faderift | [ OPEN ] Tonight I'm gonna have myself a real good time

Gone are the usual tunic and leathers, or even the light shirt and vest he used most days during training- the silk of his shirt was as deep as blood, shimmering with subtle embroidery in the same shade of red threaded along the sleeves and collar, the vest a rich brocade in black and trimmed in gold thread fitted tight to his trim torso. Open at the throat his collar showed a woven necklace Beleth had given him, the bright white of the wing a stark contrast to the tan of his skin. It complimented the pale blossoms on his head as much as the leather matched the sleek lines of his finest, thinnest leather trousers.

Antivan made, clinging to every muscle, leaving precious little to the imagination without being obscene in the slightest. Zevran himself was turning a carving around in his fingers. A warm, wooden kestrel, a small enigmatic smile on his face that only brightened and widened at Michel's approach. "Soleil."

And for a moment there was no game, no manipulation, no trick. Simply Zevran who was simply pleased to have the company of someone he enjoyed. "Come, sit. They are going along quite well."

Inwardly Michel wasn't certain how he would survive this encounter without feeling at least a little flustered, but he would certainly give it his best effort. It was certainly made easier given the thick weight of his armor, there was something to be said for the needless excess in Orlesian fashion. Additionally he was able to keep his eyes on Zevran's face and not on his legs...well, perhaps he strayed to the line of his neck, but only because his hair was...different.

"It seems that way...any particularly entertaining talents? Potential winners?" As he was invited to sit, so the Chevalier did, basket still held securely, resting in his lap, but not as important right now. He glanced down at the wooden kestrel and at the subtle, intricate adornments that made up his companion's attire before returning to lock eyes with Zevran, a smile of his own forming on his lips, "I'm under the impression that this is a special day?"

"A rather poignant story that accompanied this carving-" He twisted it about so Michel might see the detail better. "One that was taken from the form of an egg, to a crow, to a Kestrel in the span of the very same. I know for certain one crown shall go to her for this."

The tale was too close to home, the carving too fine, too lovely, too skilled a thing to ignore- especially for how quickly it had been done. Sentiment, his mind spoke, but for the day? This one day among all others in a year, perhaps indulging in sentiment would not be so terrible a thing. "My birthday. Or the day I have chosen to celebrate as such. Alistair had asked if he might spread word and I thought nothing of it. Perhaps I ought to have minded him and his whispers with more care."

"I do not think I've heard of such a story..." perhaps there was something in the library at the university, but he had never come across it. Granted he only accompanied the Empress there, rarely did he have time to look around, "...but if it involved such a miraculous carving, I can only imagine it was very worthy."

Michel's eyes widened a little and he seemed bemused by the revelation.

"How rare a thing, choosing your own birthday," it was certainly novel, especially since Michel hadn't celebrated his own in years. If he could even remember, not that it mattered either way, "I cannot see the harm in celebrating a day that's just yours...though perhaps all of the attention fixed on you? I suppose I was not wrong in preparing something."

"I used First Day to keep track- it is not done among the Crows and after? It never seemed like it was worth minding. Alistair took exception and made me choose." Thus he chose a time of great relevance, something that held meaning to himself if no one else. He set the carving down and turned to better focus on Michel, smiling at the armor.

Another layer of protection from so many things.

"He would not let me out of the room to fetch breakfast this morning, insisted upon doing it himself. All day such kindness and gifts. Had I known this was the tradition one's day of birth earned in the South I might have made mention of having one sooner." He was off balance enough to be rendered sincere, a rare thing. "Oh? And what have you prepared?"

"Chevalier are not so different in such regards, I suppose if I had one I must have forgotten. Though it seems you have those who care a great deal for you to insist on such a happiness," which was simply a truth he'd come to accept, the Chevalier were something of a hive mind and they were also strict in such practices. If you got leave then you could celebrate such things with your family or those you were close to.

As for armor? His was well worn and though it still had a brilliance about it, it was obvious that Michel had taken time and care to hammer out flaws. If that spoke anything of the layers he wore.

"Hm...I remember the Empress's birthday always being quite the to-do around the palace...a day of honor in one's name...a bit of open adoration," the appeal certainly struck Michel as it might anyone else, there was something to be said about watching others in their own moment...and speaking of which, "ah...well, I could not think of anything elaborate on the spot. My mother used to make peasant bread, it's the one thing I can say that I know how to make, I learned it for the sake of nostalgia...and because it's actually quite good. I thought it would be paired nicely with Antivan wine...not easy to get a hold of given the notice, but Antiva is unparalleled in its leather and its wine."

"Such is the way among nobles- I had never thought the rest of the world paid them mind until Jonas stopped to make some manner of fuss over one of us on their 'birth day'. It was...strange to see but interesting to observe. Simpler than banquets and a masquerade by far as we were on the road but-" He shrugged, fingers tracing the lines of the kestrel carving. The attention wasn't unpleasant, the gifts were touching.

Sentiment.

So much of it in one day, and the rest? He shall set it aside. Rather than mocking or incredulous Zevran's voice was only soft with curious wonder. "You...baked me bread?"

A noble of some sort even if his blood was not, a man of standing, a Chevalier... Baked him bread. And brought him wine.

"...There is a tradition in Antiva- I am uncertain if you know this, but when one wishes to do business or when one wishes to begin a relationship- be it friendship of some manner or another or simply a working one, you break bread and share wine to join the lines of the houses. When a greater house does so with the lesser, usually it is something done to show off, a sign of their wealth or of their standing. When something is done less for gain or for a show of power the head of the house bakes the bread himself." Michel was, by dint of the rest of the house being a nonentity in the Inquisition, the head of his house. "It is meant to show sincere interest. Equality."

Edited 2016-02-01 00:58 (UTC)

"I've seen quite a few traditions, each one unique to the individual...Lord Gaspard always celebrated his birthday in stark contrast to Her Radiance. It typically ended in some poor beast's death for sport," fortunately they were not as grand as the masquerades which he did not lament in the slightest.

At Zevran's wonder over his bread baking, Michel tipped his head to the side a bit, it was modest, but when it came to making things he had few gifts, "it's really the only thing I can cook, well that and a concoction of boiled meat and vegetables which...is really a desperate bid for survival."

At least Michel managed to survive all these years, but he knew he would never have a cook's gifts.

More than that he was unaware of certain cultural significance as well and it was his turn to look at Zevran with wonder and wide-eyed surprise. There was a reason he was a soldier and not an ambassador, while he knew a great many thing about Orlais, and other random facts that enabled him to get by in court, there were certain nuances he wasn't aware of. Rarely did he interact with anyone from Antiva and usually he was primed for engaging anyone, briefed by advisers and the Empress herself on very specific things.

"I...I don't know what to say to that, are you offended?"

"Quite the opposite, in fact." The curious, cautious wonder melted into a smile- it was meant to be a kind gesture and it was, in fact, quite kind. As he himself did not have a house to speak of for all that he carried the name of House Arainai? Such traditions he did not normally put much weight to if only for the fact they were rarely relevant. But here, now, he found it relevant.

Sentiment.

He turned his eyes from the basket in question to Michel properly. "Surprised, perhaps. Flattered, most certainly. I forget, on occasion, that such things do not carry the same meaning here. For instance in common when one says 'friend' there is but the one word for it. In Antiva? There are seven."

For a moment Michel had almost been certain that he had broken some kind of social taboo inadvertently, but he relaxed his posture somewhat when Zevran reassured him that he was alright. It was coincidental to be certain, a very compelling one at that considering and...well he wouldn't say that it didn't send a bit of a thrill down his spine. Small. Overshadowed by concern.

"Orlesian is similar in some respects, it certainly made learning the common language challenging...especially in starting when you have no idea exactly what sort of 'friend' the word implied," oddly enough he could think of a word that implied one was a male lover and was rarely used unless such was the case, "I've been away from court for quite some time now I've almost forgotten about everything except for Imshael. I...would not wish to step on your toes inadvertently, bel homme, I am relieved that it is not the case."

"Exactly, yes? Someone says to me 'you are a good friend, Zevran' and must attempt to recall that they do not have words to differentiate such things as you and I do. I have no way of knowing if they mean Bacio, Gircio, Becio, Socio, or Amico. At least I know when it is they mean Sescio. But more than that? One word for so many possible things? It is strange." But he had done what he could to adapt the longer he lived in the south, though on occasion his understanding did slip. But this? He thought he understood well enough. Even without knowing the day, Michel had come to him with a gift.

Perhaps not to impress, but simply to come. That warmed him in a way he wasn't going to look at. Such things were dangerous.

"No toes are stepped upon. Of that, you have my word. Come now and show me this peasant bread and wine, mm? I am certain it is better tan the Fereldan vintage they have available today."

Michel wouldn't lie if asked whether or not he enjoyed it when Zevran dipped into Antivan every now and then. There was something formal about the way Orlesians spoke, Michel wasn't aware of any overt attractiveness, but there was something quite sensual about Antivan, "it can become rather awkward when you cannot distinguish between le copain and être ami. I have never been outside of Orlais, but there are plenty who speak the common language in Val Royeaux...and the language barriers are...interesting to say the least."

He was grateful that he had at least been taught more that, most people are these days, it was important to be flexible in such regards.

"Apparently we now have a merchant here who deals in wine" though it is daylight robbery for the cost of it, but he suspected it was not an easy feat getting Antivan wine all the way out here, as ornate as the bottle was he expected it to be just as good.

The bread itself was accompanied by a jar of honey, "I remember as a child my mother worked in a tavern, when she knew she could get away with it she would steal honey. It was such a trace amount that it went unnoticed, never enough for the both of us, but she would always put it on the bread she gave me. It...works very well together."

"I know some Orlesian- commands most often given to servants, names for tools of the trade, where can I find a drink and a whore and the like. And the swearing." He crackled a laugh, smile dipping into something warm and lazy. "Everyone learns the swearing first."

Which was half the fun of any new language, to hear all the wonderful and inventive things you can call a person- or at least understand what it is they are calling you. But for now there were no such bitter thoughts, only thoughtful consideration of the bottle set out, the humble bread and jar of honey. More than the sustenance set on the table this was Michel sharing...himself. Scraps of his past that few people knew by dint of his past being so terribly secret. Something in his eyes went soft, a little wondering at the fact.

"I shall have to try it myself to be certain- perhaps you might prepare a slice while I pour the wine?" There were cups on the table, simple, chipped glass things but he did not mind them. Nor did he mind pulling one of the daggers Sam made him, fine wing embellishments on the crossguard, to uncork the wine and pour them each out a measure.

"I find Orlesian to be a harsh language, something suited to nobility," who could be quite harsh and pointed in the way they spoke to you...when they weren't being cryptic, "as for the cursing...true. Felassan taught me a few interesting phrases in Dalish, I was only half listening...he knew how to get under my skin."

And Michel could have a surprisingly short temper, one wouldn't think it, but Felassan knew just the right thing to say. Words very seldom bothered the chevalier, unless they were words that were profoundly true and strung together thoughtfully, in ways that made him question himself. In fact more than once Michel meditated over such things and more and more he questioned himself.

"Not at all," Michel nodded, typically a well prepared individual he had the right tools on him for slicing the bread and drizzling honey over it. After preparing both of their helpings Michel licked the honey off of the back of his index finger forgetting how sticky and sweet it could be, rarely indulging anymore.

"I have been meaning to ask," he said, tucking anything unnecessary back into the basket, "I am aware of your connection to Alistair...well it's fairly common knowledge. I was wondering if you could not explain something to me that has been, well, strange in recent days? Does he...typically watch people intently from a distance?"

"It can be quite romantic if given the right lilt- the music, the poetry? Can be marvelous. Though my heart shall ever be to my native Antivan and perhaps Rivaini. Common is imprecise but Antivan? Dances upon the tongue- every phrase is a song." He slung a leg out, tapping gently against Michel's foot under the table. Tapping and resting, not quite hooked around his ankle. Something playful and intimate while they share wine and break bread, casual contact that had no real aim. Quite contrary to their earlier interactions where everything was quite pointed to their mutual enjoyment and while he did not mind it sometimes one simply wished to laze. To linger.

Today was such a time for Zevran. So long as Michel did not move his leg away? His foot would remain.

"Remind me to read Antivan poetry to you sometime, mm? Or perhaps play you one of our many ardent love songs." They were plentiful and occasionally vulgar; but some were sweeter. Lighter. Not that they were men preoccupied with sweetness and light. The bread seemed humble enough a vessel for the Honey and Michel had been quite right, combined? They were lovely. So too was the image of Michel licking the honey off of his fingers. It was innocently and casually sensual- more than enough to leave him preoccupied for a moment while the question sunk in.

"Watch...intently?" Oh. Oh no. "He...has reservations that I do not about our association. Knowing my history with human men of a noble lean and how Orlesians typically view elves. He may be attempting to disapprove without actually involving himself. Pay him no mind. My business is my own."

"If nothing else Orlesian lends interesting lingual effects to their plays when attempting to relive certain historical events. I will spare you the details on those written about the Fifth Blight...and yes...music and poetry if the right infliction is used, soft, deep, richer tones," though Michel, for the most part, tended to hear Orleasian through gossiping mouths and to him it sounded like clucking...though perhaps gossip sounded the same in any language. His thoughts were only slightly distracted by the foot tapping against his own and he extended his own leg a bit so that Zevran would not have to stretch so far, amenable to the constant presence. Though armor often made feeling difficult, the presence was still felt and reciprocated.

"It would be rude to say no to such a generous offer, yes? I would not pass up such an opportunity for an exclusive performance," that and an activity that didn't involve sex, but included things like poetry and love songs sounded oddly like paying court to. He wasn't so foolish as to entertain it or even comment upon it out loud, but he was not about to reject it either. He could push anything he needed to down for the sake of something else more important. Granted, something substantial such as listening to Zevran cajole him with Antivan did not dismiss the more salacious thoughts from his head. He should certainly find a way to maintain some self-control, but he didn't miss the way Zevran watched him as he licked honey off his finger. It certainly brought intriguing images to the Chevalier's imationation, honey-drizzled skin and carefully cleaning him off afterward.

Such thoughts and since when? A year ago he would find it offensive, but someone once told him that there was nothing offensive about...

"I can only suspect what he has heard or what he thinks he knows about me. Orlesian, noble, Chevalier, disgraced champion to the Empress, worse still abuser of elves...that is often the brush most Chevalier are tarred with. I cannot say that I am completely innocent, there are things I am not proud of, but you can always be safe in the knowledge that I would not hurt you or anyone else without provocation," there were things that even he found distasteful as a Chevalier, and the one practice he had to live with was his own initiation. Getting fresh Chevalier drunk, putting a weapon in their hand, and letting them loose in the alienages. It was despicable and he took no part in it after that first night, but he didn't look back either. He fought his way to Celene's side and a part of him wanted to help her reform such practices...he knew of the kind of change she wanted. He also knew that her actions at Halamshial had set those changes back 100 years and it had saddened him. He kept a lot of his feelings about this particular subject close to his chest because of the lack of honor involved and spent much of his time making amends, "I'll do as you say...unless I detect heavy, menacing breathing just over my shoulder, then I can make you no promises."

"To be fair, it is not so inaccurate a brush." But such things were darker, bloodier than what he wanted to pay mind to. For one day and perhaps a night he wished to push such things from his thoughts and simply enjoy being alive somewhere he is safe to do so. No looking over his shoulder for Crows, no hot breath on the back of his neck of a demanding Taliesin, no regret-

Well.

There were the few he ever carried but for the one day? He could lay those ghosts to rest and enjoy life as best as one could in Skyhold. Good food, good wine, good company. It is no Antivan carnivale but it is marvelous simply to people watch or lounge about as he wished. The usual itch that came from lingering in one place for too long wasn't entirely absent, hence the swinging from the tavern to the courtyard; but he moved often enough and erratically enough to feel somewhat safe. Here and now? He was content. What a strange feeling that was. "He means well and will not act against you. To do otherwise is to undermine my ability to choose those I grace with my company."

And Alistair knew far too well how little choice Zevran had in that for most of his life. He would not take it from Zevran's hands.

Hands that were currently tacky with honey as he lifted the slice of bread to his lips again, hands he had to lick clean with only half a thought to how it looked, tongue darting out to swipe the sweet honey from his skin.

"No...he's probably right..." it wasn't an unfair assumption of Chevalier to be honest, one could make the same assumption of everyone around them--mages and Templars, Grey Wardens and assassins, Seekers and Chevalier. If nothing else it was an interesting mix of individuals, the fact that Michel happened to be Orlesian and clinging to the furthest edges of his country? Well, he could not think of anything he could do for that particular fact, "he's fine, it's just a bit unnerving..."

Alistair didn't feel particularly threatening to him if Michel were to be honest with himself, he was more curious about the matter than anything and was perfectly happy to let it go now that he was certain it wasn't something else. Especially since he painted such an enticing picture and for a moment it was nice to simply lean back a bit and sip at the wine in his glass, observing just for now, wondering if the man was aware of his present appeal.

The garland around his head gave him a kind of delicate innocence that belied lips and fingers and everything else he knew about the assassin. Still, why couldn't he be?

"De valeur..." he murmured softly, before reaching out carefully for that hand, drawing his body forward a bit. Licking the residual traces of honey off of a finger Zevran had yet to attend. This should most certainly be his responsibility.

Half aware- he was rarely beyond the ability to know how he was sitting or moving in the light, so deep was his training burnt into his bones, but when he was relaxed, when he was content, when he had no game or ploy? It was less important than his own enjoyment. The calculated grace became casual, the flick of his tongue less sensual and more for cleaning his hand of honey.

"Mmm?" Bits and pieces he had picked up of Orlesian, but that? He did not know. Curious but willing he allowed Michel to take his hand, watching the play of lips and tongue over his honey'd skin. So small a thing. So small and innocent a thing compared to so much of what they had done but they were in full view of any that might wander by. Anyone could see.

And Michel did so without hesitation and without shame.

Zevran was fortunate his skin did not betray him much at all should he blush- which he did not. He would call the heat and warmth of his face a result of the wine, not the tender actions of a man. "...What does that mean?"

As time rolled on Michel found the pointless stress of hiding his lies to be unneeded and with his time in Skyhold coming to a close, for he wasn't certain how his confrontation with Imshael would end. While not one to give his life in vain, he would certainly give it for this cause, it only soften him to his experiences with Zevran. He might have been reluctant at first, but time had warmed him well enough from their sinful antics in the assassin's bed to his wonderfully wicked roll with his companion in the hayloft, certainly less private than he might have liked and if anyone had found themselves even slightly curious? It would have been a sight he was certain.

Now it was simply a labor of his affection and a reflection of time, Zevran knew things about him, secret things, the things that wrapped the Chevalier in layers of his own solitude. What did he have to feel ashamed about any longer? That mage had been right all along...there was nothing at all offensive in this...how he might laugh at the Chevalier now.

Little finger caught between his lips, Michel rolled his eyes up to meet Zevran's gaze making a sound in the back of his throat at the question before slowly pulling off. That sticky hand now damp with saliva was still caught in his own hand and he saw no reason to let him go just yet, "several meanings...a few I suppose...valuable, worthy, precious..."

That-

That he did not expect. That makes it impossible for him to blame the sudden flare of heat on his cheeks on the wine. Zevran Arainai, lothario of Antiva City, of Skyhold-

He blushes.

His ears droop faintly- not angled for sorrow but rather surprise. He is stunned for a few moments before he can scramble for some manner of mask and even then it is a fair while coming.

Even if Zevran blamed the wine Michel would be hard pressed to believe him, though he rarely drank himself he suspected it would take more than just a few sips to bring heat to those fine cheeks. Though when he looked at the assassin there wasn't triumph in his eyes, a genuineness tempered by his own fondness that broke through that serene atmosphere Michel seemed to carry with him.

And late he was in hiding his surprise, Michel had played the Game, vicious thing it was and much distaste as he had for it. He cannot say that it taught him nothing even if he wasn't always the best at reading others, some thing were clear. And carefully, so, so very carefully he leaned up brushing his lips along the line of one of those slightly drooping ears, kissing the tip gently before sitting back in his chair appropriately.

"You are all these things," at least he hoped that Zevran realized that much.

He was not supposed to blush. Michel was not supposed to be so kind about it afterward, he was to gloat or to smirk having won a point in their game- not look at him with such warmth. And yet he cannot begrudge him for it, for he was charmed. And he could not flinch away from it, for he had never before experienced the like. Zevran leaned into the brush of his lips, blush deepening before Zevran wrangled it into some form of control before he managed to claw a mask into place.

Self depreciating was Alistair's thing, not his, but this was not his usual dance. "So I have been told."

He did not believe such things. How could he? It would be foolish to do so.

"I find it helpful to be reminded of such things from time to time," no, he wouldn't gloat, and Michel was terrible at games and he couldn't quite let it recede either behind Zevran's playful mask. So rare was it that he saw hints of the man underneath and to have any sort of hand in bringing it out, even for a moment made him very reluctant to let it go.

It was Michel who stretched his leg out this time, encouraging, quite artfully for a man wearing armor, his companion to prop his feet up in the Chevalier's lap. There was no agenda to it, nothing more than to have part of him a little closer...but Michel was not without mercy also and reaching for his wine he scooped up the glass and gave it a raise in toast.

"Tacho! To you on your birthday, Zevran, may it bring you everything you want."

Without any other line, tale, or trick with which to divert attention, Zevran moves as he was coaxed, feet slipping into Michel's lap as though this was something they did. As though they were casually and openly affectionate often without fear of judgement or reprisal.

Who is this man, and what did he do with the stumbling Chevalier of a few weeks ago?

Zevran ducked his head, cleared his throat and took his wine, lifting it in return for that toast. 'Everything you want'. Here was the place for a lewd line and he spoke it. "And if what I want is you?"

The usual lilt and roll was absent- if anything the question was practically tentative.

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