faderift | [ OPEN ] Well I can't stand to be with myself, this liberation's seemingly rare

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[ OPEN ] Well I can't stand to be with myself, this liberation's seemingly rare

WHO: Zevran and Various
WHAT: Zevran sparring and dealing
WHEN: Throughout Drakonis
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Violence, swearing, usual Zevran Content Warnings Apply. Open prompt below, poke me on plurk for a closed starter. Prose or actionspam welcome!

As much as he'd protested Alistair running off on some mission in the west- the time apart gives him that much more chance to train. He'd been doing so privately in the barn, occasionally squaring off against Settimo when they both had the time and patience for Settimo's paranoia and Zevran's over-adjustments for the blind side. Learning to fight with only one good eye is slowly driving Zevran to frustration. Settimo could not come at him hard enough to be a challenge, he could not learn his new limitations without a solid effort on both their parts.

Setting aside his vanity he takes to the training grounds- but working on stuffed dummies is only good for so much. Soon enough he is picking out soldiers and rogues to come at him in the dirt circle. Day to day it goes much the same. Zevran stands with bad eye covered and his swords, with his hands, with a single short sword and calls any that would step up to help him regain his awareness. It is, to be honest, slow going. More often than not if his opponent has any manner of skill he ends up on his ass. But he grits his teeth, stands, and goes at it again. And again. Afterward he recovers with the highlight of his training- a bucket of water to sluice off the sweat and grit of the day. Whether it's the relief the cold brings or the appreciative looks it tends to earn? He doesn't say. But thus he spends his days, training himself or wrestling with the fledglings, who will offer their own commentary and catcalling in Antivan during his other matches.

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Even if it was not that sort of appreciation from Michel's particular corner of the yard it was very much that from several others ringing the practice circle- all the more so when Zevran gave in to the heat of his exertions and stripped himself to the waist for the next round of grappling. Even Zevran's opponent took a moment to blink at all that tan skin, the tattoos that wound about his arms, shoulders, and ribs.

Making use of the distraction was an old tactic, one he fell into easily enough. Whatever it was he actually said couldn't quite be parsed from a distance but it had the other man sputtering, flushing- long enough for Zevran to slam in for a solid hold on the first grapple. It being a long day and he having been at this for hours already- being smaller, being out of practice, being half blind-

Zevran got at least one more pin out of it before he took a blow to the gut that startled both himself and his opponent when he went down hard in the dust, gasping around laughter. He remained down for a moment, muttering that yes, he yielded, while he caught his breath and the crowd dispersed.

Michel wouldn't admit that something twisted in his gut at that, the obscene appreciation of Zevran's body in such a situation seemed inappropriate to Michel. Like he was a display piece and not a man trying to adapt to his eye, whether this was what Zevran was attempting to evoke from the crowd or not...was uncertain. If it was then that twist in his gut had something to do with a feeling he didn't and would not entertain.

If Michel were a less understanding man outside of the control of his impulses he might have been tempted to run out there when Zevran hit the ground hard. That should not be mistaken for a lack of concern, but he understood that in these situations sometimes you went down hard. Coddling didn't help at all, but when the crowd began to clear and Michel had found his nerve, he pushed out of the shadows and approached Zevran.

"That was the most impressive fall by far today," which implied Michel had been observing for some time, "can you get up?"

Zevran remained where he was, staring up at the sky until a familiar voice cut through the usual din of swords and hands and the thud of arrows. He tilted his head enough to catch sight of the Chevalier and had to arch his back to do so. A familiar posture to anyone that has had him in bed. Even the flush to his skin and the manner in which he panted for air likened to such a time. Bed and battle were much the same in the end, though bed's victories were far, far more fun. "I have a marvelous view from down here."

Yes, he could, no, he wouldn't. Not for a little while longer.

It was, indeed, easy to make the connection between Zevran's posture and breathing where he was and the same that Michel found he used in the bedroom. The Chevalier had to wonder if the habit was so well formed that he no longer noticed the way he appeared. It didn't matter...well...perhaps it vaguely mattered. Mattered to the point where he was tempted to remove a layer of his own clothing to cover Zevran with.

"Truly?" Michel glanced up, well he supposed the sky and the hold was better than the view he had of Zevran and the mud. Perspective mattered a great deal he supposed, though if Zevran was going to languish, Michel decided it might be best to stretch his legs and do the same, making himself comfortable on the ground, "you seem to be adapting well enough."

"Truly. It is not the sky over Antiva City- but it is a lovely sky nonetheless." And from here he could ignore the fact that sitting up would be painful and that he had mud in his hair. Cleaning that out would take a fair while. Ah, well. It was overdue an oiling anyway; he'd been lax in taking care of himself. No longer.

He turned his head enough to track Michel's descent, eye bright with mirth, lips hooked in a smirk. "Ah, yes, now only half of the time I end up on my ass for not seeing someone come at me on the right instead of nine out of ten. I suppose that is an improvement."

Michel suspected that the more pressing reason for not levering himself up out of the mud had more to do with the physical exertion of the act and the reality that he was covered in mud...less to do with how pretty the sky was.

Michel returned the smile with one of his own, his is more restrained, but no less sincere. "Learning to feel the changes in pressure on your right side will take time to perfect, but you're well on your way."

"Reworking my reflexes as well- though I was right in that most go for the blind side when grappling or in sword work." Little by little he levered himself enough to sit upright. The bruising on his back made him hiss faintly under his breath, but he'd earned it by taking that last bout when he probably should have finished for the day.

Ah well. He'll take it easy tomorrow. "You have had your ribs seen to?"

"That is the one mistake you can always count on your opponents making," naturally exploiting weaknesses is what enemies do in a fight, so overcoming weaknesses and gaining leverage was invaluable. He eyed Zevran carefully as he slowly rose to a sitting position, noticing his aches...they weren't life threatening, but it sill caused his brows to knit together slightly.

"Yes, my ribs are fine, I was back to work in a few days," though whether it had been advised or not meant nothing, Michel simply could not stay in a bed all day, "what of you? You pushed yourself...is there nothing I can do for you presently?"

He cannot help but to acknowledge Zevran's pain openly, regardless of whether he earned his bruises or not.

"A hand up would be an excellent place to start." Getting to his feet at the moment felt daunting. All he truly wished was a hand up and, perhaps, a good soak. Nevermind how full the hot springs might be- he needed to soak to loosen the knotted muscles of his arms and back, to ease that soreness.

Anything more- well. He tipped his head in Michel's direction, eye warm and considering. Perhaps after the soak he would feel up for more. Put them back on track with what they were, draw the lines again. Things became far, far too close in their last conversation. "Then? A bath. Perhaps you might join me?"

Michel considered it for a moment, remembering their last conversation and how loaded the offer was, but on the other side of this argument he missed him. That was enough to slant his choice in the matter. Pulling himself up first, Michel offered both hands to Zevran, not entirely certain how stable he was, and wanting to be careful not to jar him if he could.

"I might enjoy a bath," he'd been with horses for the greater part of his own day so the smell of the stables did cling to him, but he wasn't painted in mud and dirt, "let's get you taken care of first, though, might be prudent to get a look at your training injuries."

Zevran slipped his hands into Michel's and pulled himself up with a grunt, hissing between clenched teeth as he came to his feet. He certainly had overdone it- the soak would right some of this and perhaps a bit of salve would do the rest of the work for him. Without much thought he leaned in for a moment to rest his forehead to Michel's chest, breathing past the ache.

He smelled of hay and horses and, likely, could use the bath just as much as Zevran. "Bruising. I do not often spend quite so much time on my back."

A beat passed.

"Well, in the training ring, at least."

Michel wasn't certain if it was something else or a developing instinct that drove him, but when Zevran leaned into him, and graciously he was not wearing armor, he ran his fingers through his companion's hair. In spite of the mud and dirt it was still easy enough to comb his fingers through, easy enough to shake out all of that dirt from his long tresses.

"I...can only imagine it is not nearly as pleasant either," though he meant it more in terms of sleeping and perhaps relaxing than in sex, The numbers on that score did not bear thinking about.

"Can you walk just fine?" Or shall I carry you was the unspoken offer and it would not be the first time.

"Mmm..." Zevran tilted his head into Michel's hands- catlike and rumbling with a sigh that might as well be a purr. After being knocked about the tender touch was more soothing than alarming, his jangling nerves settled and his baggage laden anxieties silent enough for him to enjoy the contact, and the implicit offer.

The idea of walking was- wearying. More so than it should be. He tipped his face up to peer at Michel from under his lashes, eartips lowered, eye wide and doelike.

"I would appreciate the assistance." Part of him was always a little thrilled when Michel carted him about. He did not look at that part too closely.

It was almost as though their meeting several days before had never happened, Michel wanted to bow his head and press his lips to his companion's brow, but he did not. Not yet. If this made it to the bedroom then maybe, for now he was simply interested in getting Zevran that far.

"I'm always more than happy to." Michel crouched a bit, it was going to be difficult to try and move him without touching anything tender, but he would do his best not to apply too much pressure. Carefully he scooped the elf into his arms. "Shall I wash your back for you when we get there?"

Quietly pleased that this worked out quite so neatly- how was it that Michel appeared when he needed a lift, Zevran tucked himself close against Michel's chest, nosing into the side of his neck. None of the playful teasing of the last few times this happened- no. Simply idle, sincere affection.

Which. He was ignoring in every way possible.

"Mmm. You mean to spoil me, I see." He wasn't about to complain.

Michel couldn't help but wonder if this was all as clean and simple as it appeared to be, he was aware that if asked Zevran would deny any sincere affection between the two of them. His erratic behavior on the matter made it more than obvious...and yet if anyone watching them now had an assumption it might have been that they looked like lovers.

Maybe Zevran did not notice the downcast of his eyes, that there was a wont about him, that this was habitual and normal.

"If I am able to do that for you, then, yes, I absolutely mean to," again, Zevran looked smaller in his arms, though he knew better than to fall for that.

He recalled, easily, the disquiet and discussion that preceded the end of their last conversation. The offer Michel made so kindly without a thought- the weight it held, the discomfit he expressed. Rules. However this was to work, they would need rules. And this was one he might lay out easily. "Within reason."

Elaboration might be required, but not having to look Michel in the eye helped with this. "Do nothing for me that I cannot do for you in turn, yes? It is...more fair, that way."

More balanced. Less like what he accused Michel of so grievously before the man fled. Massages and the odd carting about, peasant bread and wine- not copper tubs or grand gestures.

Small things. Reasonable things.

Was Zevran aware of it? Michel was often under the impression that, while Zevran was very perceptive of others in his best frame of mind, he was somehow unaware of the things he says. Grand gestures could always be brushed off as superficial and could easily be used, not that Michel was insincere in this, but material objects were material objects. It was something Zevran could have used him for, what better way to flip the script.

Smaller things, things that could be given and reciprocated that put them on an even keel? Well it was perhaps a more romanticized ideal than anything else, but he was under the impression that the little things meant more, but only in certain relationships. So what sort of relationship did they have? Even now that was still in question and it was a question that needed a resolution, but not at the moment.

"Fair enough..." Michel murmured into Zevran's muddy hair, giving him a gentle nudge before diffusing the situation momentarily with his own subtle brand of humor, "...I suppose this means next time you'll be carrying me?"

"...Not quite so terribly far, but I could manage, say, the distance between the door and the bed." He crackled a laugh- the idea of a sustained carry of Michel was ludicrous to him if only for the difference in height, nevermind the weight or bulk Michel had on him. He could do such a thing for a brief while but this? He would have to find a rough equivalent for in order to repay. "Give me time, I will think of something equal with which to spoil you."

For this was being spoiled- being carried, being cared for in some way that went above mere association, perhaps even dipped into friendly affection. Fondness. Thinking it more was not safe. Thinking of it the way he thought of Isabela-

Now that made it simpler. Safer. Drew the lines in his mind's eye and let him settle warm and teasing against Michel's chest, hand slipping up to trace his jaw. "Mm. Perhaps I ought to give you a shave? That is something I do not need and you could not give, but that I might do for you."

"I suppose that would work well enough if you wanted to toss me into bed," especially given Michel's height and weight, and if he were wearing armor? Impossible. Michel wore armor that weighed as much if not more than Zevran and for him carrying Zevran was like carrying that sort of weight. That his companion could carry him that far was impressive by Michel's reckoning.

What was less fortunate was their perceptions of what this was, Zevran was fond of him in the way someone might be fond of a friend with benefits. Michel did not think he could survive in that particular safe zone for long and that was what he would, eventually have to confess. He wasn't looking forward to that conversation.

"Ah..." Michel tipped his head back a bit, he was usually good about caring for his appearance...at the very least he avoided growing a beard, "...that could be pleasant?"

"It can be terribly pleasant, provided you trust me with a blade to your throat." His voice dipped low, nose tip dragging along the line of Michel's pulse, a waft of warm breath just that. Warm and edged in interest; but without intent. He was too sore from the sparring to be of much good. Not that it ever truly prevented him from teasing.

Especially when Michel blushed so readily.

A reminder of the inherent danger of laying with an assassin- normally a joke? Such a thing seemed to stir Michel's interest in the past and that was something Zevran himself knew well. The allure, the danger, the potential that was never crossed? Could fan flames quite high.

"Mmm...I think I might just..." Michel murmured softly, tipping his head back just a bit as Zevran's nose caressed his pulse suggestively, but he trusted his companion not to slit his throat. What he didn't trust was the heat creeping along his neck. He already knew that he enjoyed being tied down by the elf and he handled the Chevalier's body very well. They had yet to play such dangerous games with things like blades, more extreme forms of bondage, blindfolds...

It was tempting, Michel wanted to encourage that line of thoughts with kisses along that mud-smeared skin, but he didn't dare, not with Zevran's condition being what it was. Instead he focused on keeping the color down and making it to their destination in one, unmolested piece.

Taking the invitation as offered was easy enough- Zevran's nosing turning into soft, dragging kisses. Faint presses of lips, the swipe of tongue, interspersed with the odd nip along Michel's throat. Chasing that blush of red with all due teasing relish- as fair and fine as Michel was, how could he not? "Something to look forward to, then."

One of many things they might do test, seeking out everything that brought such a blush to Michel's skin was more than worth the time and effort.

Did Zevran truly know the effect he had on the Chevalier? Simple flirtations and light teasing, the way his lips moved over Michel's skin, in no way innocent. Part of him invited it, pleasurable as it was, with his head tipped to the side just enough and his expression relaxing. He was careful, for now, in keeping the attention solidly one-sided. Given the state of Zevran's body and that he fully intended to help the assassin clean up, Michel was reluctant to participate outside of letting his companion indulge.

It certainly would be something to look forward to, but for the moment he tried not to think about it. Instead of what Zevran might seek to do with his body, Michel carried him to the springs, there was always someone present, the downside to public bathing. Setting the elf on his feet carefully he glanced him over, his body must be aching, but none of the wounds were serious, "shall I help you remove the rest of your clothing or can you manage?"

He had no problem with this, naturally, if Zevran needed the help.

Subtle signs of enjoyment were enough for Zevran- he teased but went no further. Starting anything before he was fit enough to do something about it? Would merely torment them both. It had been some time since he'd last-

Since they last. When they were tangled together with hands on skin and mouths seeking bruises it was easy to set aside the odd clench in his chest upon seeing Michel's sated smile. Easy to forget anything that might even hint at complication. Michel had attempted to walk away some time ago, stern and certain in the stables. Zevran had lacked the heart to let it end. Now...now there was weight. Enough that he waved off the offer to help with his shirt, peeling out of it with a soft hiss.

The fluid lines of his tattoo were interrupted here and there with pale slashes- cuts he had yet to fill in. Flecked over his arms and shoulders, along his spine, delving to his hips- tiny things that stung horribly at the time- all the more so for what they were used to do.

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