#loverd

Simon fully expects Alistair to say something filthy, so when he does it’s easy enough to keep a straight face. He gives the man a cold stare, lips pulling into a tight lipped grimace. “It would be most wise to keep going. The empire isn’t going to rest—” & then Alistair is walking forward, swaying his hips in a display that Simon can only describe as tempting. He clears his throat.

The real killer is when Alistair touches him. Damn the fact that Simon Levy is a touch starved man. Damn the fact that he likes being touched by this privileged, prissy bastard. “Am I cold?” He pauses and gently grabs Alistair’s hand with his prosthetic one. It’s a shame he cannot feel with his prosthetic—no doubt Alistair’s hand is warm. He laces their fingers together. “I don’t mean to be.” He gives Alistair’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“You took care of me even though you didn’t have to. I know you were one of the council members that said I should be retrieved, not abandoned to Niflheim. I owe you my life.” It’s perhaps the warmest Simon has ever been to Alistair, or at the very least the softest he’s ever been. “I want to take care of you now. If you need rest, we can rest, but it will only be long enough for the sun to come back up. You’re capable enough, but I don’t think you’re ready to fight daemons yet.” 

Ferrus moves through the bar like shadow—all harsh edges, all in black save for the red accents on his suit: a tie the color of crimson and cuff links to match. For a man that’s poor Ferrus certainly doesn’t look poor—and that’s thanks to the fact that he makes his own clothes. & he’s positively certain that they’re better than designer.

        ‘   I appreciate the thought.   But you ought to recognize when your help isn’t required and is more likely to put another person at risk,   ‘   he says plainly,   flipping the weapon around to hold the handle towards him.   ‘   By that I mean to watch your aim.  ‘

This is one of very few times that Simon has been open and candid about his fears of abandonment—he trusts Simon and the hand on his knee feels warmer than anything else he’s felt in life. When Alistair’s hand reaches up to cup his face, his eyes burn, and for a moment he’s afraid that he might cry. It’s unlike him, to be this weak, to be this vulnerable, but Alistair makes him feel safe enough to be this way.

That means something, doesn’t it? Simon Levy thinks so.

He covers Alistair’s hand with his own and closes his eyes, leans into the touch. “But I want you forever—” Until the end of time, until their stardust no longer mingles with the universe. “Forever.” He pauses, smiles. “You’ve really done it now, Ali, ‘cause you’re stuck with me.” 

When he realizes his cheeks are wet it’s too late to stop crying. He never allowed himself to imagine a forever with someone. It seemed too far out of his reach—traumatized, trans, disabled—none of that seems to matter to Alistair—or at the very least it doesn’t matter in a negative way. It amazes him, really, that Alistair didn’t look at those things as flawed like so many others did. His parents—the Kingsglaive—none of those people or things made him feel loved. Alistair does though. & Gods help him, it seems so effortless.

It’s been a month of being in the hospital and Simon is feeling restless. Kingsglaive members come and go, but they never stay for long. Simon doesn’t blame them—they have important jobs to do, after all. It wouldn’t be fair to hold that against them, but still. . .he’s incredibly lonely.

The only relief he gets is from the pain meds and, funnily enough, visits from his pompous frenemy. While he wouldn’t call Alistair his enemy he wouldn’t exactly call him a full on friend either—frenemy is a term that works well enough for him. 

What he does not expect, however, is Alistair to offer him any form of physical affection. Perhaps he doesn’t give the privileged man enough credit—for someone that’s probably never left the citadel for more than vacations, he’s actually quite observant.