do you think Alistair's hands would shake, the first time he reached for Zevran, wanting?
He has spent months on the road with this man, watched him in battle, around camp, sneaking through the passages of a great hall, striding confidently down the centre of the road. He is well used to the way Zevran moves--has had to be, out of necessity, to know when the figure creeping along to his left flank is friend rather than foe. It is the same for any one of them; he knows the footfalls and stride length of every person in their party, their steps in the intricate dance they all perform in setting up or striking camp.
Which is all to say, he is used to the way Zevran moves. He has never seen him be so still.
The elf's eyes regard him evenly, not breaking eye contact even when Alistair does. His gaze is there waiting every time Alistair flicks his eyes back up. They barely shine, in the shadows of the tent; only the softest diffusion of the dying firelight makes it through the canvas, outlining the planes of his torso, and catching just in the corners of his irises.
Alistair swallows, hard, around the lump in his throat. He feels like he is vibrating out of his skin; it feels all the more noticeable in contrast to the way Zevran sits, still as a statue. But the elf doesn't comment on it, just keeps his eyes on Alistair's, keeps his hands on his knees, palms up, waiting.
"I--" Alistair breathes into the space between them. The words he was going to say die on his lips, forgotten almost as soon as he tried to bring them into being. A movement, finally, from Zevran--the corner of his mouth ticks up, smoothed out again almost as soon as it happens. A reflex, but--not mocking, Alistair thinks. His mind freezes on the word--affectionate?
"Just take your time, mi caro," Zevran murmurs into the heavy stillness of the air. "I am not going anywhere. What do you need?"
Alistair feels like he is going to shake apart. His teeth are chattering in his jaw; if he were standing, his knees would be knocking together. His very spine seems like it's quaking, shivers running up and down his bare back. He drops his eyes from Zevran's again, looking down at his own hand, hesitant and hovering between them. It's incongruous, how still his own fingers are. His entire being is shaking, yet his hands remain steady and still. His gaze moves beyond his fingertips, to the smooth, hard plane of Zevran's bare chest, throat catching around another swallow; then back up to the elf's eyes. There is the tiniest movement; a brief, almost imperceptible nod, the bobbing of a narrow throat around its own swallow.
He feels warm, calloused skin under his palm; feels the way Zevran's fingers close, in reflex, around his left hand. His right thumb catches on a small, pebbled bud, fingertips laying along smooth heated flesh, muscle shifting and twitching beneath it in response to his touch. His breath leaves him in a heavy whoosh, spine bowing as he crosses the threshold, head dropping between his shoulder-blades.
Movement, then, Zevran's movement, and he would know it anywhere--his left hand raising, cupping, cradling Alistair's cheek as his head drops in tangible relief, supporting the weight of it. He feels Zevran's breath in his hair, gentle, wafting through it as he presses a kiss to the top of Alistair's head. He can't hear the words Zevran murmurs there, but he can feel the movement of his lips against his skull.
Where Zevran's hand lies along his cheek, he can feel it trembling.
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