Of all the things he might have expected- a tale of escape, of isolation- that is not on the list. He'd known of Anders and his attempts. Much like a good chunk of his own past the mage never spoke of it aside from the odd jest or offhand comment. Much like him, Anders uses humor as a mask and a shield. A way to distance himself from the horrors. It is something Zevran can manage normally but having them all ripped to the surface all at once? New ones pile on over and over till he was fit to beg for the dagger to end it?

He could not. A joke would have brought him little comfort. A kiss? A fleeting sense of reality.

Something like this- that hurt to tell. That hurt to hear, that ached in the pit of his stomach and the hollow shell of his bones; it must be true. Life hurts. Living hurts. Comforts are few and far between, kindness rarer still. For Anders who guards his hurts and scars as dearly as Zevran to bare this to him; to cut his own chest open and show the wounds-

Zevran's hands slip from his robe to lock tight around his ribs, face still pressed tight to his throat. With the blood in his ears, the gnarled, rotten anger that such a thing could be done even when he knows full well the world is cold and cruel to all the maker's children, to mages all the more so, when he knows better than to be surprised or to care, he feels the ending more than he hears it. Shudders past another gut rending sob- as though someone threaded fish line and hooks through his stomach and pulled the knotted mass up through his mouth, ripping it from him. He cracks.

He weeps. Silently. Teeth clamped tight on his bottom lip to keep those horrible signs of weakness that are these sobs locked inside. But he weeps.

And trusts Anders is telling the truth. A lie would not hurt half so much.