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

"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.

Feet comfortably on his lap, Michel absently stroked his legs, more defined in these particular leathers...but in spite of that the material was just as soft and exquisite on him as it usually was. He continued to sip his wine as Zevran perplexed over the change in him. Certainly Michel was not used to such connections himself, it sanded his edges he supposed.

He would never think of himself as smooth and he certainly had little vibrancy or likability, not in the same way Zevran seemed to draw others. There would always be that stumbling Chevalier, but even he couldn't be impervious to what experiences touched him and how they did.

"How would you like to have me?" It was the first time Zevran had asked him this question...well, at least in such a way. It struck a chord of curiosity mingled with something else he couldn't explain, and there was a willingness there as well.

Again, with the unexpected. Michel was supposed to color and murmur some manner of yay or nay not ask for specifics. Several came to mind, of course, he was off balance not dead, but it still took him a moment to find the right words. And even then it was not a question of the right words so much as the words that were disgustingly honest.

But it was a day for such strangeness, for sentiment, for honesty, for warm hands on his legs through his leathers and warm eyes over the rim of a wine glass. How was he to prepare for this? He wasn't.

"Like this." Just- this for a little while longer. Warm and companionable and without expectation. "And later in the hot springs, when it is not so crowded."

As long as they were feeling bold.

Michel was under the impression that one ought to get as much of what they wished for as they could. He might not celebrate his own, but he'd seen enough to know how it worked and felt not reason to begrudge Zevran, though certain other factors helped.

He had very little with which he could grant wishes and desires at the moment, that he could do this much? Well it was satisfying in its own way.

"Do you want me to wash your back?" There was a bit of that Chevalier from days before in his expression, warmth just around the edges of his collar. It didn't distract him from the careful way his hands smoothed over his companion's legs.

"Now that'd be a fine thing, having a Chevalier attend me in the bath." An attempt at distance that did not quite fit the warmth of his tone, the softness in his eyes. More a reminder for himself than for Michel and he still cannot place why this had him so off center.

But at the first bloom of that blush, his lips twisted wickedly. "And perhaps you might wash the rest of me as well, mm? Oil me afterward for your enjoyment."

"Perhaps a better gift would have been to offer you my services for an entire day if that idea pleases you," Michel might have been joking, he had them, he wasn't known for them, but it was not impossible...though he seemed quite sincere as well, "perhaps in addition to this you can pick a day, any of your choosing."

"Only if you can manage to behave long enough, I...think I can fulfill that request," Zevran had a way about him that enabled him to turn the tables on Michel in certain situations. If the assassin caught him off guard then washing and oiling him up might be difficult, though he wasn't wrong in that Michel would certainly find enjoyment in the task. Of course it was only having said it that Michel realized his own words and he offered his companion a sheepish nod.

"A dangerous offer." This- this was closer to the game he knows, the smirks and coy glances, the heated words. Attended by Michel for the entirety of a day? They likely wouldn't leave his bed for much other than food and perhaps a soak were it up to him. And perhaps a day may come when he had need of such an offer. "I accept."

When, though- that was the trick of it. But he set the thought aside, or as far aside as he could with Michel's hands warm and idle on his calves; recalling well the breathless question of learning to return the favor. Perhaps that would be how they spent the evening. "I would be as chaste as a chantry sister, you have my word."

And the most innocent look he could muster, one hand pressed to his chest, ears dipped slightly, eyes wide and doelike.

Michel offered a nod at Zevran's acceptance, as good as his word on any given day, no matter what shape they were in down the road or time that passed, it was an offer that Zevran could call on at any time. The Chevalier was perfectly capable of attending to others as he had done so for the Empress when it was just the two of them. Though not trained in such a way as a Chevalier, he was competent enough to take care of anyone under his charge.

The offer made, Michel picked up his wine again and finished the glass. He would abstain from drinking more as drinking was not something he was accustomed to and he had little desire to stumble around drunk today. More than that he tried to picture Zevran as a chaste chantry sister and failed spectacularly in conjuring the image. The innocent look he mustered did nothing to convince the Chevalier, but his lips quirked into a smile anyway, "those are high expectations, bel homme...I should hold you to it."

Should, but he probably would not.

"I can behave perfectly well if pressed." Case in point, how well he was behaving now. His feet in Michel's lap, honey on this lovely bread, and not a single salacious wink or innuendo to be had. Though now that he thought of it fighting the impulse to do something untoward was becoming more difficult. Now that he was attempting to not. In an attempt to distract himself he took another bite of the peasant bread, licking the honey from the pad of his thumb in the most efficient manner possible, sipped his wine and-

Well no that was not working, not with Michel's hands so warm against his calves. Working against his natural inclination to make everything about sex left only the vague stirrings of Sentiment to think on and that he had no desire to slip into with how off center he already was.

But see? Chaste. Utterly chaste.

"It was unworthy of me to underestimate you, you have my sincerest apologies," his apology was sincere, but it was also too warm not to be a lighthearted gesture. To emphasize, however, he gave Zevran's leg a gentle pat without realizing he was only stripping the man of his reserves. Regardless he was holding up well.

Arguably Michel was the one who seemed to be having more trouble with it now that Zevran had drawn the connection between himself and a chaste chantry sister. It was terribly inappropriate, but he took a sip of his wine and tried not to warm too noticeably at his own thoughts.

"Oh, good. Being chaste is so exhausting." Being salacious even more so in other, far more pleasant ways but he dropped a bit of the posture, licking wine from his lips and rolling a foot against Michel's lap. Idle indolence. "I do not know how they do it. Pious vows to the maker, but even the chant itself can be terribly...thrilling, if given the proper tone."

Which was five kinds of heretical but Zevran was nothing if not an honest sinner.

"Mmm. Now there's a look. Copper for your thoughts?" Or perhaps a kiss.

Perhaps it was no coincidence that Zevran's idle indolence in tandem with the profane way he referred to such things had him shifting in his seat. The Chevalier was not wholly Andrastian, as it was not something that they pushed quite so much on Chevaliers, but that didn't make his thoughts, however brief, any less uncomfortable.

And less so when Zevran's attention was drawn to them, "I...do not think my thoughts are very appropriate, bel homme."

Not at all considering he was trying to picture Zevran in Chantry attire and this did him very little in the way of good. He couldn't imagine what that made him at the moment.

"All the more reason to share them, mm?" His smirk became wide and wicked. As much as chaste thought was something he could manage- sinful indulgences were far more fascinating and prompting anyone pious into the same gave him far too much pleasure for him to ignore the perverse urge. That Michel flustered and colored so prettily only made twisting something of the like out of him all the more worthwhile.

"Are you imagining, perhaps, how I might recite the chant?"

"That is...certainly part of it..." Michel confessed, though he supposed since Zevran had rooted him out this far and since it was his birthday he should probably confess the whole of it, "...dressed in chantry robes...leaning back against a desk..."

Michel bowed his head and ran his fingers through his hair, yes, he should be appropriately ashamed, shouldn't he? And that made it difficult to look Zevran directly in the eyes, "I suppose this is when I am to be struck by lightening?"

"While you kneel and give worship?" And now that- was that not a marvelous mental image made all the better by the slight coloring of Michel's cheeks, the way his hair fell in front of his eyes once disturbed. A terribly handsome man, was Michel, and he knew it. The idea of having Michel kneeling before him as he recited the chant in every perverse way he knew how?

That was a birthday present to cling to.

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