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

[ombranera]

WHO: Zevran and YOU
WHAT: Zevran's Birthday and Ardent Blossom Contest
WHEN: Forward dated to Guardian 5
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Shenanigans connected to this announcement

Someone had been a sneaky little shit, preying on Zevran's lack of familiarity with traditions and dates and the weight people tend to put on something so mundane as a 'birthday'. Someone (Alistair) had spread word and made a thing of it, despite Zevran not seeing the point nor truly wishing to cause a fuss. He had, however, decided to take a day for himself to do nothing. No fuss, no stress, no real work. A day to indulge in a few of his many hobbies. He did not know what one did on their birthday normally but here he was, sitting in the Courtyard with one of his found spoils on his head, awaiting those that paid mind to his earlier announcement. When he wasn't idly sketching whoever he saw in the courtyard he was in the Herald's rest, enjoying a quiet drink and making notes on the better stories or songs he has heard throughout the day.

Comments

[byblow]

Alistair sees Zevran a few times throughout the day and grins at him from a distance—maybe a little smug and smirky, especially if he's being given gifts or fawned over at the time—but otherwise he leaves him alone with his various admirers and entertainers. Friends. Ha.

But that evening he lays claim to the bedroom early, before Zevran And His Various Admirers And Entertainers can get any bright ideas about socking the door, and waits up with covered dinner plates kept warm by the brazier for as long as it takes. Not even the quiet can dampen his mood. He distracts himself from the song in his head by sitting on the floor and baby-talking to Doghren, mostly, but at the first sound of someone unlocking the door, he stops and tries very hard to look manly and disinterested in the puppy.

"Goooood evening," he says, showily. There's dinner, there's the fact that the room is cleaner than usual, there's the fact that Doghren smells decent, and there's something in Alistair's pocket. That's all he's got. But he looks pleased with himself anyway.

[ombranera]

So many little things, lovely things, and by the time dinner has come about and a few quiet plans made for later in the evening among those who wish to show more intimate appreciation for his person on so special a day, Zevran winds back to his room. He works the lock with one hand as the other is busy with a basket containing that which he could not carry himself and finds that it is not in fact locked.

Alistair is here.

He'd seen him lurking about- well- as much as he lurks, smug and smirking and infinitely pleased with himself with the progression of the day. Rolling his eyes Zevran pushed it open, careful not to let Doghren out, and sets his basket on the bed. "What is this now, mmm? Come to gloat on the merit of celebrating today after all?"

[byblow]

"I'd never."

He would. Forever.

With Doghren ignoring him in favor of sniffing and dancing around Zevran's boots, he heaves himself up off the floor to stand next to Zevran by the bed, drop an arm around his shoulders, and peer nosily at his basket. Alistair isn't usually very interested things—a byproduct of being easily pleased and easily entertained, a lifetime of owning little and packing light, and a half-conscious contrarian rejection of any finery that might mark him as anything but a servant's son—but he is interested in how much everyone adores Zevran.

"Let's see it," he says. "I already know what Bethany gave you."

[ombranera]

"You would." He is, in fact, not that Zevran minds it in the least. The day has been strange and sentimental but...restorative. Zevran not only feels more himself, he feels more certain that this is where he ought to be and this work is what he ought to be doing.

Leaning into Alistair's side comes as easily and reflexively as breathing. Something to ground him when he needs it, or to enjoy as they both did not have such casual affections offered in their lives before now. One by one he sets out the gifts, the carving, the daggers, what was wrapped of the peasant bread, the remainder of a fine bottle of Antivan wine, a fine bottle of rum- everything he did not wear. "Kieran made something for me."

He unpins the crow from his vest and sets it next to the rest, along with the necklace Beleth made from him, carved halla antler and all. "And a few things I cannot share, unless you truly wish a scandalous dance or to join me and The Iron Bull after dinner."

[byblow]

Alistair makes a noise in his throat that would have been a laugh if it had escaped and shakes his head—he can imagine, sort of, and sort-of imagining is the maximum amount of sharing he wants for those things. The other things he touches: a poke at the carving, a quick examination of one of the daggers to see if it's a good one instead of only a pretty one, skipping only the food and drink and (without a stutter of movement, it's nothing) Kieran's gift.

"Good," he decides after his inspection. "If they'd fallen down on the job I'd have been very disappointed."

Not that they would have. Alistair didn't even tell anyone to give him anything, let alone to make sure it was something good. People just like him that much.

"I—didn't make you dinner. Don't be afraid. But I helped with the things I couldn't ruin."

[ombranera]

"Don't mind if I tell people, do you Zev'- I should have known." As ever he slips into Alistair's voice without missing a beat or batting an eye- and slips right back out into his own in the same breath. "You think yourself so sneaky, mm?"

Terribly sneaky. He had honestly forgotten, hadn't thought of doing much but taking the day for himself. Of course then what he says sinks in and Zevran blinks. Narrows his eyes at the covered plates. Stares back up at his brother.

"...what did you do?"

[byblow]

Alistair doesn't think he's especially sneaky, no. If Zevran had thought to ask him if anything was planned, he would have cracked immediately. But it worked out well. He grins and twitches his eyebrows up once—not a wiggle only for lack of repetition—in smug agreement, and that doesn't fade when Zevran turns suspicious-looking.

"Nothing," he says, and reiterates, "Dinner. I bribed the kitchen staff by carrying bags of flour." He flexes the arm that isn't draped over Zevran's shoulders, then releases him to stoop down and scoop up Doghren so he can take her with him to fetch the plates, not out of affection, but to be sure he doesn't step on her or anything. "Sit down."

Dinner, once delivered to Zevran's hands, is nothing fancy—but yes, it is pasta, with seafood as decent as can be bought with flour-carrying in the mountains in a country with mostly cold water fish. So not very. But an effort was made.

[ombranera]

"With or without the shirt? You'd have gotten more for your effort were you shirtless." He knew how they tittered and he knew how well Alistair was muscled, having woken next to him in such a state more often than not for how terribly cold it is at night in Skyhold. Still.

Zevran finds he is neither stirred nor bothered by it now. How something so simple as sentiment can render a man sexless to him is baffling- and he has no desire to examine the notion.

He sits, he peers after Alistair...and he blinks with wide eye'd wonder at the familiar (ish) smell and spices of home. Close to home. Pasta. Actual pasta, an attempt with cold water fish-

A little bit of Antiva that he's missed dearly.

"How fortunate I've a wine to accompany this." No his voice isn't thick with emotions because he is not having emotions.

[byblow]

Alistair opens his mouth prepared to protest the very idea, closes it to think for a moment, and says, "Next time."

Next time it's for a good cause. He knows how they titter and how well he's muscled, too. He wouldn't usually show off—but for someone else's sake, sure. For Zevran's sake. Maybe they'd have given him the fresh stuff. This is close enough, though, judging by Zevran's totally emotionless voice.

"That does work out well." He sits down, too, and bends to put Doghren back on the floor now that boots aren't stomping around. "Especially since I didn't think of it at all. I'm not very good at this."

[ombranera]

"You are better than I, my friend." He pulls some worn, tin cups from the desk, checks them for residue of any kind before pouring for them both. Something of home with something close to from home, arranged if not prepared by someone he cares about. Sentiment, again, but...for one day it's fine.

Even if he isn't going to have emotions about the meal.

"This comes from a vineyard not far from Antiva city, gorgeous hills, huge villa close to the coast- the mistress of the house is quite lovely and has an appreciation for flexible elves. Sometimes I would visit in return for a case of their latest vintage."

[byblow]

"Cad," Alistair accuses lightly. He lifts a cup to sniff at the contents, makes a face of considered approval, and drinks half of it in the usual gulpy and unfinicky Fereldan fashion.

He does appreciate it, though, even if it's possibly a bit wasted on him.

Maybe it would be better to let Zevran eat first, but he's fidgety and impatient in addition to unrefined, and as soon as he's set the cup back down he fishes into his pockets and sets down on the desk a pair of small rune stones—one black, one white, neither enchanted, both rubbed silk-smooth in places where Alistair has spent a decade habitually worrying at them with his thumbs.

"Pick one," he says, and quickly appends, "Don't make me explain." That isn't normal for him. He'll bookend the sappy stuff with jokes, maybe, but he won't withhold it. The problem now isn't that he doesn't want to sound sentimental; it's that he can't articulate what it means to him without talking about Cousland, and they're having a nice time, why ruin it. "I just want you to have one."

[ombranera]

It is something of home shared with someone he holds as dear as he would think he'd hold his own blood, had he any worth holding. As such it is not wasted; though he does take his first sip slower. Familiar and warm, with the pasta and fish it is all the more so than the peasant bread and honey. Zevran is mid chew when the stones are set down and those-

He's surprised Alistair kept them. After Loghain...

Not asking is asking much of him but- he reaches out, sliding his fingers over the dark rune stone. A worry stone. Something for luck or for fortune, or simply for approval. It had gained Alistair's at the time. All of them so desperately pretending they didn't ache for these little signs that someone cared.

And Jonas had, in his own way. More than Zevran had expected. He pulls it close. Swallows his pasta, rolling the rune over his knuckles as he would a coin. "Thank you."