charming symbolism, really. ¹⁸⁺

again, zevran finds himself beneath iloren. this time it is welcome. easy. far, far removed from the harrowing events on the moon, of which the assassin has done a fairly good job not thinking about. zevran is in his own home, tipsy and warm off of wine and the inquisitor's kisses, reveling in his touch, thankful for the blissful simplicity of sex and sensation.

when he surrenders his control here, he does so consciously. gladly. with nothing more than an arched brow and a smirk.

it is a good view, he thinks, staring up at iloren through half-lidded eyes. his hands trail up powerful thighs to rest on the other elf's hips, and his grip tightens when his friend begins to grind down. he makes no effort to guide, although that does not stop the whimper that leaves him when iloren stops suddenly.

the whimper turns into a drawn out moan when iloren begins to sink down on him. he can't stop the involuntary upward twitch of his own hips, although he is trying to be good and keep still.

"use me."

the inquisitor looks tired when zevran reappears in the room. as promised, he hadn't moved from his spot. even his hand remains in the same position, pressing tightly into his injury.

he still manages a soft smile towards his friend.

' still here. a little lonely. '

it's said like a jest, but very much isn't. the silence of the room irked him once zevran left. the halls are too bright and open. whenever he was injured he remembers people flocking to him as sheep do to a shepherd. the inquisitor is down, or, help the inquisitor!

thank the maker, cassandra had said when his steps had carried him through snowy mountains back towards his friends. he had wondered, for a moment, if she was concerned for him or the anchor.

it was a conceited question. of course she was concerned for him.

he didn't like the silence. the eery reminder of his being alone. that zevran may get lost or injured himself and iloren wouldn't be there. they could have gotten separated entirely.

it's good that zevran returned when he did. he might have gotten up from his spot had he not. he eyes the little case, slowly surrenders his hold on himself. zevran's shirt is drenched in blood, but the flow itself seems to have slowed.

just a man.

"well, i am back, so now you have no reason to be lonely!"

he feels better here, zevran realizes. he feels better here in the company of his friend. less afraid. iloren exudes an energy that soothes the assassin, despite his grumbles.

his movement is gentle as he guides iloren's hand away from the wound, as he helps his friend lean forward just enough to make wrapping the bandage around him easier. he is pleased to see the bleeding has lessened.

"hale and whole," he says, by way of answering iloren's question about his own health. it is pointedly not an acknowledgement of being alright. "i did not run into a single one of our metal friends. they must be busy putting holes in other people."

he ties the bandage off and sets back on his heels.

"there. now you will have yet another fetching scar to add to your collection."

and should zevran ever get the chance to see it again, he will remember this. remember the feel of iloren draping his body over him. the feeling of iloren kissing him to quiet the raging panic in his heart, lungs, and brain. the assassin grows quietly.

"As am I, da'mi," Andrale says as she remembers the bottles in her hands. She carefully puts them on her armor's belt before she approaches Zevran. Her arms carefully wrap around him as she takes the brief moment to at least provide some physical comfort.

she wraps her arms around him and the tension of his body lessens considerably, as though the strings holding him upright are suddenly severed. her warmth seeps into him. solid, real, alive. he sighs.

"i have been better," he admits. andrale has seen him at his most vulnerable, quite literally, and so he is not nearly as uncomfortable showing this side to her as he is with others. still, he cannot bring himself to tell the full truth of how this new adventure has messed with him. he wonders what she thinks of the stains on him.... quickly, he adds, "it is not mine. the blood."

he does not elaborate further.

' mh, true, ' iloren mumbles in response, uncertain if zevran even hears him over the volume of his own thoughts. his ears twitch. iloren notices. they're pinker, too. he wonders what his friend has to be embarrassed about. was it something he'd said? he hadn't meant to.

he tugs zevran closer until his friend moves so that he may keep stabilized against the wall, hand on his arm travelling up so he can press his hand to the back of his neck. the kiss is not one born of passion, as the previous ones had been. he kisses his forehead, like a promise and reassurance both.

with his other hand, he presses zevran's shirt to his injury. it still bleeds, but if he does this with enough force and for enough time, it should be alright. he'll feel well enough to walk soon.

ever the optimist. he has to make enough pragmatic decisions throughout his days.

he knows it isn't true, of course. but he can pretend, for just a little while.

truly, it is a miracle the inquisitor is not drifting off with the way his eyes droop, with how his words have gotten quieter. zevran feels no need to tell him to keep his eyes open; the man is a warrior, this is not the first wound of this persuasion he has suffered. he knows.

the assassin manages to bark a short laugh, taking iloren's own arm to squeeze it in what he hopes is something of a comforting gesture.

"that is all i ask!" and he actually looks like himself for the first time since this disaster has began, bright and mischievous. "but what little faith you must have in me to think i would be hit at all."

he stands, casts one look back at iloren's face, and sets about his search.

it is hard to tell for how long he is gone. every minute may as well be an hour in this place. he tries to be quick and thorough, both. for his efforts, he is rewarded. no robots find him.

he returns with a small metal box. he is not sure why these metal men would have a first aid kit laying about, but he assumes it is for whoever might control them. fleshier beings, perhaps. in any case, he had seen bandages when he had peeked inside and so had brought the whole thing.

he sets it by iloren's feet with a soft clunk.

"still with us, my friend?" he won't say out loud that he had been worried the entire time he'd been away, but he had been. fretting over the possibility of coming back to find a corpse... or worse, somehow.

"there is nothing here for me to sew the wound closed, but there is enough gauze to wrap it."

zevran looks good with a knife in hand and blood smeared on his face. he's sure his friend wouldn't approve of the thought, not with it being iloren's blood. still, it's all the same colour in the end.

and his pretty yellow eyes, focused so intensely on the task at hand. the inquisitor remains quiet throughout, not only to placate his friend. it's a strange feeling. to have fingers and blade digging around, looking for something other than bloodshed. it's how the tools are used, not the tools at hand. he wonders if zevran would agree.

he spoke so jovially of avoiding his own death at andrale's hand. the use of a person and their dedication. he'll have to ask him later.

when the job is done, iloren's body has surrendered entirely to the wall behind him. he looks down at zevran with eyes half-lidded from exhaustion, mouth open with soft breaths escaping him. he feels the wound still, but it's more of an ache now, one that will lessen each day it stays with him. the anchor is an ache every single day.

zevran is busy, thinking himself here and there. medical supplies would be useful in the absence of a mage— he can only imagine the mouthful he would get were dorian here alongside zevran.

still, he doesn't surrender his touch. it's soft enough. zevran should be able to escape it easily. iloren squeezes his arm again.

zevran wonders what he sees. a mess, most likely. he is covered in blood with his hair in disarray, chest half-unclothed in a decidedly unsexy matter. but zevran is not vain enough, really, to allow such a thought to bother him. the fear and worry he has displayed, however? his anxiety?

he has forgotten what it is like, to feel small in this way. to feel less than. he has had it too good for too long in this regard.

he almost envies his friend, even with the hole in his gut. his resilience is quite something.

but it is not without its end. nothing is ever without its end. zevran can only hope iloren can keep it up long enough for them to quit this awful place and return home.

"do not thank me just yet. you still might bleed out." ever the pragmatist. there would be something infinitely charming about that dopey smile of the inquisitor's, were zevran in a better humor. and those green eyes. maker, does iloren have to keep looking at him like that? he can feel his ears twitch. if they are pinkening, he may as well throw himself to the next robot he sees.

iloren stops moving as soon as zevran's hand meets his chest, the weight and strength of him contained with such a simple gesture. his eyes can't be stopped. they roam over zevran's face, now bloody, across features that aren't as tight as before. whatever was twisted inside his friend's chest must have loosened a bit.

so iloren smiles as his hands drift down zevran's shoulders to loosely hold his arms instead. his words don't sting as much either. a reprimand, one the inquisitor takes in stride, his grasp squeezing zevran's arms once.

' i recall. '

much more now that he's not distracted. when he tilts backwards to lean against the wall again, he feels the sting of the injury much more. it digs into him, pulses, but he thinks it worth it.

he's convinced he'll get through this as he's gotten through everything else. what is one piece of metal to stop him?

as he said, it will be alright.

as much as the continued touching.

but the incandescence of the assassin's misplaced fury has dimmed to naught more than a smoldering ember. that does not stop him from snorting derisively, however, at the way his friend looks at him.

there is something in those beautiful green eyes that is both exhilarating and terrifying in one measure. more than simple desire or friendly affection. zevran may make jokes about someone falling for his charms, but...

"hm. it will hurt more if you insist on distracting me."

it would be a shame if the knife were to slip.

he renews his task, willing his brain to focus on the coppery smell and the slick, warm feel beneath his knife and fingers and not on the sure weight of iloren's gloved hands on his forearms. the weight of iloren's eyes on his face.

thankfully, the bullet is not lodged as deep as the assassin had feared. the armor had prevented it from exiting completely, leaving it in a decent enough spot to be removed without digging too deeply and risking further widening the injury. or the increasing likelihood of infection. it takes more time than he would like to fish it out, everything being so slippery, but he does. it drops to the ground with a quiet clink. he presses the makeshift cloth to iloren's wound, plugging the hole the only way he can.

"there. now let us hope you have not lost too much blood. do you feel woozy?"

there is no way the assassin is carrying the inquisitor out of here. they both know that.

green eyes shine down on zevran as iloren bends towards him like this. despite his grievances, iloren is the picture of a saint. his anchor is a shining light that jumps from each wall in these blank halls. it echoes in his gaze and brightens the blood on each of them.

in this, he's steady. he sees the blood on zevran and for a moment that may as well not have happened, he wonders if the elf would mind more of a mess for the sake of it. zevran is an assassin. iloren is the herald of andraste. it's a title that carries blood in it just the same, from the moment it was given to him by the divine's sacrifice.

so he reaches for zevran's face with both hands and pulls him in. where passion lacked before, he tries to deliver it tenfold. his thumbs gently swipe over his cheeks, his lips press needily.

the rasp in zevran's voice when he spoke was enough to determine that this is anger born in worry. and that, he thinks, he's gotten rather good at, easing the worries of the people around him.

they are far from safe. iloren has a hole in him and metal zevran still has not been given the chance to remove — yet somehow it is iloren pressing his lips to zevran's hungrily, as if he needs him, telling the trained assassin that things will be alright. as if he knows.

ridiculous.

but zevran does not stop it. he can't, not at first. although he knows this is the wrong place for this, that he is still not comfortable and perhaps never will be, the feel of the inquisitor's lips steadies him. he hates that it does. who is this man to come into his life, be a pain in his ass, get himself shot, and then try to console him through touch? and why does zevran let him?

when they part for another breath, he presses a hand firmly to iloren's chest.

"we are not making out hidden in the corner of a room like two horny teenagers."

except that is exactly what they are doing. were doing.

"you are injured, if you do not recall."

it would be easy to forget, if not for the blood that stains zevran's hands. and now iloren's shirt. his own shirt. his face. he can feel it dry on his cheeks.

stop trying to make things better, he wants to say. stop.

Her head head hurt.

The lights, the horrendous screeching, metal against metal, it all made her head hurt. She thought the battle with the Archdemon was bad. This? Worse.

Andrale still had no daggers to use and only a pitiful child's toy for a bow, as if that could be useful. At least in her separation from Iloren, these hellish rooms provided her with something.

Glass clinks softly as she adjusts the flasks she's filled with whatever chemicals she found in this room. Before a step alerts the Warden.

She whips around, about to toss a flask when she stops the second she sees who it is.

either way, he still doesn't like it here. it still sets his teeth on edge. thankfully, however, it has been rather quiet as he's made his way carefully through more halls and rooms, scavenging what easy to carry supplies he has found. there is not much. heaps of broken robots lay in scraps here and there, where others have felled them. perhaps they, too, have taken anything useful. still, he needs something to do. he grows antsy just sitting and waiting.

zevran spots the familiar figure before she spots him, and he cannot help his smile. of course. again. her ears are just as sensitive as his, just as trained to detect the smallest noise. it is no surprise even his quietist footfall would alert her.

andrale reels around, some bottles in her hands. poison? acid?

"it would not be the first time, bella, and i am sure it will not be the last!" he has made a habit of startling her in this new world, it seems. his tone is jovial, but there is a tightness and tiredness in his face that speaks to the toll his adventures so far have taken on him.

zevran starts with honesty: he tells iloren that it will hurt and it does. the wound already pains and taking a dagger to it doesn't help. the inquisitor clenches his teeth and stays as quiet as he can, only every other breath laboured and pressed out between.

he breathes in deeply through his nose when zevran withdraws his weapon to take off his shirt. he doesn't understand at first, not until he lowers the piece of clothing to the injury. his head feels light, dizziness threatening his consciousness. it's not too bad yet, but bad enough for his smile to disappear very far away.

and bad enough for him to huff, truly annoyed, when zevran calls him stubborn and obnoxious, still refusing to look at him. his arrogance shines through— he feels slighted, he realizes.

he doesn't like feeling that way when he's talking to zevran.

so he reaches out, both their hands bloody. his fingers find zevran's chin to tilt it towards himself, force their eyes to meet that way. he's not somebody to be ignored, not even out of concern.

and he feels better. looking at him. even bending with the motion is worth it, hurt digging into his stomach. he can swallow past that, but he's always struggled swallowing past his pride.

weakness.

but try as he might, it seems the inquisitor is not content to let things be as they are. the grip on his face is firm enough to command, and he barely registers the wet feeling of the blood now smeared where iloren's fingers meet his skin.

he does not cast his eyes back down, now. he has his own pride to contend with. he cannot look away when he is being dared. he only hopes his efforts to remain placid, even though on the inside his nerves feel barely contained, translate to his face. usually he is quite good at this. usually.

iloren presses his lips against the assassin's, and the assassin cannot bring himself to melt into it when he is already so rigid. but he returns it, all the same. it lacks the same passion as the ones that came before it, when they tangled together in bed. still, it is solid and grounding all the same. a little sorrowful, too, perhaps.

iloren's head drops against the wall. he looks at the ceiling and forces his posture to slacken as the fabric is peeled from his bleeding wound.

he'll need the reserves if zevran's going to start digging around inside of him. his cheeks would redden at the thought if he wasn't already bleeding.

' ouch, ' he mumbles. ' so snippy. '

he would probably be fine if zevran left him behind. he'd introduced the idea and still there's the itch of fear at the edge of his mind. does it even matter here, so far from the inquisition? does it matter at all? the future he'd seen with dorian was a result of corypheus' hand. maybe thedas doesn't need him alive anymore.

iloren huffs. he'd prefer not to think about it. if he's lucky he won't have to for very long, glancing at zevran's deft fingers. he barely looked at him at all. it's embarrassing that it bothers him so much. that he misses zevran's yellow eyes on him.

' are you worried? ' an honest question. this time, iloren looks somewhere else as if to accomodate the assassin. then he remembers himself, quickly adds: ' i forgot. no talking. excuse me. '

must iloren talk so much? is this what zevran himself sounds like when he's injured? if so, perhaps he should apologize to fiyero. and wynne, if he ever sees her again.

it would be nice to have bandages and alcohol. he has neither, of course. just his dagger, still mercifully sharp despite the fighting.

"this will hurt."

even in his irritation, zevran does try to be somewhat gentle as he presses the blade to the wound. his fingers are crimson. the blood makes it difficult to see what he is doing... he curses softly, under his breath. he could do this with touch alone, of course, but. he pauses to strip off his overshirt, thankful he had bothered to wear something underneath. it already has blood on it, it is no great loss to ruin it. he presses the wadded fabric against the wound to blot some of it up.

he hears iloren's question. he does not answer, not at first. there is a long moment of silence between them, wherein zevran still does not meet his friend's eyes.

"what would i have to be worried about?" it comes out quieter than he intends. "i doubt this is the worst you have endured. not if you can continue being so obnoxiously stubborn."

it seems he's traded a zevran that is scared for a zevran that is angry. he still thinks he deserves it in a way. his body is working through that wounded bit of flesh, so it doesn't have any energy to be upset about it, not now. perhaps not even later.

his back drops against the wall they lower him to, the rest of his armour clanging and shifting uncomfortably. it's starting to feel tight. his injury feels hot, shoots twinges of pain up and down that have him grunt under his breath.

it's getting worse. the prospect of metal still stuck in his body doesn't delight him. an arrow can shatter upon impact, leave bits and pieces behind that each have to be picked out. they don't have the time for that.

' get it out. '

it's an order, his gaze going from his injury back to zevran. there's something foreign there that he wants out, fists opening and tightening with each twitch of pain. hearing the detached tone of his words, iloren decides to test zevran's limits.

' if it's too bad, you'll have to leave me behind. '

but the man still smiles. he still laughs. he still orders the assassin around as if he has any control over what the assassin does.

zevran often deflects his own injuries with humor, it's true — but he is moody right now, and a hypocrite, and he does not like when iloren does it.

the furrow in his brow deepens.

"i will try." he emphasizes, because he isn't entirely certain he can remove it. he is not a surgeon and he is no mage. he is good with a knife, though, and perhaps that is something.

he only meets iloren's eyes for a second before his attention is back on pulling off the last layer to expose the wound to open air. it bleeds freely.

"i just might, if you continue to speak."

the thought tempts him. some part of himself he has not heard from in years, telling him how much easier it would be to leave his friend behind. alas, it is because iloren is his friend that he cannot bring himself to actually do it.

pain is easy to compartmentalize. though it can cloud the mind, it sits in the body. a bear feels pain when it steps into a trap. a deer feels pain when an arrow hits its throat. iloren was shot by something he didn't recognize and it hurts. that, he can deal with.

he feels the pain shoot into his right leg from where he was hit, the taste in his mouth getting sour. he feels a bit sick. that's not the reason for his annoyance when he answers. rather that zevran decided to chide him as soon as he was on his feet again.

' it worked, didn't it? how about a thank you? ' then he laughs. right after he says it. it's funny. pain is easy, but zevran is struggling, worrying, calling him a fool. he probably is. he could have carried him off straight away, or knocked the turret from the ceiling with a jump, but he didn't do either of those things.

zevran was in trouble, so he helped. even the venom in his friend's hiss couldn't make him regret it.

he moves to help zevran with the straps of his armour and hisses when he has to bend to move the plates out of the way. his skin sticks to the fabric underneath, a thin trail of blood going down from his hip.

then again, so would iloren.

so what is bothering him, really?

the assassin pointedly ignores the inquisitor's comments and laughter, busying himself with helping to peel off the plate. the fact that his friend is still talking, still holding steady, is a good sign, he thinks. he helps lower iloren to the ground, and then his fingers begin to search cautiously for the wound.

"a gun, i think. something peculiar to this world, like those metal carriages that move on their own." cars, he means. he has spent nearly three years in this world and has learned much. he has seen a gun, although he has fortunately never been on the business end of one.

the anger in his voice has ebbed, and now he sounds clinical. detached.

sighing theatrically, the tiefling leans backwards in his seat again, rolls his head with the performative noise.

' indeed, how could you not? inviting him over, offering a massage, getting to bed such enjoyable company. '

he puts emphasis on the words, calling zevran out with tone alone. fiyero never pushes too hard with him, his smile still soft and teasing.

' but! you look so darling when you talk about him. and it's been so long since you've seen anybody from home ... wouldn't it make a wonderful story? a song, even? the inquisitor and his crow. '

he thinks of fiyero's friends. how much the tiefling must miss them. no wonder he is being teased.

"bards and their stories," he sighs, but it is a fond sigh. the inquisitor and his crow. his crow. his. "how very much like your darling heart to imagine romances where there are none."

he likes fiyero's songs. likes them more when they are about him. he is not sure how he would feel, were the tiefling to seriously consider writing this song.

there's only one decision to make. iloren doesn't even think about it.

zevran calls for him. the tight panic in his voice is all that he hears for a moment. finding his footing after being pushed, the inquisitor turns and runs in front of the crow pinned to the ground, a bird with its wings clipped. he throws himself on top of zevran, using his body as a shield.

the turret shoots— he hears and feels the clang of his armour as it deflects the bullet, but he doesn't flinch. his eyes dart across the net, watches the dagger do no impact on its material and grabs it with his left hand. volatile as the anchor is, iloren's focus is unwavering. he needs to get zevran out. they need to leave.

the anchor is a key.

he grabs the net so hard that its imprint stays behind on his palm. green sparks shoot up its lines like fire caught, ripping a hole into the fabric with impressive speed.

it's not fast enough. the turret shoots again, and this time the bullet buries itself between the plates of armour that kept iloren protected until now. there's a blunt impact that he feels, close to his hip. it makes a wet, clear noise as it hits the front of his armour again. he only grunts quietly. the anchor continues working.

as soon as there's enough space he's grabbing zevran. with an arm around his waist he ignores any efforts of the assassin and heaves him up, starts running— the pain hasn't hit. there's only the path to the room they just cleared, and still zevran's panic. iloren.

he can hear it.

it is not a noise he has heard before, and he has heard many battle noises. death noises. still, the sound of the bullet striking plate and flesh actually makes zevran's stomach lurch a little.

the mark crackles green sparks between them, so close to zevran that he can feel its heat as it burns away the netting around him. the same mark he had held in his own hands and massaged who knows how many days ago now. it feels as though time moves very slow.

but then iloren is pulling him to his feet, half-carrying him from the room and zevran should protest, wants to protest, but the words don't come. his mind swims between images of dark pits and tight spaces and the more concrete images of what's going on around him. on iloren, who has a bullet in him and must surely be in pain.

he reaches out to steady his friend when he is on his own feet again.

"foolish! always playing the hero," he hisses, as though it greatly offends him that the inquisitor actually bothered to free him. his eyes dart around to make sure they are in relative safety, ears cocked to catch any slight noise. it seems clear, but who can say?