faderift | Three is a crowd

WHO: Zevran Arainai, Maxwell Trevean
WHAT: Zev needs some space, Max doesn't mind sharing his
WHEN: Firstfall
WHERE: Fallow Mire, Max's tent
NOTES: Innuendo abounds

Share a tent with another elf and a mage? No problem. Share a tent with two elves and a mage with rampant tension of the fun, sexy kind in a bog full of the undead, a heavy reminder that he left behind his friend that may or may not be A) going mad or B) dying as well as a few rumors that the Crows were poking into Inquisition business and he may have to handle them sooner than he'd thought? He could not quite manage. A few nights keeping watch, the lightest of dozing, snatching moments in other tents, that would work. But one night to stretch out and not deal with whatever strangeness lay in that tent with his very fine companions? Would be a relief.

He certainly hoped Maxwell did not mind his company overmuch as he did not offer any kind of warning before settling at the fire outside Maxwell's tent as though he'd been there for the entire excursion.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Mmm...much as I would like to be Bacio or Sescio I think, perhaps, what would be closest is Gircio. Teasing friends, flirtatious friends without the actual intimacy. That is how you are most comfortable, yes?" He thought as much, at least.

He arched an eyebrow, but waited for Zevran to finish the thought before speaking. When he had, Maxwell took a breath, considering the question more seriously than perhaps Zevran meant it.

"It's so much about comfort as... well, I suppose there isn't actually a better word for it," he sighed with a slight frown. "I just-- I like it to be about more than the physical. Does that make sense?"

"Is that not what I said?" Comfort, wanting more than- He sighed. "Common is such an imprecise language at times. That is what you wish, for your reasons which are not at all without merit- and that is what I hope to offer, yes? Companionship with the romance and the teasing with none of the expectations. That makes it safe."

A strange word to use in this context but- it seemed to him that Maxwell may not have such a safty net elsewhere.

It was another word that didn't quite sit right, but again, Maxwell was at a loss for a better one. Not without talking about it more; not without trying to explain... and this was hardly the time or place for that sort of then.

The Fallow Mire was dark and dismal and depressing enough without his help.

"True enough," he nodded. "Knowing where one stands from the start saves pain later. And I am always glad of more friends."

"As am I." Of a sort. Friends that expected nothing of him were his favorite sort and it seemed as though Max was content to count himself among them. Actual intimacy- well. Actual emotional intimacy was rarely on the table.

Not that it was wanted or expected. Which was half of the appeal, here.

It wasn't that Maxwell didn't want intimacy - he wanted it more than anything - but he'd learned just as well that he wasn't the sort anyone wanted that with. And he'd learned to accept that. It still made him sad, occasionally, when he stopped and really thought about it... but that was why he tried not to.

Just accept, and move along.

Exhaling a breath, he clapped his hands lightly on his knees, more than ready to put the turn the conversation had taken behind him.

"That decided, I think it's time for dinner; have you eaten?"

"I have not, but after passing by the Fereldan tents and smelling that stew? I may have lost my appetite. It is a strange bit of nostalgia that. On the one hand it brings back fond memories of traveling during the Blight. On the other- it is horrible and should not be consumed by anyone." Who let Alistair cook. Honestly. They all knew better back then and they kept letting it happen.

Maxwell chuckled softly and pushed off his seat to move toward the tent, pulling on the flap to duck inside.

"Well, I don't have any stew, but I do have some dried... water fowl or another, and something resembling bread if you'd like some."

He'd gotten at the little tavern. He hadn't really wanted to know.

He felt that way about much of the mire, really.

"And in return I've some Antivan wine. Not much but- it is safer than boiling the water here for drinking." Better the wine than the brandy, at least. But any meal can be made better with a good bottle of wine. Or even a half decent one, as near as he can tell.

Maxwell grinned, pleased by both the offer of drink and the company.

"Deal," he agreed with a nod, and then he ducked into the tent to fish out his half of the meal.

Zevran, for his part, pulled the bottle of Antivan wine from his pack along with two tin cups. Hardly the height of formality but it was better than passing the bottle back and forth between bites.

Maxwell returned a few moments later, a pair of small cloth wrapped bundles in hand, and took a seat closer to Zevran so they could share easily. Opening them, he held them up for his friend to take what he liked.

"To gircios," he smiled.

[OOC: I honestly don't know the plural of that, and google wasn't helping, so I'm sorry if I got it wrong. D:]

"To Gircios." He pours them both a glass and lifts his to Max before taking a sip. It was not the best, nor was it the worst meal he had had on the road.

[ ooc: It's cobbled together italian I think we can call it good >_> ]

Three is a crowd

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