Leave a ✿ for a random kiss!
Alistair glares suspiciously at the dwarf—Varric—from his place on the floor.
The group of them—Hawke, Anders, Varric, Merrill, Alistair, and Zevran—are gathered in a circle on the floor in Varric’s rooms at the Hanged Man, having been informed by a red-faced Corff that he won’t abide their antics in his main room any longer. If it weren’t for the ale sitting warm and sweet in his belly, Alistair might have agreed; but he’s drunk enough that the game seems fun, and even the painful truths the group manages to draw out of him now and again are dulled against the numbing alcohol.
He’s kept to truths for now, the first dare resulting in Zevran with his tongue down Hawke’s throat making it clear that Alistair wants no part in dares with this group, and so far the questions have been more of the embarassing, sexual sort than the soul-crushing emotional ones. They’re a good group of people, if unfiltered, and the first indication of the pain in his past seems to have given them all the reason they need to stick to the superficial. It’s a compromise he’s readily accepted.
Except now, now, the dwarf is giving him a cheeky roguish grin, and Zevran looks as though his birthday’s come early, and this is a question he simply will not answer. So he takes a large gulp—drains, actually—his stein of ale, wipes his mouth, and gives the booze a chance to steel his nerves before he speaks.
Anders whoops, and Merrill gasps, and Alistair sends up a silent apology to Lyna’s memory. "Nuh-uh, your Royal Shyness—a forfeit means a double-dare. Two dares, or you streak naked through the bar," Varric says with a dark grin. Alistair groans, but nods, and awaits his fate.
The first dare is easy—he’s apparently been nursing his drinks too much for the satisfaction of the others, and he’s made to down a concoction made by mixing the remnants of all their glasses. It’s disgusting and sour with booze, but he manages, thankful for Varric’s seeming show of mercy. It makes it somewhat easier, then, when Varric tells him the second dare.
"Why don’t you go ahead and plant a big wet one on Daisy there."
Merrill gasps, and reddens, and Anders and Hawke exchange a grin like there’s a private joke to be had there. Alistair reels at the prospect, but the fresh alcohol is blazing a trail through his nervous system and eradicating his sense of self-preservation; and it could have been worse. It could have been Zevran.
Alistair has a niggling sense that he’s getting off lightly, here, and nods, not willing to give up so easily. He rolls around onto his hands and knees, his rear smarting numbly as it is finally relieved of the hard floor, and begins crossing the circle at a crawl. He’s unsteady, uncoordinated, and it’s a feat of concentration to make it even halfway.
Halfway is all he can manage, though, before he tips forward, coordination abandoning him, and he falls facefirst into Merrill’s lap. She shrieks a laugh in surprise, and the circle erupts into fits of giggles; face burning, he purses his lips, kisses the skin under his cheek, and scoots backwards hurriedly.
"It counts!" he claims, trying to hide his burning flush, and casts about for another drink to drown his embarrassment. "It counts!"
