran’s fingers felt unusually stiff, he flexed them before taking one of Alistair’s big hands between his palms. “Do you not know what it means, when I call you amore mio?
A slight shrug greeted this and a hunch of the shoulders. “Well, yes, but it’s just an endearment, right? I mean, you have loads of them, amore, caro, tesoro, bello and you use them all the time, with everyone.” Despite the despondent attitude and pessimistic words, Alistair’s big callused fingers clung slightly to his. The puppy hadn’t been kicked as expected. He just wasn’t sure yet whether the boot was on its way.
“No, Alistair, I do not. The other words,” Zevran lifted his shoulders in a dismissive shrug, “you are correct, those are simple endearments. In Antivan we say such things very easily, in a way you Fereldans do not seem to. But tell me: have you ever heard me call anyone other than you and Aedan ‘amore’?
Silence.
A slow shake of the head, wonder dawning in Alistair’s beautiful face. “No. I mean- Really? You-? Truly?” There was a great deal of Alistair, and a moment later Zevran was buried under most of him. Arms wrapped around his back, a relieved murmur sounded near his ear, where Alistair’s face was hidden in his neck. The obstacle had been overcome, and everything could now continue as it had, but burning in Zevran’s mind was the same moment many years ago, and how the opportunity had been lost forever. The cold Ferelden alley and the warm, lantern-lit campi merged in his mind and the hard tight bite of Crow claws in his heart and mind loosened just a touch further. Only a little, but enough perhaps for this.
A tiny turn of his head. Just a shade, nothing too difficult. Just enough to bring his mouth close to Alistair’s ear. His hands closed in soft, short, snow-damp hair.
“Ti amo.” A ghost of a sound, a murmur, nothing more. And then again, a little louder, so that Alistair’s arms tightened around him still further as he heard.
“Ti amo.”
-oOo-
Re: Have a Fenris in an Elf Hat
Though now I have this mental image of Ju!Cat running into Pounce.
Re: Have a Fenris in an Elf Hat