[Zevran barely kisses her back. Beneath his own thoughts he realizes this may distress her, but he simply cannot bring himself to do more.] Soon, mi vida.
[He unlocks the door and quietly sees her out. Once she is gone, he turns heel back into his room, locking the door behind him.
Zevran sits on the corner of his bed, as if trying to disappear into that far corner of his room, knees to face.
It has not happened like this for a very long time, that memories wash over him like icy rip tide and pull him down. He would almost be grateful for the immediacy of memories of Rinna, for a pain so direct. This is worse, this black, oppressive feeling. It is an oily miasma, filth that cannot be washed clean. Does Elissa see it, smell it on him? She'd know the stink of the leather well enough, but what of brothels?
Why now?
She barely touched him. She would never hurt him. Why does it feel like her honesty and gentleness ripped open an old wound?
I would never ask for more than you are willing to give.
For a moment, he nearly called her a liar.
Everyone takes more than I am willing to give. That is why I offer it all up front, so it can never be taken from me without my choice.
(He says that, but how many times was he removed from choice, not just as a child but in the Crows? Zevran tries not to think on it.)
Besides, she truly didn't want it like that, somehow saw through that perfected act of his. And Zevran is very much lost now. He does not know why this hurts him, threatens him so.
How do people who are not whoresons and Crows love? How do people who are people love?
He stumbles from the bed perhaps 20 minutes later, carefully retrieving his Dalish gloves from the number-locked box in his closet. He kneels there for a long time, admiring the stitching before pressing the doe-soft leather to his face.
With great effort he drags himself to back the bed, feeling small. It seems he's doomed himself to waking nightmares. Such talents, bringing the Fade to him without sleep, and he isn't even a mage.
Zevran lays there, awake, much of the night, pressing the gloves to his face.
He is not the kind to feel self-conscious. His past is beyond his control, so he always moves forward. He is ashamed of his weakness - his reflexes seem so slowed like this, how could he ever fight?
Shame is not something people associate with him, he is so careful. It is not even something he particularly associates with himself.
But it is here, like a sickness, making it impossible to sleep.
So Zevran lays awake with his gloves, and tries to recall the moment Elissa gave them to him, and the way her hair felt in his fingers.]
no subject
[He unlocks the door and quietly sees her out. Once she is gone, he turns heel back into his room, locking the door behind him.
Zevran sits on the corner of his bed, as if trying to disappear into that far corner of his room, knees to face.
It has not happened like this for a very long time, that memories wash over him like icy rip tide and pull him down. He would almost be grateful for the immediacy of memories of Rinna, for a pain so direct. This is worse, this black, oppressive feeling. It is an oily miasma, filth that cannot be washed clean. Does Elissa see it, smell it on him? She'd know the stink of the leather well enough, but what of brothels?
Why now?
She barely touched him. She would never hurt him. Why does it feel like her honesty and gentleness ripped open an old wound?
I would never ask for more than you are willing to give.
For a moment, he nearly called her a liar.
Everyone takes more than I am willing to give. That is why I offer it all up front, so it can never be taken from me without my choice.
(He says that, but how many times was he removed from choice, not just as a child but in the Crows? Zevran tries not to think on it.)
Besides, she truly didn't want it like that, somehow saw through that perfected act of his. And Zevran is very much lost now. He does not know why this hurts him, threatens him so.
How do people who are not whoresons and Crows love? How do people who are people love?
He stumbles from the bed perhaps 20 minutes later, carefully retrieving his Dalish gloves from the number-locked box in his closet. He kneels there for a long time, admiring the stitching before pressing the doe-soft leather to his face.
With great effort he drags himself to back the bed, feeling small. It seems he's doomed himself to waking nightmares. Such talents, bringing the Fade to him without sleep, and he isn't even a mage.
Zevran lays there, awake, much of the night, pressing the gloves to his face.
He is not the kind to feel self-conscious. His past is beyond his control, so he always moves forward. He is ashamed of his weakness - his reflexes seem so slowed like this, how could he ever fight?
Shame is not something people associate with him, he is so careful. It is not even something he particularly associates with himself.
But it is here, like a sickness, making it impossible to sleep.
So Zevran lays awake with his gloves, and tries to recall the moment Elissa gave them to him, and the way her hair felt in his fingers.]