𝚂𝙴𝙳𝚄𝙲𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽!

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      𝙷𝙴 𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆𝚂 𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃 𝙷𝙴'𝚂 𝙳𝙾𝙸𝙽𝙶 .    he  must  know ,  cian realizes ,  the realization as sharp as a blade resting against his neck .  which ,  considering how he and zevran first made their acquaintance and the circumstances of it  …  felt rather on the nose .  up until  this  point he had thought zevran’s teasing just that .  it never occurred to him  -  not that zevran had slept with men .  he was quite vocal about his exploits .  but that he would want  …  him .  he would have thought the antivan assassin’s tastes were more  refined  than him .  a poorly used stable boy who couldn’t pass a cluster of flowers without tucking one into his belt .

      and  now  zevran is tracing a line of fire down the side of his cheek and the teasing isn’t  just  teasing .  well ,  it is  —-  and it is at the same time ,  more .  it feels like a question .  maybe an invitation ?

     ❝ well ,  i  - ❞

      it is as he’s pondering just  how much  he would like to accept such an invitation  ( enthusiastically is the first thought that comes to mind )  that his foot catches on the  one  rock among the rolling fields and hills of the fereldan countryside and sends him stumbling .  worse ,  sending zevran tumbling out of his arms .  were it not for the circumstance ,  he might well note that the loss of zevran leaves him suddenly cold .

      there are a series of sounds and movements as they both fall .  he  tries  to grab zevran closer with one hand to absorb some of the fall ,  or at least protect his head ,  his other arm going straight out to brace him from the ground to keep his weight off of the elf .  and at the last second he remembers zevran’s  ankle ,  the whole reason he’d picked him up ,  and tries with effort to keep their legs from tangling too much .  his palm burns as it hits the grass and dirt and rock  hard .  he didn’t realize he’d closed his eyes until he opens them and finds zevran .  his whole field of vision is  zevran .  everything pressed against him is zevran ,  too ,  apparently ,  in spite of his efforts to hold himself up .  maker ,  help me .

     ❝ are you okay ? ❞    urgent concern where the hand not bracing him above the elf cradles the back of zevran’s head .    ❝ i’m sorry ,  i wasn’t - is your ankle alright ? ❞

as much as zevran had been intentionally flustering cian,       delighting in,       maybe,       the idea of buckling at the knees,       or skin so red it reaches the nape of the warden’s neck,      but zevran doesn’t expect to go tumbling. 

within less than an hour,      cian has surprised him not once,      but twice,       though this time it is with bewildered, sharp, laughter,       even along with his new bodily aches.       after all,      cian is not without his kindness:      there is care and tenderness in the warden’s cradling,      and although the best course of action would just to say ‘thank you’ ...      zevran has never chosen the best course of action. 

instead,       zevran’s lips turn syrupy and sweet,       voice husky,      even crumpled and injured as he is.       “      if you wanted to get on top of me,      all you had to do was ask,      ”      he teases,       a bit breathless in being barely-not-crushed under cian but still pressed up against him,       the view of the sky parted by those bright,       golden curls.       “      i am more than okay,       my friend.      it seems you went to great lengths to protect me from the fall. are you okay?      ”

pinned down but not showing any sign of a struggle,      zevran lies completely still at the mercy of cian,      who is tangled up with zevran in a way cian had probably not expected.       this, though,      is not something that zevran will object to,      which is why he says:       “      i was under the impression we had somewhere to be,       but if you’d like to stay here a bit longer,      i would not mind.      ” 

up close,      zevran can see cian clearer than usual.      dirty and scuffed, bewildered,      caring and honest,       zevran can swear he sees freckles dotted on the side of cian’s pale nose,      can see the light of his lashes over bright blue eyes.      they remind zevran of oceans,       and oceans,      they remind zevran of home. 

        Dorian doesn’t see all ——— he’s not quite so arrogant as to believe as much ( though perhaps, say, three or so steps away if not less, he is a rather confidant man, after all ) ——— but he believes and therefore knows that he sees much. Most, in truth. You don’t grow up in Tevinter high society, become an enchanter, and find your calling in academics ( alongside death, in full technicality ) without being able to see some things. He’s seeing plenty right now, what with the handsome elvhen man in front of him, but even beyond that? Beyond that ( … )

        ❝ Ah, yes, my thankless venture, indeed, ❞ he wonders over the Freudian slip, ponders it and holds it in the palm of his hand before dismissing it. Dorian is well aware of his thankless venture, and while he presents himself as endlessly selfish and uncaring but for his appearance and et cetera, he knows that he very well could have simply run. Ignored the whole of the south and this mess of a war. Ignored Alexius’s call, allowed ruin to arrive on its own, and luxuriate in his own relentless despair.

        But he hadn’t. All the more fool he is.

        ❝ Murder as sport and all that, ❞ he says it without any ill intent and pauses for a beat thereafter, turning the words over in his mind. ❝ Poor wording on my part, I think ——— I have no idea what specific pleasure you draw from it, but if it is anything akin to revenge or, dare I say, vigilantism in the name of justice, then who am I to judge? ❞ The subject of murder shouldn’t be spoken of quite so frankly, honestly, but Dorian has never been the sort to balk at the idea of it. The intentions behind such acts, certainly, but he had been told ( multiple times ) as a young boy that he could very well be the subject of an assassination, one day.

        ( though he does dramatize the sheer number of clandestine killings that happen on the daily in tevinter to anyone who asks. what? it makes it fun. )

        Zevran is a fascinating sort. The kind of man that Dorian derives great enjoyment from maintaining a tête-à-tête with every so often, or even on the regular. There’s the flirtation, of course, he does so love a suggestive bit of banter with just about anyone who can manage it, but even further than that : Zevran is fascinating. He does so loathe entertaining people with all the personality of a stale bit of bread.

        ❝ I am quite impressive, ❞ he accepts the compliment with ease, gesturing to himself so as to drive the point home even further. And he tilts his face against the palm of his hand in the next moment, voice warm / broad / rich, ❝ You are nearly as impressive as I ——— the roguish assassin mired in mystery is quite the archetype to uphold, and you manage it quite splendidly. ❞ There are similarities between them, the obvious and the less so, and it’s presumptuous to think that there are far more than their synergistic flirtatious natures and, ahem, somewhat loud personalities, but Dorian is so rarely wrong.

        He can’t help but laugh, an amused and mirthful noise, thumb pressing against the corner of his mouth. ❝ I do so miss having servants, ❞ it’s a thoughtless statement, or rather another one, since his foot is well acquainted with his mouth. One that settles and sours on his tongue, thoughts tangling / beliefs tugging / and he sets it aside. ❝ I just might have to take you up on your offer ——— southern food is horrifically bland, and Josephine may have my head if I ask for anything but my soaps. ❞ She may have his head if he keeps asking for them, in fact, but that might have to do with his attempts to pilfer the good wine from Skyhold’s stores. ❝ But I confess I find myself… curious about your own coping techniques in these perilous lands. ❞

zevran flicks to dorian,     molten gold,      and the age of them creases on the edges,      as harsh and sharp as the scars mangled and still aching on his skin,     a reminder --     a testament.     sometimes youth peeks through in the easy warmth of a smile,     of kindness only learned through heroes,      but it sits next to a creature bred to kill as easily as one could breathe,     and it takes an old ghost to remind zevran he has no stake in this,      that dorian is harmless,     and entertaining him besides.

hands gripping the railing to continue to balance precariously on its edge,     zevran smiles as he always does,      an expression built with more nuance for him than it has for anyone else,      less a marker for happiness than a stand-in for all that he should express.      “     open-minded,     hmm?      i like that quality in a person,     ”     he muses,     which is true enough on its own,      “     but i will say this,      in confidence --       i value my freedom,      lindo,     much more in recent years,     and it secures that it will not be threatened.      ”       he shakes his head,     amusement warm in the hum of his voice.     “      i am no monster,      i do not derive pleasure from the act itself.      i am just very good at it,     yes?     and what is wrong with being proud of our skills?      ” 

stretching out his legs before sliding down to his feet to stand,     he clasps his hands behind his back as he looks up to dorian,     peering up through his eyelids with a smirk now more than a smile,     not smug,      but bursting with confidence besides.      “     nearly?      that must be quite a feat in your eyes,      ”     zevran teases,     curling forward in a fanciful mockery of a bow,     simply to be ridiculous.      “     i do not always have to be a mystery as you so claim,     but if that is what you prefer,     i can continue playing this role for you.     ”

it has been a long time since he has been known. leliana, above,     would probably thin her lips in the way she used to,     no matter how much either of them changed,     but what she knows is only comparative to a stranger,     who knows nothing,     and the hero,     who had known everything.

dorian probably realizes that as much as zevran whispers such promises of revealing something,     anything,      pressured or even asked,      he wouldn’t. mired in mystery is a fair enough claim,     for that. 

so the smirk leaves to bring back again the smile,     reblooming,     and zevran’s expression remains flat even as he picks up on the implication --     his head tilting,     gaze shining with knowing,     though he is not offended.      “     do you?     i can't say i’ve ever had the pleasure myself.      ”     he is,     though,     not an especially kind person.      so he probes,     playing dumb as well as playfully adding pressure:      “     what it is like?      ”

he doesn’t really need or care for an answer,     but he cares to see the way dorian will react more,     like continuing to unwind a pool of thread in his hands.      “      ha!     it is indeed.     but soaps take precedent,     of course,     ”     he says,     moving forward into laughter that sputters out just as quick,     a dying ember doused by a reminder. 

      𝙼𝚈 𝙲𝙸𝙰𝙽 .    it is small and fleeting as proclamations go ,  but cian finds himself sighing as its combined with zevran’s hands against his skin .  his  lips ,  too  …  somehow the stinging left behind with each touch is numbed because it is zevran .  because  he  is zevran’s ,  too ,  he allows himself to be pulled in and pulls .  lifting up on one elbow  ( ow )  ,  he draws zevran in closer as their lips move against one another .  he can taste oil on his mouth and laughs quietly as he pulls away .  turning onto his side  ( ow ,  again )  he does nothing but hold zevran and touch his nose to the tip of zevran’s tanned one .  he’s sure they make  quite  a picture ,  even like this ,  and quietly reminds himself to check the locks on the door again .  

      i love you .

      he is not  unaware  of the effort it takes zevran to say that .  he is not  unappreciative ,  either .  perhaps other people would frown as they watched their lover say  i love you  with the slightest difficulty .  perhaps others would complain it was not said enough .  but ,  as zevran has reminds him often ,  they are  not  others .  cian will take what zevran will give and he will return to him with kisses ,  with embraces ,  with :    ❝ i love you ,  too . ❞    just as simple ,  dropping from his lips as easy as breathing .  it is the first time he has said the words today and is not likely to be the last .

      he watches zevran take his hand and kiss it ,  affection blooming in his chest and amusement painting its way across his lips .  as if on cue he sighs dramatically .  he moves his leg up to hook around the back of zevran’s knees and pull him in closer  ( ow ) .  one of his feet moves idly against zevran’s skin ,  completely at ease . 

     ❝ will i ever be free of suffering ? ❞    cian’s head falls against the bed in a show of despair .  his eyes sparkle with laughter as he looks to zevran again and sighs again .    ❝ i guess they’ll have to do  … ❞    and he draws the elf in again for another slow ,  lazy kiss ,  their hands still intertwined .  he squeezes zevran’s fingers as they part and his eyes travel over the elf’s face ,  tracing the familiar slopes and sharp peaks there .  he touches his nose to zevran’s ,  a breath away .  the question is one he has thought about since they arrived in antiva ,  one he has considered as he watched zevran tell him about everything ,  as he fed him something far too spicy or dragged him to the leatherworks .  it comes out now ,  softened .

     ❝ are you happy ,  zev ? ❞

zevran giggles every time cian makes the effort to move, the pricks of pain obvious in the small discomfort and lack of smoothness in each effort, but zevran is pulled in none of the less, happy to be spoiled even in the face of his part in this. they are close enough for zevran to feel cian’s breath on his, to feel the warmth mingle between them, eyelashes almost tickling cheeks, and what would otherwise be disgustingly domestic by any other standards zevran preens at the contact. 

he keeps his eyes wide open for this, to continue to appreciate every blemish of cian’s face, the arch of his nose, the full of his lips, yes, even the angry skin in danger of quickly peeling. it is a honeymoon he knows must end but he will allow to continue for evermore, and so the quicker they tangle, zevran knows it is quicker for cian to fall into the temptation of remaining. they are always so busy with helping, and zevran would give up all the helping to spend all his days like this.

heart shuddering, perhaps andraste favors him a little to have dark skin, for cian cannot easily see the way pink dusts his cheeks at the straightforward confession. cian is always like this -- accepting, and true, and never hesitant.           “         i know, amore mio,        ”         zevran murmurs, voice low from tenderness, feeling a little wistful at the interaction. he is not quite sure he’ll ever be used to it, but the declaration, the admittance, comes a little easier now, and cian remains ever patient.         “        you are almost more than i deserve,        ”        he adds, confidence and insecurity perfectly intertwined, but he does know this --         cian will be his as long as zevran can have him, and zevran will take advantage of every second.

eyes brightening with mirth at cian’s obvious dramatic display of pain, zevran cups cian’s cheeks, rubs his thumb over a brow, fingers listless in golden hair as he says,         “        yes, cian, have patience. soon your skin will grow resistance and it will not be so bad.        ”         he gives no other explanations though, happily drawn into a kiss and savoring it, squeezing cian’s hand back to show his appreciation at all the reciprocation.         “        i can always do a good job of pleasuring us both without you having to move a muscle, but it is more fun to see you struggle.         ”

      𝙼𝙰𝙺𝙴𝚁 ,  𝙿𝚁𝙴𝚂𝙴𝚁𝚅𝙴 𝙷𝙸𝙼 .    cian ducks his head as he usually might to hide an embarrassed smile ,  but it’s not as effective with zevran in his arms .  instead it rather puts his face a bit closer .  oh .  red to the tips of his ears and fighting the way his legs have very suddenly turned to jelly ,  cian laughs again :  low ,  light ,  lips pursing .    ❝ yeah ?  well , ❞    he clears his throat and looks up again  -  it wouldn’t do to trip and drop him .  it would hardly make him some kind of dashing hero ,  would it ? 

      also ,  morrigan would laugh at him .

     ❝ i’d prefer if you  didn’t ,  personally , ❞    cian answers with a lopsided smile .  he adjusts his grip as his arms start to cramp and regrets it almost immediately ,  if only because it draws his attention to the curve of zevran’s thigh .    ❝ if only because  you’d  be stuck at camp when i had to go out . ❞    and somehow an outing without zevran felt  empty ,  hollow .  no one could make him laugh like he did .  zevran’s fingers continue to play in the curling blond of his hair .  maker’s breath .    ❝ i  could  talk to bodahn and see if you can keep the cushion .  no injury required . ❞

it is hard not to hide the fondness that a full flush charms in zevran,      who looks up at cian with the coyest smile,      unaffected if not for the warmth of amusement caressing his heart.      how could this boy so cute and endearing, without really trying?       flirting is more a greeting than an investment,      but zevran still finds himself pulled in,      captivated,      and he isn’t sure if it’s willing or not.

pulling his hand away from cian’s hair, reluctant,      he trades it by trailing the backs of his fingers against cian’s cheek,      anticipating, maybe,       that cian buckles to his knees and has them tumbling to the ground.      would it possibly aggravate his injury?       yes.      would it be entirely worth it?      yes. 

flirting with cian, after all,       never gets old,      entertaining as it is,      and being cradled by strong arms doesn’t illicit any complaints from him, ever.       “       and you always want my company, hmm?      ”      zevran rests his gaze on cian,      watching, curious,      as to effect he has on cian      --      more than the obvious embarrassment,        the floundering,       the attraction.       is there attachment there, too?      it makes the insides of zevran’s mouth dry,       but he continues,       “      it is almost as if you like me.      ”      the words are deceptive,       as much a probe as they are a tease,       testing the waters.      the safest bet would definitely have the warden fond of him,      and perhaps more than that --       it would keep him safe,       after all. 

      𝙰𝙽𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙰 𝚆𝙰𝚂 𝙰𝚂 𝙱𝙴𝙰𝚄𝚃𝙸𝙵𝚄𝙻 𝙰𝚂 𝚉𝙴𝚅𝚁𝙰𝙽 𝙷𝙰𝙳 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙸𝚂𝙴𝙳 .    on that point he had to concede ,  and cian did so with the barest noise of agreement as the elf’s hand smoothed over the top of his head .  everything was brighter ,  here ,  and there was so much color .  cian had privately thought the world to be entirely brown and green and shades of gray  …  but as zevran had grasped his hand and pulled him through the streets ,  he saw it all .  greens and browns and grays ,  yes ,  but the most  intoxicating  reds and blues and yellows and golds  -  the last were threaded through zevran’s hair ,  lightened by the sun . 

      ah ,  that cursed sun .  

     ❝ i think i’m more fond of it’s  exports ,  personally , ❞    cian murmurs ,  maneuvering his head in his arms so that he can peer up at zevran .  he’s  sunned too ,  though it’s soaked into his skin rather than scorched it .  some people have all the luck .  he breathes in  sharp  with the feeling of oil on his skin and it is swallowed by a soft sigh .  there’s a sting to it ,  but zevran does well enough at keeping things  firm  as well as gentle .  he lets his eyes slide shut ,  the familiar sensation of zevran’s hands on his skin a comfort .    won’t you forgive me ?

      truth told ,  cian could not think of a time when he had ever been  angry  with zevran for longer than a moment .  his breath is hot against the back of cian’s neck ,  lips against his hair ,  and in spite of his still - stinging - skin ,  there’s a small attempt to twist and capture the other’s lips  …  albeit briefly .  he grins .

     ❝ i may need more convincing . ❞

zevran’s laughter falls out of him --       it does not have to be let out, now,       he realizes in his joy,       nothing forced but instead seamless,       created solely from love and trust and how endearing cian gets,       even while disgruntled.        “       you are getting quite good at that.       you must have a good teacher,       ”       zevran says,       though he’s practically glowing from the compliment,       happy to favored in the way that cian favors him.

catching cian’s gaze,       he tilts his head,       plush lips sloppy and wide with something coy but also tender.       he does not have to see cian’s eyes to know he does good work,       cian’s body creating tells well enough,       but zevran soaks in cian’s eyes for however brief he can, anyway,        for it it is in his nature to hold all these moments close to him as if they might be taken. 

how lucky he is,       to have cian, alive,       and to take him to a place that he had called home, once.        to show him that there is more to the world than the cold and unpalatable,        but more than that,       somewhere far from the place cian had saved.        here,       it is harder for cian to be recognized in the rush of activity,        in the other worries of the merchants and assassins and street rats,       fingers grabbing at pockets.        zevran knows the look cian gets when he wants to help.       here, they do not have to help.        at least not so urgently;       at least not in the way those in ferelden look at cian, now,       and see him as a solution to all. 

zevran is pulled from his thoughts wth a kiss,       and he finds his hands stalling,       smile crinkling the corners of his eyes the way leaves take to flame.        “       hmm,       my cian needs more convincing, does he?       i suppose i should give him what he asks for.        ”       and he would love to,       and loves to,       fingers spread across cian’s back as he bends down to kiss at cian’s spine,        to trail up,        take his time,        until he’s kissing the tip of cian’s ear,       brushing against cian’s cheekbone.       he finds his lips taste a bit of oil but he doesn’t mind it,        fingers in cian’s hair and pulling cian to him,        lavishing his lover with hungry attention;       ceaseless.

it is there,       tangled with cian,       that he gets to look in cian’s eyes again,       colored like sea glass --        or the seas on hot afternoons in the breath between child and adult,        legs lanky and bruised and wounded but still soft in the sand.       zevran smiles:        it is in these days he feels like he cannot smile enough.        “       i love you,       ”       he says simply,       though it is still stiff in his mouth,       a little hard to say,       and too rare by far,       but he says it anyway,       because he does,        and wants cian to know. 

      𝙲𝙸𝙰𝙽'𝚂 𝙵𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁𝚂 𝙻𝙰𝚈 𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙱𝙰𝙽𝙳𝙰𝙶𝙴𝙳 𝙰𝚁𝙼 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙵𝙸𝙳𝙳𝙻𝙴 𝙰𝙱𝚂𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙻𝚈 ,  𝙶𝙰𝚉𝙴 𝙲𝙰𝙿𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙴𝙳 𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙸𝚁𝙴𝙻𝚈 𝙱𝚈 𝚉𝙴𝚅𝚁𝙰𝙽 .    when the elf leans forward it is all cian can do to remember to breathe ,  and in so doing ,  catches the vaguest hint of something  …  unfamiliar .  warm and sharp .  it almost reminds him of the spiced ale his mother would have ready in the winter time .  he has the insane urge to lean forward and bury his face is zevran’s neck in an attempt to figure it out  —-  the way he talks ,  he’s half sure the assassin might let him .  but  -  cian clears his throat and straightens some against the tree .  even as his cheeks continue to warm ,  he grins .  he can play along .

     ❝ i guess i am , ❞    the stablehand laughs softly as zevran points out the ridiculousness of his words .  but he meant it .  if there weren’t a blight to end ,  cian could see him doing almost anything .  maker’s breath ,  cian .  he lifts his hand to rub the back of his neck .   ❝ but really ,  zevran ,  you’re  -  i mean ,  i guess it’s  stupid  to say you’re free to go ,  but  …  you don’t have to be  mine . ❞    he dislikes the sound of that .  as if zevran is not so much a person ,  but a possession .  or maybe a tool .  either way ,  cian does not relish it ,  even if zevran himself says it .    ❝ you’re your own man as much as anyone . ❞ 

      he ought to be more concerned that there are people who have been hired to kill him .  everyone else certainly is ,  if the squinty eyes alistair kept making at zevran were anything to go by .  but he had survived a considerable amount of darkspawn and undead to this point .  zevran had been a challenge ,  yes ,  but  …  assassins seemed so  dull  compared to everything else he’d faced thus far .  that’s what being a warden gets you ,  thinking assassins are dull .  

     ❝ well ,  everyone has their faults , ❞    cian laughs ,  the sound surprising him as it bubbles out of his lips .   ❝ i guess i’ll just have to protect you ,  in case the darkspawn figure out how to be  …  rustic .  or charming . ❞

it is a playful sort of thing, a claiming --    a desperate claim, really,    to a boy who breeds resentment and excitement in a breath,    cheeks flush with something pure.    zevran is unsure if a touch would burn him,    the pads of his fingertips singed through and making all his veins burn with them,    and it almost forces him to recoil from the harm of it.    it is dangerous, even the smallest hints of affection.     it is --

his breath shortens, shudders,    catches in a storm sharp in the gold flecks of his eyes,     hardening quick with suspicion.     it is cold,    the resentment that pools quick and heavy in the cavity of zevran’s chest,    to be suggested something so outlandish and so uncanny,     a permission un-allowed since he could even remember:    his own person.    it grits and screeches inside his head,    flickers strangely in the pull of a practiced, sultry smile. 

why now, why this,    when cian was supposed to have killed him?    when he had craved death so badly because it would be the only freedom he could be afforded?    his executioner, too caught up in mercy,     now unexpectedly saving him again.     it burns,    it burns and burns and burns,    and zevran doesn’t even have to touch him.

zevran sways,    the balls of his feet light on the ground.     he says:     “    hmm,    well i cannot leave just yet.     i made you a vow, no,     that i would see this through?    whether or not i am my own or yours ...    ”    zevran’s smile has a sharpness to it,    cut with a knife but a dull one;     imperfect, making something practiced crack and shimmer.     this does not deter the usual tease that comes after, however.     “    though you may make me yours anytime.    ”

or please,     make me yours,    his mind begs,    so he does not have to think of how to be.     it is terrifying and indescribable,    to not be owned or claimed,     to not be in servitude,    to not wait for the axe to fall.    and through it all,    he hates that he craves freedom he does not know what to do with.    where would he go, what would he do?    he is raised to kill and only knows how to kill,     to make love,    to look pretty.    those are not the skills of a man who could build a normal life,    and normal he would not even know what to do with.

cian looks as if a boy who could do with normal,    no matter his strength,     his innocent charm,    as if being placed back where he belonged.     that is really the heart of it there,    and it sinks into zevran with a rise of anger,     pushed down harder than it had risen up,    the truth of it:    he does not belong anywhere. 

zevran wants to hate cian for it,    to truly come to the point of what was his initial objective,    to take cian’s neck into his hands and just twist,    and if cian was not this --     this,    he might’ve.    if zevran could be anything more than his word,    he would’ve.     if cian didn’t laugh,    and the gold wheat of his hair didn’t find a way to brush over his eyes as he did,    face touched with dirt but rounded in joy,    zevran would have just seen him as one owner to the next,    loyalty a whisper.