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

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

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.

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"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.

If by giving worship Zevran meant to have Michel take the elf into his mouth, then it was indeed a titillating image, especially if it meant going underneath robes to do it. Michel was not well practiced in the art, but there was merit there and it was obvious he was giving it consideration...consideration until had couldn't anymore.

With a cough to disguise his own embarrassment, he gave Zevran's leg a gentle pat, "I...ah...I do not think I can go on, bel homme...I feel as though I should go repent somewhere..."

"Confess your sinful thoughts to me, my child, and I will give you absolution." Something so sacred should not be twisted about in the voice to sound so terribly profane; but Zevran had a skill for such things. Especially when he had so handsome and charming an audience.

"I cannot be certain that would be the best idea, lest the urge strikes me to do something tremendously secular to you right here in the open," it was difficult trying to keep the serene expression of a knight in place when talking like a complete idolator. He at least had the decency to make eye contact with his win glass and not directly with Zevran.

"Another time, perhaps." It'd be easy enough to tease and keep teasing, to string the joke and fantasy along until they were pressed against one another in some quiet corner of the tavern but...For the first time he can recall since he'd met the man, Zevran wished to simply sit and speak for a little while longer more than he wished to kiss him.

What fresh madness was this?

"I thank you for your mercy," Michel said half laughing and giving Zevran's leg another companionable rub. Besides, he had more pressing thoughts on his mind, sitting and speaking meant getting to know someone. He would like to know a bit more about Zevran for...future occasions such as this. It was odd to think of someone in the long term, at least for Michel who hadn't the luxury of family or friends. Empress Celene being his charge meant they could not be friends in spite of their trust, or what trust they once had.

"I do not think I've really asked you about your hobbies, bel homme...what sort of things do you enjoy doing?" Aside from the obvious, his tone seemed to suggest.

That was a good look for him, the laughing. So many grave faces for so handsome a man- he was tempted to say as such and fluster him further but enjoying this quiet companionship took precedent. Somehow. Zevran did not wish to explain it. "Well...I suppose this is as good of one as any."

He wiped his hands clean and took up his journal once again, turning it about so Michel might flip through it. Images of Dorian lounging indolently in the library, the Iron Bull sparring, Alistair and Morrigan And Leliana about a fire- old clothing and armor but their faces as they were now, Michel himself in the afterglow, warm and sated and lounging- may pages, many faces, all smudged into careful life with charcoal.

When offered the journal Michel made sure his own hands were clean before accepting and slowly flipping though the pages, it wasn't what he expected to find. Words certainly, but these finely drawn portraits were...surprisingly wonderful and he was not expecting it and for a long time hw as quite and he carefully moved from picture to picture, enamored by the talent, though when coming upon his own images he felt a bit of heat creep along his neck, "did you...draw some of these from memory?"

He could not remember being sketched like this.

"Some from casual observation, some from memory. There is another of you I am particularly proud of a few pages further in." Michel, bound by red silk at the wrists, straining in marvelous release- though nothing truly vulgar is shown. The careful charcoal lines delve down to his hips and give the suggestion of what may lie further- but do not detail in full that particular moment. "What can I say? You made an impression."

"Ah?...Oh..." Michel had reached a point where it was futile to try an hide how easily flustered he was even though he carried it with as much grace as he could manage. The heat creeping over his face was just difficult to hide and there were times he cursed his Orlesian complexion. Still, it was a tasteful picture in spite of its suggestion, and good as well, "...these...these are good...these are really, really good. I could see these hanging in a gallery in the university."

"Sketches done by an elf in a university gallery? Please." Zevran snorted a faint laugh, sipping his wine. "That would never happen in Orlais. It wouldn't happen in Antiva without quite a bit of patronage from a Merchant Prince."

Ferelden did not care quite so much for art like this for it to even be worth consideration, truly. But Orlais? Would never. Further flipping through the journal would show rough sketches of Dorian, Vivienne, several of the Dalish draped in the boughs of a tree- an older woman darning a sock, Maxwell and Gavin leaning upon each other, smiling sweetly.

"It's not that it would never happen...it's just that it would never happen without someone else taking credit for it. That...is the real shame..." a handful of elves have seen their way into the halls of the University of Orlais, but rarely are they given credit for their own brilliance. Michel's brows knitted and he frowned deeply thinking about some greasy, high-powered professor taking credit for any of this. He smoothed his expression after a moment and rubbed his chin thoughtfully--Michel was, after all, a noble...even if it was a title and an inheritance he obtained from his sponsor...but still. The idea lingered just behind his eyes as he continued to move from page to page. He could certainly picture an entire gallery of these portraits...and these weren't just portraits, but historical pieces.

"Which is just the same. Call me proud but I would not let some human noble put their name on my work. I never let any human crows take credit for my kills and I am not about to allow someone else to do so now." He was ever some shade of vain, was Zevran, and allowing someone else to claim his works as their own? He wouldn't bear it. "Besides. I doubt universities have galleries where one would put up naughty portraits."

They did become decidedly less chaste the further in one went, all wanton lips and dark eyes, bodies writhing against silken sheets or bales of hay.

"Slain like dragons I'd suspect," which is exactly how he pictured anyone who crossed Zevran the wrong way and he couldn't blame the assassin, vain or not even Michel could see the dishonor in claiming another's work as ones own. That and Zevran had feet below his knees, the Chevalier didn't see him bowing to anyone so easily, not under such circumstances...an attractive aspect of his nature, "not universities...private galleries, Orlesians do enjoy scandal...and extravagance...quite a bit of--"

Michel had to close the journal rather abruptly, a suspicious cough disguising his embarrassment, though his thumb was still holding his place. He did not indulge the way some of his countrymen did and so it was like looking on at another person's private moment with his male gaze. It was a little startling and it took him a moment to recover from it before he slowly flipped back to the page he was on. Considering several of these were of others, "so...so...have you ever worked with color...paints, tempera, pastels and the like..."

"Ah- so you've found that portion of the sketches." He could have warned Michel. Could have, but did not precisely so that he might see his honest reaction. Some of these faces might be familiar but the bulk? Were old lovers. Save, perhaps, the one of Michel's own face bracketed by leather clad thighs, mouth full and lips shining, hair mussed, skin flushed- Zevran's view from that heated coupling in the hay loft some time ago. He recalled it fondly.

For all his vanity Zevran did not care to sketch himself beyond the hands that were most likely his holding or stroking those in his sketches. Self Portraiture never struck him as terribly worthwhile- everyone else around him was so much more fascinating. "Alas, no. Such things cost coin I did not have to spare in my time as a crow and I never learned to work with them. Charcoal is cheap and plentiful and has suited me well enough."

"I...um...well, it's definitely the liveliest portion of your sketches," as much as it made him squirm to see such private moments, he went completely blotchy at seeing himself portrayed between Zevran's legs this way. If it weren't for the scars on his face and very vivid memories from that affair, the Chevalier might not even believe it was him. He even shook his head a bit to clear his vision, definitely not.

Though it had crossed his mind why Zevran opted not to draw himself, if Michel had half of his talent he might do it himself. As it was the Chevalier had no gift for art, no musical talent to speak of, he'd never tried singing. Still, even the smallest icon to keep would be something, not that he would ask for it or even say as much out loud< "I see...it certainly favors you as a medium..."

"Mmm, that one." He knew that look for what it was, could guess easily at which sketch Michel was seeing. Finishing that had taken revisiting the moment and had been quite distracting- but worthwhile for the flushed face and the knot in Michel's voice. Perhaps he should do a few more sinful little sketches.

Perhaps he might do a few of himself to surprise him, hide them where Michel might find them.

"Perhaps I might have you sit for me one day. Do a proper portrait in more than a simple journal." As if he would ever have the time or canvas to spare but- it was a lovely thought.

"Quite a memory you have..." Michel raised a hand as if to cover his own face in this portrait as if he could not make such a face and realizing just how ridiculous it was. He flipped through to the last of the pages, erotic as it was, these were still quite glorious and it was clear that this was a hobby that Zevran took great care in.

"Sit?...Of course, as you like!" It might be nice to sit in full awareness of having his portrait done, though neither one of them was at all certain when or if that would happen.

"You made quite the impression." The last wasn't something half so erotic- Michel with his arms crossed, cheek resting against his bicep, eyes closed. Shaded and lit from sunlight or candlelight or something else entirely, warm and almost ethereal. Perhaps there was more sentiment in that than he would like to otherwise show but-

He was a handsome man, was Michel. Zevran enjoyed having him.

"I...see it...it's just difficult to believe..." Michel tilted his head just a bit at the image of himself sleeping, was that how he appeared to Zevran's eyes? If truth be told, there was very little that wore Michel down enough for him to fall into such a contented sleep, there was no such thing as truly becoming comfortable. Yet he found himself in complete contentment afterward, even if it was only for a few hours--flat on his stomach, or on his side, that warm oblivion that he felt secure in.

It was such an impossible thing.

"Do you find yourself so unremarkable?" Zevran frowned across at his companion. "Do you truly think I would waste my time with someone I did not find striking in some way?"

Even were it so shallow as the cut of a jaw or the color of someone's eyes- Zevran took his lovers outside of work on the merit of a good time and a pleasing appearance. On occasion it was the hands, the voice, the need to be ruined. Sometimes it was their need for a romantic fantasy that he could provide. In Michel? Something to claim. To ruin. To own for a short while- and something so terribly fine unlike any he had ever known of noble Orlesian men.

"I do not really think about it personally, Zevran," Michel said, it was the truth of it. Maybe he glanced at himself in a mirror now and again when one was available, but he'd learned to recognize his reflection by his scars. Less so by how he might appear to others, and it wasn't such an unpleasant thing, it was part of being a Chevalier, "a Chevalier is...typically prized for their strong arm and their fortitude and a champion's existences is always to draw attention to the Empress or the Emperor, so...how I look has...never mattered outside of professionalism. Is that...wrong?"

"For an Orlesian Chevalier that was once Champion to the Empress likely as much for that fortitude as his appearance? I do not mean to diminish your skill or undermine your loyalty in saying such but Royalty? Put just as much value on the appearances of those they keep closest to them as they do their skills and their loyalty. All the more so in Orlais. To be unaware, to not make use of it-" He shook his head. "You think differently than I do. Everything of me, Everything I do? It is a weapon. For you I suppose all you are is a shield."

"In Orlais it does not take much to hide one's appearance," Michel demonstrated by lifting Zevran's journal in order to hide the top half of his face from forehead to nose, "all the ugliness buried beneath enough gold and silverite, feathers, pearls, and jewels...dazzling and distracting...anyone could be a mysterious beauty while bathed in such illusions. I was no exception, as Her Radiance's Champion I was permitted and encouraged to wear a mask, that world had a role for me...I couldn't say that it made me very happy all the time, I had no love of the game, no love of hiding...but I loved my purpose."

Michel finally lowered the journal with care, folding it in his hands, "she needed me, she trusted me, I was a devoted shield against as much of the world as I could protect her from. Appearances did not really matter when she needed me."

"And now?" To have that purpose, or even that sense of purpose wrenched from under you...Zevran knew well what it was to stagger in the aftermath. To try and fail to find his footing once again- for him? It had been easy, swept up into another quest immediately afterward despite his best attempt to simply be dead. Michel had no such benefit. He had his demon, of course but...that was a temporary solution at best. Either the demon would die or he would die-

That he was so concerned was concerning. He should not care. They are not so deeply entwined for him to bother. Yet he reached out all the same to drag his fingertips across the back of Michel's hand- turning what had been a gesture of comfort into a sensual caress. One was far safer than the other.

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