Zevran Arainai (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
antivanleather) wrote2013-11-14 04:41 pm
antivanleather) wrote2013-11-14 04:41 pm
Sixth jump - you should know, you should know that [Action/Written]
[Action, locked to Isaac]
[This is not how Zevran imagined the first few hours of his freedom would be. The wine and the feasting and the drinking the day before, certainly. But the first morning after he had finished collecting his effects and bidding farewell to the Warden he intended to spend on the road. Leaving Ferelden for warmer climes. He did not intend to wake in a cell.
And yet, here he is, despite the best intentions. He wakes slowly arms flexing against his restraints and he keeps his head for the first few moments. Just manacles. Just a cold, dark cave like many that the Crows preferred to use for their longer imprisonments. But were this the Crows he would be dead, that went without saying. No, no. This is a personal vendetta- which leaves Zevran free to consider who it is he pissed off this time to earn such attentions while he works at attempting to lean just enough so that he might pull a pick from his hair. That he has none is worrying.
That there is no manner in which the manacles might be removed is of a greater concern. But when he finds that they actually constrict when he attempts to twist his thumb enough to pop it out of place and holds him all the tighter- then. Then he panics.
Crows are terrible. Nobles are worse. Mages, those that yet live and wish him dead? Horrify him and he used to be better at fighting down the swell of cold fear and the anxious ratcheting of his heart. Used to be able to laugh through it, to grin and smile and shrug off torment such as sensory deprivation and capture. It is cold. It is dark. He is alone. He is held by a mage he cannot recall at the moment and after all that he witness at the final battle in Denerim that is what makes him shift in earnest, rattle his chains and lash out with a foot to find purchase- he finds that his feet are bare and the wall is solid, little more. Brasca.]
[Action, Open]
[Later, when he is freed and his personal effects returned, when he realizes where he is in earnest and is armored and armed and less out of sorts Zev ducks into the Coffee Shop for a cup of something hot and bitter, leaving a rather short note in the journal for whoever might have missed him, though save a bare handful he cannot imagine it would be many. He does not even know if they yet remain.]
While I am pleased to have found my way back to this delightful village, I think awaking in a random bed might have been the better introduction. At least it was warm.
[After some time spent reacquainting himself with the village's map he, warily, makes his way to House 51.]
[This is not how Zevran imagined the first few hours of his freedom would be. The wine and the feasting and the drinking the day before, certainly. But the first morning after he had finished collecting his effects and bidding farewell to the Warden he intended to spend on the road. Leaving Ferelden for warmer climes. He did not intend to wake in a cell.
And yet, here he is, despite the best intentions. He wakes slowly arms flexing against his restraints and he keeps his head for the first few moments. Just manacles. Just a cold, dark cave like many that the Crows preferred to use for their longer imprisonments. But were this the Crows he would be dead, that went without saying. No, no. This is a personal vendetta- which leaves Zevran free to consider who it is he pissed off this time to earn such attentions while he works at attempting to lean just enough so that he might pull a pick from his hair. That he has none is worrying.
That there is no manner in which the manacles might be removed is of a greater concern. But when he finds that they actually constrict when he attempts to twist his thumb enough to pop it out of place and holds him all the tighter- then. Then he panics.
Crows are terrible. Nobles are worse. Mages, those that yet live and wish him dead? Horrify him and he used to be better at fighting down the swell of cold fear and the anxious ratcheting of his heart. Used to be able to laugh through it, to grin and smile and shrug off torment such as sensory deprivation and capture. It is cold. It is dark. He is alone. He is held by a mage he cannot recall at the moment and after all that he witness at the final battle in Denerim that is what makes him shift in earnest, rattle his chains and lash out with a foot to find purchase- he finds that his feet are bare and the wall is solid, little more. Brasca.]
[Action, Open]
[Later, when he is freed and his personal effects returned, when he realizes where he is in earnest and is armored and armed and less out of sorts Zev ducks into the Coffee Shop for a cup of something hot and bitter, leaving a rather short note in the journal for whoever might have missed him, though save a bare handful he cannot imagine it would be many. He does not even know if they yet remain.]
While I am pleased to have found my way back to this delightful village, I think awaking in a random bed might have been the better introduction. At least it was warm.
Fondest regards,
Zevran
[After some time spent reacquainting himself with the village's map he, warily, makes his way to House 51.]
no subject
So against all of his better judgement, against sense, he follows him. A step for a step, the tensest dance they've ever spun across this floor, the almost-smile ghosting across his expression that means determination rather than any kind of joy.]
You did. Zevran, it's me: Jack, Argento . . . bloody Gazza, come on, you can't give me all these names and not remember even a little of it-
no subject
[But he would if, and only if, he cared enough. He'd toyed with the idea when it came to Rinna. Had been tempted on more than one occasion to offer the trinket- but she was a Crow. Material possessions meant nothing. Freedom and sentiment, that. That had been everything.
That had been their downfall.
So to think of this place, of all his mismatched dreams of blood and pain and frustration, of soft skin and sharp smiles and too kind eyes. Of kind voices murmuring his name- of being held and cared for- to have all that wrapped around the truth of that one little gem set into this man's ear. Jack, Argento, Gazza- these names mean nothing and everything to him.]
Keep your distance.
[Crackling over a voice that does not quite waver even as he steps away- and Jack continues to follow. He needs this distance, needs this space to breathe and sort himself out, needs time that he is not being given- one step too many and his back is to a counter and yet Jack still advances. The man means him no harm but habit has a blade in his hand before he can think. Not attacking, just. Present. Held out in front of him in a defensive position.]
I said stay back.
no subject
. . . god, he hopes something will click.]
You did - both me and Eugene. Put the needle through my ear yourself.
no subject
...Amora? [A beat.] Moca. Nodo. This is. This is my home?
no subject
Yours, mine, Gene's, Max's - yeah. It's home. [He holds out an open hand, half beckoning and half invitation to take it - and perhaps more than anything a show of trust, with Zevran's blade still hovering between them.] Come on, let's find a seat. I'll just- I'll call Gene and we can figure this all out together, how's that?
no subject
He'd forgotten everything- he gave Jack this ring and it meant something, he knows what it would mean and that clicking into place has him shuddering with self loathing, the knife sliding back into a sheath somewhere on his wrist. threatening someone that cared for him, that made a home with him, someone he couldn't even remember properly. Even with the knife gone he's tense, wrecked and so very lost.]
...I do no remember much. It is all very- I'm sorry.
no subject
[Stubbornly, Jack bulls through the chill those words send through him, shaking his head and taking Zevran's hand himself to press a firm press into the familiar soft leather of his glove, looking up at him with that same game, encouraging little smile.]
You're in a bad state is all. It happens.
no subject
[Low and soft, a confession cut from him by the press of that hand.]
Something I came up with in the Fade when sleeping alone was too much to bear. When the days were long and the reek of blood was cloying. This couldn't- I didn't dare think this could be...
[It doesn't feel right, sliding that hand along Jack's cheek. He needs something more, though, more than the inside of his own glove. He tugs his hand back long enough to peel them both off before reaching out again. Tentative.]
May I?
no subject
But right now there's nothing humorous in Zevran's hesitation. There's too much that's frightening in how he's come back, skin knitted over new scars just as his mind has been knitting over his time here, and it's all he can do to keep up that pleasant demeanour despite it all. Shifting a pace closer, he rests a palm against his chest, fingertips hooking against the thick leather of his swordbelts.]
I don't think I can actually say 'yes' emphatically enough.
no subject
But one he leans into enough that their foreheads are resting together. He knows this. Finds himself having missed it despite never remembering it.]
I would hold you like this, yes? While we waited for something. [Something in this room, even. He can't place it and that frustrates him slightly, enough to tilt his head and let his eyes flick over the counters.] The...coffee maker? To brew.
no subject
[The mere hint of a memory comes like a wisp of smoke from kindling, and Jack finds himself nursing it just as carefully, torn between frustration and gratitude when Zevran doesn't kiss him. He's not sure he entirely wants that, not with Zev in that place between knowing him and not, between predilection and infidelity. Lacing his fingers behind Zev's neck, he looks down over the plane of his body, so close to complete familiarity but not quite.]
Sometimes I'd be half falling asleep on you if you didn't move a little. Especially early in the morning.
no subject
[Bits and pieces and it's muzzy, so very muzzy but this. This doesn't come as neatly, as cleanly as Katniss or as Isaac. Perhaps because those are the sorts of sentiment he could abide. Family he had grown to appreciate during the last months of the war. A life he has rent and been rent by? Something he has lived. This, though. This sweetness. This kindness. This stability and affection, that is not for a Crow to have.]
Sometimes I would- [He shifts his hands from Jack's shoulders to his waist, pulling him those last few inches closer, holding him tight as he shifts from one foot to the other. Rocking.] To help you along. You would snuffle into my shoulder and grumble.
no subject
Yeah, well. We can't all be morning people, now can we. Or . . . whatever kind of person you are, now that I think of it. The time never seemed to matter to you that much when we had to get moving.
no subject
[Zev murmurs into Jack's hair and this- this pulls up so much sense memory, so many lazy mornings and easy afternoons that the rest starts falling into place.]
...I found you and Eugene in a tree- no. I was in a tree when I found you.
no subject
[Jack is a little shameless in how he stretches into the gesture of affection, feeling himself relax as Zevran becomes a little more the man that left them with every brush, every muscle of his own that unlocks from wary tension. His voice is soft with the encouragement, smile hopeful.]
What else are you remembering?
no subject
[That memory makes him sigh, arms tightening around Jack's waist at the echos of sighs, of lips and skin and feathers under his hands. he doesn't quite reach up enough to brush against them now, but he is very tempted.]
Waking with you both the morning after.
no subject
Going back to the flats and Eugene making omelettes in the community kitchen-! God, I was ravenous.
no subject
[He huffs a soft laugh and pulls back, peering down at Jack.]
...what day is it?
no subject
[His smile turns quizzical as he traces the collar of Zev's armor, feeling the difference from the last set they saw him in. It feels weird - cool, but weird, a texture his fingers can't place.]
Why do you ask?
no subject
[A year and some time since he'd found the boys while hunting for vengeance. Hunted for something cold and bloody and hollow and found the heart of him.]
no subject
It certainly is. And ten whole days late for your birthday, you layabout.
no subject
[The hair is long, not so soft but twice as fair as it might have been when he was there last. Long marches in the sunlight bleached it through over time.]
I am sorry to have missed it.
no subject
[A small part of him keeps waiting for the next unexpected turn, the next hole in Zev's memory or denial. He desperately wants it to be this easy, a matter of a brief reminder and then blissful reunion. But when have things been that easy here for any of them, let alone Zev?
He may linger, then, even as he smiles and banners as if everything is well in the world. Be a little readier to keep his hands and his eyes on Zev. As if he will slip away in a careless moment.]
no subject
[He curls his arms all the tighter around Jack, trying to piece the rest of his life together. Little things are missing. Larger arguments. Discussions. But he knows this, and he knows that he loves. So very keenly, does he love.]
Now I am here with you once more. What more could I ask for, than to have you in my arms again? For you to be real and here and happy with me?