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Alistair was avoiding him.
He was (a little) smoother than he used to be, hiding his intentions well. Pretending like he needed to always be by Cullen or Neria or one of the others' sides. But Zevran had known Alistair a very long time. He could read him the way no one else--not even Elissa, a fact which Zevran took especially pride in--could.
And Alistair? Was definitely avoiding him. Ever since Zevran had been injured trying to protect him, he'd been acting very strange--strained. Uncertain. Fumbling with feelings? There was really only one way to find out.
(Well, no, that wasn't true, but there was only one way Zevran wanted to try. Besides, he had gotten used to sleeping on an actual bed--all these nights curled in rafters or on stone were making him miss their nice little flat in Antiva even more.)
It was late at night, verging on very early morning, when he slipped in through the window. Alistair's bedroom was dark, quiet. He slept curled on his side, blanket tangled about his legs. Zevran moved on silent feet, wary of waking the other man. He slipped off his armor and soft leather shoes, then crawled into bed, light as a feather. Alistair shifted and mumbled, but Zevran had perfected the art of not waking this man, and before long they were curled together in bed.
He let out a soft sigh, relaxing. Finally at peace.
Closing his eyes, lungs filled with the scent of Alistair, he gave himself to sleep.
He was (a little) smoother than he used to be, hiding his intentions well. Pretending like he needed to always be by Cullen or Neria or one of the others' sides. But Zevran had known Alistair a very long time. He could read him the way no one else--not even Elissa, a fact which Zevran took especially pride in--could.
And Alistair? Was definitely avoiding him. Ever since Zevran had been injured trying to protect him, he'd been acting very strange--strained. Uncertain. Fumbling with feelings? There was really only one way to find out.
(Well, no, that wasn't true, but there was only one way Zevran wanted to try. Besides, he had gotten used to sleeping on an actual bed--all these nights curled in rafters or on stone were making him miss their nice little flat in Antiva even more.)
It was late at night, verging on very early morning, when he slipped in through the window. Alistair's bedroom was dark, quiet. He slept curled on his side, blanket tangled about his legs. Zevran moved on silent feet, wary of waking the other man. He slipped off his armor and soft leather shoes, then crawled into bed, light as a feather. Alistair shifted and mumbled, but Zevran had perfected the art of not waking this man, and before long they were curled together in bed.
He let out a soft sigh, relaxing. Finally at peace.
Closing his eyes, lungs filled with the scent of Alistair, he gave himself to sleep.
