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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"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.

That Zevran was even putting his lips on him was a sign of great improvement as last time they'd been together the man could barely put his arms around the Chevalier. Granted Michel had injuries of his own that were internal, they were bad enough that there were still signs of bruising on him, but it didn't hurt, it merely looked worse than it was with his skin tone.

He wanted to help, to ease Zevran's clothing off, to prop a booted foot on his shoulder and carefully remove it, seeing him suffer his way through it was difficult. He had to keep himself from looking, and that only forced the heat to climb along his neck and ears as he wondered at his own intentions. Perhaps he should be ashamed of himself? Zevran was terribly beautiful and that should not be a thought in his head at the moment, it was as reprehensible as a lingering gaze.

Instead he focused on his own clothing, stripping out of his top layers and shoes, merely rolling his breeches up, because this was not about himself, this was about taking care of Zevran. He would make sure his hands and arms were clean, but his primary concern was getting his companion comfortable.

Perhaps two days off. He should not be this stiff- but it must be what comes of spending most of his time drinking and wallowing rather than his usual routine. Dark as that time had been; he'd needed the space, the silence. Now at least he was steady. Certain. It ached to bend and unlace his leathers, to slip out of his boots and toss the muddied mess of his clothing aside- no silken smalls this day. Worn cotton in deference to practicality- though the flash of sky blue was enough frivolity to settle his sensibilities.

He took a moment to roll out his shoulders and twist his spine, popping joints he'd knocked about when he'd fallen. The bruising across his back was difficult to see with his darker skin- but within the hour? it would be a fine mess. A potion, perhaps, before bed. Until then he would keep the ache as a lesson to himself not to push quite so hard in one day.

The noise he made when slipping into the water was positively indecent, better suited to sliding into a slick, heated body rather than a hotspring. He settled in as far as his throat for a moment, hesitating. Not alone, no, but none so many would mind him...he removed the leather patch and set it aside, combing his hair to hang over that side of his face for the moment.

While the assassin got himself ready for his bath, Michel set about gathering some supplies they would need before returning and settling his small boon at the edge of the spring.

The sound Zevran made slipping into the water was not a sound one easily forgot, though he supposed right now this kind of pleasure had to be very similar to...well other kinds of pleasure. That he could ignore, what he couldn't ignore was Zevran sinking into the water up to his throat for and the way he pulled his hair over his face like so. Giving himself a moment to consider, the Chevalier finally decided to divest himself of his pants and smallclothes before joining his companion in the water.

He circled in front of Zevran, submerging himself up to his waist for the time being. If nothing else he was a fine wall between Zevran and the few others that were sharing the same space. He reached up to wipe some of the mud from Zevran's left cheek, "I said I would wash your back, yes? I could do your hair as well, if you don't mind."

"Mmm." He tilted his face into Michel's hand, sighing at the warmth and the gentleness. One day he'd know it for the trap it is- not deliberately set but. When a body craves such things for so long? It was easy to fall into it without seeing the complications that would arise. "That would be marvelous, thank you."

They'd joked about this before- an elf being attended by a Chevalier. This wasn't the day of favor and service Zevran asked for but...he wasn't all that certain what it was. Putting a name to this was difficult enough with distance and nearly impossible when Michel was before him- but he turned all the same and rose enough that Michel would not have to reach half so far to remove the mud and dirt from his bruised back.

Kiss him. It's what his thoughts kept telling him, they were undressed and closer than they had been in quite some time, Zevran was moving into his touch easily enough. There were others around, and while Zevran seemed to be doing better he'd not given Michel any indication that he was ready for anything more than his casual affections. So he resisted the urge.

Since Michel was offering his services, as it were, this did not count toward that day of Michel's full attentiveness that had been promised. It was difficult to attach a word to what he was doing now without it being altruistic affection. Not giving it much consideration beyond that he grabbed a washing cloth, softer than his own sword calloused hands and likely more appreciated, a bit of soap...not the best, but with a neutral scent.

It wasn't long before he was brushing Zevran's hair over his shoulder and dabbing the cloth along his back, careful of the bruising that was blossoming against his skin. It didn't look bad, at the moment, but he suspected it hurt all the same and would darken in time. It was a slow and soothing process, curve of the neck, shoulder to shoulder, from the back of his neck to the small of his back, along ribs and arms. He tried not to linger on scars or anything he felt Zevran might be self conscious about, not that such things mattered much to him, but Zevran saw things slightly...different from the Chevalier in such respects.

They'd had an interesting conversation about the lack of value Michel placed in his own appearance, not that he did not value keeping himself relatively tidy, that was simply training.

What tension he carried from the day eased enough in the bath- with the gentle scrubbing of Michel's hands? He was soon listing into each touch, soft, throaty sighs rolling past his lips. The odd brush against a tender patch of skin would earn a hiss- but all and all? He was bare, he was vulnerable, he should by all rights be as tense as a tightly wound spring...but Michel had never done him harm.

Had let Zevran take point in most everything they did. Gentled everything of his usual demeanor save what he'd done in passion. He would not say he trusted the Chevalier- he was no fool- but he knew enough to guess that here would not be how he killed him, if he killed him.

Maker knew there was time and space enough to drown him if he so desired. But he had no fear of such things, the certainty he earned with every tender look and gesture settling that paranoia. As confounding as they were it was proof of something stronger than lust or fear that would stay Michel's hand. Soon enough he was drifting back to press against Michel's chest, cheek turned so his scarred skin was against his shoulder, good eye half lidded and hazy. "Have you ever been told you've a delicate touch for a Chevalier?"

If Michel ever wanted to kill anyone they would certainly see it coming with expert precision. He was no assassin, so he was not a master of stealth, but he was skilled in balance and tactics, and he always attacked head on. Not necessarily with demons and darkspawn, but with most any opponent. Drowning was not his style, so if nothing else, should the Chevalier feel the need to react violently toward Zevran, he could trust in one thing--that he would see any attack coming.

Not that Michel had any such intentions of hurting Zevran, that was the furthest thing from his mind, if it was anywhere at all. As it stood the only thing on his mind at the moment was the plateau of Zevran's back and his current task, until Zevran settled back against him forcing Michel to shift his arms. He didn't mind at all, lean and smaller than he was, the elf was a comfortable kind of weight against his chest. The new position did nothing to stop Michel's attentions, he simply turned the cloth on Zevran's stomach and chest with the same carefulness.

"Not in so many words, but some things require a gentler touch...and in my position of service I've learned a certain degree of...delicacy," he had to protect an Empress, that certainly required a gentle hand every once in a while, especially when she'd been injured. Empress aside, Michel was more taken by the picture they seemed to paint like this, Maker if they did not look like lovers. It was wrong perhaps, but anyone bold enough to come around and look would think it, they had to if Michel was thinking it. Fortunately his body hid much from what few prying eyes there were so he felt comfortable lifting his free hand to cradle the curve of Zevran's neck and caress the line of his jaw with a straying thumb.

Zevran melted against Michel, eye drifting closed entirely under the steady pass of his hand. It was easy to forget the blind eye for a short while. The loss of balance, the uncertainty. Here he knew where he stood. Here? He was cherished, somewhat, in a distant way that he could tolerate. Here he was appreciated and tended to with a gentle hand that could promise more than he could bear. A cruel kindness for how averse he was to permitting such things. Sentiment-

For all that he was willing to allow his friends closer; his lovers remained in their respective boxes. Friends he beds on occasion, if that. Michel could be a friend in such a fashion, in the Antivan way.

If he wished for more...Zevran could not offer that. Nor would he ask it of anyone. "I can think of a better use for them." Innuendo thick in his voice, but he merely tipped his head against Michel's hand, a soft shiver rippling down his spine. Lovers they might appear and for the moment- they could be so. A moment or an hour or a night shared and then set aside for the light of day and the cold burden of obligation. But for now? This was well.

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