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Grey Solstice	By : myghinmin Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 2404 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I own neither Dragon Age: Origins nor its characters, and I make no money from these writings.

Chapter List
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Title: Grey Solstice
Rating: AO (adults only) for sexual situations between two men (M/M smut) in chapter 1.
Chapter Rating: M (mature) for mild sexual sitautions (lime) between two men.
Word Count: 2867 words.
PC: Fem!Amell, deceased.
Pairing: Established Alistair/Zevran (specifically, established in "Shades of Grey").
Spoilers: Possible end-game spoilers.
Summary: Two years, he's been living in Ferelden, and finally, one Satinalia, it occurs to him how much he's lost, how much he's changed. Zevran must learn to cope with what it means to live with the Grey Wardens.
Notes: One of my favorite chapters in the entire series so far. I love it bunches. And thank you, Tasmen, for helping me with the few things that I asked you about. You know what it was.
[[ ... Chapter Two ..... ]]
Splashing was an oddly cheerful sound, particularly when combined with the crackle of the fire, and Zevran sank into the hot water gratefully. He had "borrowed" Alistair's room while the Warden Commander was out with the other Wardens. He had painstakingly hauled water up the stairs to the huge room, ensured that the fire was well fed, and filled the tub. The tub had been the easiest part of the whole process: Alistair kept a huge one in his room, refusing to share it under the guise of it being too heavy to move frequently.
Now, two weeks after he had sent out the invitations to the masquerade, he was leaning back, his eyes closing as he savored the heat and steam from the water, the scent of woodruff filling his nose. It was an indulgence, using a few drops of what little oil he had left. He would be out soon, and then he'd have to see about securing more, which could be a hassle. Only one Dalish caravan that he knew of sold it, and they were in Antiva. It was a bitter thought, knowing that it was only one more thing that would have to be replaced with something more Fereldan in nature.
It wasn't that he disliked Ferelden. Far from it; it was a marvelous country, with its unruly 'freemen' and its rigid system of honor and duty. He trailed a finger in the water, tracing circles. Ferelden, with its strange people who offered second chances to some and immediately slaughtered others, with seemingly no pattern to it at all. He had yet to understand them, to grasp the missing piece that would force Alistair--
It wasn't about Alistair. Not this time. It wasn't about Alistair, or any other Fereldan Warden who had managed to trap him in a situation with no easy way out. For once, it was about himself, about how he had let it happen. He'd seen it beginning in Redcliffe, felt the noose tightening around him in the Brecilian forest, and he had done nothing. He had simply gone along with them, trying to figure them out, convincing himself that he could walk away at any point. That had been two years ago.
He slapped his hand against the water, and a fresh wave of the scent-- a sweet mixture of fresh-cut hay and vanilla-- caused him to still, to gaze into the water, where he could see the faintest trace of the oil on the surface. He stayed like that for a moment-- just sitting, soaking, looking-- and then he reached out to where he'd set the soap on a footstool near the tub. It was a small, cracked piece, a dingy grey, like everything else in Ferelden. He sighed, rubbing his fingers over it, feeling the slightest tingle from it as he did. He missed Antiva, where he could have splurged with an extra coin or two and bought the soap made from oils instead of lye, the soap that didn't tingle or burn when it was used.
Whistling from the hallway caught his attention, and his eyes narrowed as he listened, placing the soap back on the stool. His daggers were with his clothes, under the heavy fabric he had procured to dry off with (old habits died hard, and when those old habits had saved one's life several times over, they died even harder), and he reached for one of them now, still watching the door. There was a moment of quiet, and then the door handle moved, and Zevran thought he could hear a key in it. His grip tightened around the hilt; the door swung open.
"Now, this is what I like to come home to." Alistair's grin was infectious, and Zevran smiled as he leaned back, letting go of the dagger. The Warden Commander shut the door behind him, locking it as he did. Then he started unbuckling armor, setting it all in a pile on the floor. Zevran let his head tilt back, following Alistair with his gaze, forcing himself to relax again. His hand dropped from the footstool, falling to simply brush against the floor. After a few minutes, Alistair had stripped all the way down to just his trousers, and he came over to the tub, kneeling easily enough at the side, one of his hands dipping into the still-hot water.
He drew a deep breath, and his brow furrowed as he looked at Zevran curiously. It wasn't that they hadn't bathed together before-- Maker knew that it had happened often enough when they were trying to end the Blight-- but it was the first time that Alistair had ever seen him in a proper tub. "What is that scent?" he asked curiously, and Zevran shrugged just slightly, looking back down at the water. "It's nice," Alistair added hurriedly, clearly concerned that he'd insulted Zevran, "I'm just not familiar with it."
"Woodruff," the elf answered softly, watching how, with Alistair moving his hand in the water, it looked like Zevran's tattoos were dancing and moving under his skin. It was unusual, even it was something he'd seen before. Alistair looked more than just a little mesmerized by it though, and his hand wasn't moving, just slowly circling, continuing to break the surface to create the illusion. "One of the few things I kept after my experience with the Dalish."
Alistair nodded slowly, and then he seemed to snap out of his trance, because he smiled and glanced over at the footstool, spying the little bar of soap. "Is that all that you have left?" He leaned over the tub, Zevran resisted the urge to pull him in, and Alistair grabbed the soap, pulling it back so that he could look at it. His nose wrinkled up. "Same kind we had to use in the Chantry," he said, and then he stood, taking the soap with him as he headed over to his armoire. Zevran considered arguing, but really, getting anything out of Alistair when he was like this was next to impossible. Instead, Zevran simply let his head roll back to watch the Warden's movements.
The soap was thrown away, causing Zevran's eyebrows to raise, and then Alistair returned with a new bar, one that was an unusually familiar shade of green. When it was deposited in Zevran's hands, he rubbed his fingers over it, pleased to note that it didn't tingle, and he traced an imprint that made his breath catch. Turning it over, he couldn't stop the smile that spread over his lips; sapone di Marsiglia. Olive oil and sea water and he wasn't sure what else was in it, but it was Orlesian, made in Val Chavin by a man named Marseille. He knew Marseille as Marsiglia, the name imprinted on the bars to be sold in Antiva. He hadn't seen this sort of soap since he'd left.
"I was going to give it to you for Satinalia, but... you can have it now if I can wash your back."
Zevran's dark eyes lifted to look up at Alistair, who was biting his lower lip, seemingly nervous about the whole situation. The elf couldn't believe it, didn't understand it. Why-- Of course; there was no 'why' when it came to choices made by a Warden.
He hesitated, and then he smiled and offered it to the Warden. Alistair took it, and then he was wetting the rag that Zevran had left laying on the footstool, lathering it up with the soap. Alistair gathered Zevran's hair into one of his hands, twisted it to keep it all together, and he moved it over one of the elf's shoulders, so that he could start washing Zevran's back. A little shiver went down Zevran's spine at the first touch, both at memories and at the feeling of being so open, so vulnerable. It wasn't a feeling he got often, but now, in the tub with Alistair at his back, the feel of the rag on his back over the relatively new scars that he would have for the rest of his life...
Vulnerability was one of those feelings that he didn't cope with well. It invariably brought him to a defensive stance, forced him to lash out, to attack preemptively. His eyes closed at the sensation of lips pressing against the nape of his neck. It was soft, affectionate. Alistair was an affectionate person, someone who touched tenderly and often, who needed the touch. Somehow, the chaste kiss did more for grounding Zevran that he'd ever have guessed it would, and he blew out a deep breath, trying to keep himself relaxed.
Within moments, Alistair was humming some tune-- it was vaguely familiar-- and after he rinsed Zevran's back, he moved to the side of the tub. For one reason or another, he chose to return to the side opposite the footstool, and he seemed to realize his mistake just as he got comfortable. It was with a long suffering sigh that he reached back across the tub, and this time, Zevran couldn't help himself. Pants on or no, the elf reached up and pulled the Warden down into the tub. The water level rose close to the edge but didn't overflow, and Alistair gasped before he shot Zevran a little grin.
"Really? You couldn't warn me first?" He sighed again, managing to sound as though he were being punished terribly. "Let me get these off; they're going to chafe otherwise." Zevran slowly released him, a smug smile on his lips as he watched the Warden disrobe. Then Alistair climbed back in, obviously accepting that Zevran was going to have his way. "You could have just asked you know." He hesitated before he settled in, straddling Zevran's hips and facing the elf. It was an unusual situation, as normally Zevran was the one sitting there and Alistair would be leaning back.
But when Zevran tried to move, Alistair gently stopped him with a hand on the shoulder, offering a nervous little smile. "Don't move," he murmured, leaning forward to very softly press his lips to Zevran's. It was strangely tender, and for once, Zevran didn't move to deepen it, to push Alistair back and move it into territory that the elf was more familiar with. He simply stayed the way he was, his hands resting on Alistair's thighs, fingers slowly working against the muscles there. One of Alistair's hands lifted to brush the backs of his fingers against Zevran's face.
Slowly, Alistair drew back, and he looked at Zevran; for once, Zevran couldn't tell what the Warden was thinking, and it was more than just a little strange. Alistair was an open book-- one only had to look to see exactly what he was feeling. Zevran sat up a little straighter, reaching up to touch Alistair's arm, then letting his hand trail up to touch the short blond hair. It was getting too long, beginning to fall in the Warden's eyes again. It needed to be cut.
"Alistair." Zevran's voice was quiet, and he slowly pulled his hand down, letting it move to where he held the back of the Warden's neck in his palm. Alistair tilted his head to the side a hair. "Why do you do it?" That wasn't right; that wasn't the real question, but Zevran wasn't entirely sure he wanted to ask the real one.
"Do what?" Alistair's confusion seemed real enough, and Zevran frowned a little, his hand tightening on the back of the Warden's neck. He forced himself to relax, breathing deeply to help himself with it.
He reached over to the footstool, picking up the green bar, holding it up where Alistair could see it. The expression shuttered again, and Zevran's frown deepened as he set the soap back. "Give me things like this. Why do you do it?" He didn't think he needed to point out that since Denerim, all sorts of little things had been left at his door, small things that only someone like Alistair would notice and like. First time had been after an argument over how to deploy the men, over who was to be sent where. Zevran had discovered a tiny bird's nest outside of his door two days later, in perfect condition. It had been oddly appealing, something so small and intricate.
Alistair's brow furrowed. "I need a reason, Zev?" Both of his hands then moved to touch Zevran's shoulders, one of them taking a moment to push the twisted tangle of blond hair to fall back down the elf's back. Zevran opened his mouth, only to have a finger placed against it. "I like giving you things. I like seeing you smile. Is that not reason enough?" The finger moved slowly, sliding over to trace the two lines down Zevran's face before Alistair leaned back.
Zevran couldn't think of anything to say. He couldn't figure out how to make Alistair understand that nothing came without a price, no matter how innocuous it was. He'd learned that the hard way, years ago, before he'd even been initiated as a Crow. It wasn't something he was prepared to share though, so instead he simply shrugged a little and looked down at Alistair's chest, where he let one of his fingertips trail down over that muscled expanse.
Slowly, his hand wandered further down, until he brushed against something, and whenever Alistair's breath hitched, Zevran found himself drawn to 'accidentally' brush over it again. Then his fingers wrapped around Alistair's length, squeezed just a little. Alistair gasped, and he leaned back a little more, his eyes closing for a moment. With the heat and the water around him, Zevran's hand would feel very different, and slowly, Zevran found a pace he liked.
Alistair moaned softly, responding to him immediately. There was never any question when it came to something physical like this; Alistair needed it, and it was easy enough for Zevran to give. He could do this, help ease that aching loneliness he knew the Warden was under. He squeezed just a little more, coaxing Alistair into arching slightly, into pressing himself more firmly against Zevran's hand, wringing every slight gasp and breathy moan--
"Z-Zev..." Alistair gritted his teeth, his hands gripping the sides of the tub as he tried to focus. Zevran slowed only a little, looking up at him. "Zev... What-- Maker, Zev-- what does it ... feel like?" Those hazel eyes were clouded over with arousal, and Zevran had to admit, it was hard not to simply push him back, to urge his hips enough out of the water that Zevran could draw him into his mouth. But Alistair had his curiosity now, had him wondering what exactly he was talking about.
"What does what feel like?" He studied the Warden, watching the way Alistair drew his shuddering breaths; heat spiraled through Zevran, made him ache for the Warden.
"When..." There was a dark blush on Alistair's face, and Zevran was certain that it had nothing to do with the heat of the water or the fire. "Whenever I ... When I'm--" The blush somehow darkened, and Zevran's hand slowed a little more as he suddenly realized where this was going. "When I'm inside of you," it was breathed out in a rush, all of the sounds blending into something just shy of a single word. Zevran's hand stilled, and Alistair, still gasping, looked at him, those hazel eyes guileless, innocent.
A smile curved Zevran's lips then, and he leaned up, stretching so that his lips touched Alistair's throat. Alistair made a soft noise, and Zevran murmured, "The easiest way would be to show you."
Alistair was trembling, whether from arousal or from the suggestion Zevran couldn't tell, but then he swallowed and nodded slightly. "C-Can you?" He shifted slightly in Zevran's lap, and the elf stilled, his amusement at the idea evaporating. It was the tattoo conversation all over again; when would he learn to stop offering things that he didn't plan on neccessarily doing? Was there an easy way to dissuade him of this? Did Zevran want to talk him out of it? It was the last question that pressed most heavily on him, that shocked him.
He hesitated, and never had he been so grateful to hear a knock at the door. Alistair and Zevran both jumped, having been so wrapped up in one another that they hadn't even heard anyone approaching the room. Luthanuel's voice was low and muffled as it carried through the door, "Ser? Warden Commander, the first of your guests have arrived."
"I'll be out in a moment," Alistair called back, and to his credit, his voice didn't tremble or crack. He stood and Zevran watched the Warden dry off and dress, propping his head up on the edge of the tub. "Who is it out there?" Alistair suddenly asked, apparently trying to decide how formal he should go.
"General Oghren, ser, as well as Bann Teagan."
Alistair's eyebrows raised, and he glanced over at Zevran, who shrugged a little. "You told me to invite whoever I liked," the elf defended with, not entirely certain what the look was for. Alistair sighed, but a smile was on his face as he left, using the key to lock the room behind him. Zevran frowned as he left, and then he glanced back over at the bar of soap. Funny how something so insignificant carried such a weight.
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Grey Solstice