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

[ombranera]

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.

Comments

[ombranera]

"Who do you think dragged Oghren from that mire in the wilds, mm? Certainly not Sten." The Qunari wouldn't be bothered to do so, if Oghren fell in? it was his own fault.

The last few steps were something of a struggle not to stumble- but he manages it. The hot springs, sparsely populated. He kneels- staggers, grip slipping and they might both stumble and skid across stone- or he can (does) twist and upends Alistair right into the heated water.

Well.

That was one way to wake him up.

[byblow]

"I'm a little taller than—"

Zevran will have to use context clues to figure out the end of that sentence, because Alistair is interrupted by being dumped into water fully clothed. He comes back up looking startled, but not choking. Flailing, though, a little. However sparsely the springs are populated, it's a good thing that Zevran was really onto something when he said Alistair didn't care what anyone thought of him. Wrong—he cares what a few people think—but not far wrong. Otherwise he might be upset.

Instead he ignores everyone else present entirely, finds his footing, slicks his hair back away from his forehead while he glares up at Zevran, and spitefully (toothlessly, playfully) spits his mouthful of water at his boots.

[ombranera]

"Not my fault, you squirmed." Not as much as he could but- it is a wonder Zevran did not lose his footing on the stairs. Still. He dances away from the mouthfull of water and sets down the kit, toeing off the boots and rolling up his trousers to the knee.

"Strip and hand me your clothes, I will pass along the soap. If cannot be bothered to do it yourself I will wash your hair and shave that horrid thing off your face." One way or another- the beard is going to go. And for a little while, despite the blank space by one eye, despite the fact he'd walked all the way down here, that he's sitting in public without the patch as he settles on the edge of the springs, legs dangling in-

It feels normal. Like it did ten years ago, like it did ten weeks ago. As though nothing has changed.

[byblow]

Alistair keeps glaring for a few seconds. Charitable onlookers might mistake it for the glare of a man who doesn't take well to being bossed around—which isn't too laughable. He didn't take well to being bossed around by the Chantry, for example. But he does take well to being petted and guided by people he actually likes. So, no, this is just the glare of an overgrown child who's fussy when he's tired.

But Zevran looks—not cheerful, maybe. But better. Like himself. That permeates and softens Alistair's face into something reluctantly fond (just for starters) before he pulls loose the laces at the neck of his shirt. Ten years ago, ten weeks ago, he would have thrown it at Zevran. And his trousers. And his waterlogged boots. But he'll wait to do that sort of thing until he's seen proof of Zevran's ability to catch something smaller and softer without being smacked in the face.

He comes closer to pass them all off at once and holds his hand out for the soap. He looks as perfectly unharmed shirtless as he did clothed, if a little more freckled about the shoulders. Sun damage doesn't count.

"Dorian's is worse," he says, on the subject of beards. That is probably not true.

[ombranera]

Ah, the pouting. The playful pouting. Zevran has missed it so; how they could poke and tease and it would not be edged with things quite so tense or guilt or words unsaid- or things that ought to have remain unspoken. They are not level- he had gouged at Alistair's wounds too deeply for that- but they are closer than they might have been. Better than he expected.

Shirt and trousers and boots and smalls he takes one by one to set aside- he will hang them to dry later. The lack of proper tossing is something for which he is immeasurably thankful for. There aren't words. A reminder of his current limitations would be frustrating, if not devastating.

Soap he holds up for a moment, peering at Alistair. "Do not forget behind your ears."

Like he would chastise a child, though with the helms the wardens wear and sand being what ti is? Probably a half decent reminder. "Dorian I cannot pin down and shave-

Well.

I could. Mmm..."

[byblow]

"Don't you start that," Alistair says, with an elbow to Zevran's calf. He snatches the soap and turns his back to the wall of the bath to settle down into the water to scrub. Ears first, obediently. "We fell in love, Dorian and I, out in the desert. Brought together by beards and sand in previously unknown crevices and—"

And leaving Hercules behind, and seeing Wardens bound with demons. Alistair loses steam for maintaining that level of energetic ridiculousness, splashes his face with water, and finishes in quieter tones, like he's fulfilling an obligation to be silly.

"And I'm going to run away with him, so you can't talk about him that way."

[ombranera]

"Start what?" All innocence as he pulls out a small vial of soap for Alistair's hair, already damp from being dumped into the water. A touch to his forehead to have him tilt backward enough that soap might not run into his eyes, and with a knee against either shoulder, cushioning Alistair from the worst of the rock, Zevran sets about scrubbing the grit and sand from his now wild hair.

A trim might be in order. Or he could grow it out- there's a thought.

"Oh, is that so?" Warm, lilting, teasing. The usual drag and drawl up till all goes quiet. Zevran's hands gentle against Alistair's scalp before he murmurs. "Is this where I become terribly jealous and fight for your hand? Because I can do that if you wish. Duel him properly with rapiers and open shirts and long flowing hair."

[byblow]

He should probably put up at least token resistance to being babied so badly, but he's tired, and they fought so recently, and he would hate to make Zevran believe he's suffering any lingering standoffishness over something as silly as his masculinity. And he likes it. So he cooperates, malleable above the shoulders while under the water he bends one leg to cross and bring a foot close enough that he can rub between his toes.

"Hmmm. Yes, please," he decides. "But you'll have to give him time for his hair to get long, so it's fair."

[ombranera]

"That means leaving you to his tender mercies until it is that long- and that might take a fair while." Which is something he cannot allow for so many reasons, even in jest. Ten years they might have gone without save for the odd visit and letter- but now? Having Alistair gone for so long was...unsettling.

Having him run off with someone else, anyone else, no matter how absurd? Discomfits him. Perhaps under the teasing he would be jealous. It is an uncomfortable notion he puts aside in favor of scrubbing at Alistair's nape in a way that usually eases the man's mind. "Perhaps without the long hair then, mm? Or I might cut mine to match his instead. It would be quicker."

[byblow]

Alistair is slow to answer because he's gone very still, head falling forward, like—you know, like a dog. A dog rendered helpless by skritching. Because there aren't enough other opportunities to draw that comparison. He needs a few moments to process, then another few to lift his head and reluctantly—but it is necessary—twist to look at Zevran with an evaluating squint.

"Even the shaved parts?"

[ombranera]

What, you think I could not handle such a look? I will have you know there was a summer in Antiva where it was so hot I shaved my hair down on the sides to nothing, leaving only the top strip long. It even started a new trend among the Crows." And a few of the Antivan nobility. Ah, youth. Still he goes right back to the scritching and scrubbing, swiping suds away from Alistair's eyes before they run the risk of slipping in and stinging them awfully.

[byblow]

Alistair makes an attempt to help with his eyes, but all that really does is make his hand knock uselessly against Zevran's. He gives up quickly and drops both hands into the water, back to scrubbing feet and calves. "I'm sure you could," he says. "That doesn't mean you should. I like your hair how it is. Just duel him this way, I suppose. He has a mustache. That probably counts for something."

[ombranera]

"That I cannot grow." Elves and facial hair do not mix, for some reason. Body hair in general. He tips Alistair's head back with a nudge to his forehead. With the warden at his mercy like this? He is able to rinse the lather out quickly and apply a measure of oil to his hair before he can say anything against it. "And you, perhaps, could grow yours out a little. Not so much as mine, of course, but- a little."