Where alcohol was concerned, Zevran's absolute limit was two drinks. There were more than enough stories of Crows, both established and up-and-coming, who overindulged and didn't live to see the hangover. Sometimes the culprit was the drink itself, consumed in lethal quantities; other times, it was someone lying in wait and hungry for bloodshed, who seized on the weakness that significant imbibing inflicted and exercised their will unimpeded.

And it was with this deep, reflexive awareness of the dangers– and, it had to be said, a rather keen interest in continued living, that Zevran turned down Alistair's offer of a third brandy when his turn to buy had come around.

It had been undeniably tempting to take Alistair up on it, though. The odds of finding aged, triple-distilled Antivan brandy in such a small, useless place as Crestwood was close to zero, and yet the Maker had smiled on Zevran and put a bottle there anyway. In fact, he was of half a mind to buy the rest of the bottle outright, take it on the road, but who knew what sort of price the innkeeper would try to sell it for? More than Zevran was willing to part with, certainly.

Leliana, however, clearly more of a mind to partake in the indulgences available outside the Chantry, easily sent Alistair to the bar with requests of a third Nevarran fortified wine. She watched him trot away with a satisfied, mildly licentious smile, and flicked her playing cards between her fingers.

'Marvellous,' she murmured under her breath in Orlesian.

Zevran, whose Orlesian was passable enough, chuckled and spoke back in her own language: "He is not bad, is he?"

It took a moment, but Leliana's gaze eventually became unglued from Alistair's backside and slid onto Zevran. She let out a coo that Zevran doubted she would have made sober.

'Ooh, you wicked man!' she scolded him with a laugh. 'You never told me you knew Orlesian.'

He waggled his eyebrows. "You never asked. And you do not speak very much Orlesian in front of me."

'That will have to change,' she grinned broadly, and reached over the table to give him an ineffectual little shove that she had to take a moment to rebalance herself for once administered. 'So evil.'

"Oh, Leliana." Zevran sighed and touched his cheek in mock offence. "You used to call me a very nice man once upon a time."

She giggled and fanned herself with her cards. 'That was before you started speaking to me like that.'

"... Like what, my dear? Like you are an Orlesian speaker?"

'... Well, that's a– ooh, lovely, my wine's here!' Leliana watched Alistair approaching with a mead in one hand and her beverage of choice in the other, and clapped her hands delightedly. "Thank you, cher. Ma chouette, mon bijou-u-u et bonheur…"

Alistair grinned, red-cheeked and all, passed Leliana her wine, and sat back down. "I dunno what that means yet." He arched a brow at his lover. "She won't tell me, will you Lel?"

There were times when honesty was the best policy, and Zevran wasn't about to deny it. Had this been one of those moments, Zevran would have been compelled to advise Alistair that his ignorance was the key to his current bliss, and that language lessons should be avoided in the interests of its continuation. And, if Zevran's guts were anything to go by, to keep Alistair from vomiting.

At that exact moment, though, Alistair was two meads deep. Nowhere near drunk, certainly, but squiffy enough to forget many of his misgivings about Zevran, and frankly, Zevran wasn't of a mind to give him any new ones. He smiled with his mouth firmly shut, and picked up his cards.

"What a pair you make," he crooned. "Remind me: was it my turn now, Alistair, or yours?"

§

Rhodri came back late. Late enough that Zevran, Leliana, and Alistair had blazed their way through four unorthodox rounds of Diamondback, and another two wines, two meads, and one brandy between them.

Leliana, by the point the panting, dishevelled Tevinter Warden had strode through the door, was now red-faced, inclined to sing and trill compliments at anyone in shouting distance, and was wholly reliant on Alistair's steady frame to remain upright in her seat. The secrecy Diamondback demanded was all but lost as a result, as each of them could see the other's cards, and indeed Alistair had occasionally had to assist Leliana with extracting the card of her choice from her hand and putting it on the table. But Leliana had insisted that a little teamwork now and then never hurt anyone.

Where, precisely, that left Zevran in a game of three participants had been easy to see, but he had refused to entertain the sad little corner in his guts that the brandy hadn't managed to anaesthetise. Especially when the ache was finally lifting.

Rhodri strode over to their table, red-cheeked and dishevelled, just in time to witness Leliana point to her fourth passer-by and owlishly remind them of the Maker's love for them.

"An-n-n-d," she poked a finger into Alistair's chest. "The Maker loves you. And I love you, of course. You are a winner, cher. The–the biggest winner."

Rhodri stood beside Leliana, blinking with such force Zevran was sure he could hear the clap of her eyelids meeting.

"Ah…?" she folded her arms. Leliana's head swivelled around to the source of the noise, and her body followed shortly after; Alistair, whose reflexes were largely undiminished, caught her shoulders before she could spin off the chair completely.

"Hhhhello," Leliana slurred affectionately.

Rhodri's mouth opened, then closed. Then it opened again.

"... Right," she said after a moment. "I think someone needs to be taken to bed."

"I'll take her," Alistair began, only to be stopped as Rhodri held up a hand and gestured at his empty glasses.

"Not with four meads in you, you won't," she said crisply.

"Rhod, I'm fine–"

Leliana let out a long, delighted, 'woo-oo-oo!' as Rhodri bent down and scooped her out of her chair.

"We might put your stair-climbing capabilities to the test with less precious cargo, I think," Rhodri said to him, pointing her nose indicatively at the good Sister lying placidly in her arms.

Leliana slapped a hand over her mouth and giggled into it. "Ooh! Did you hear that? That is lovely. Precious. Me, she meant." She stuck a finger into Rhodri's shoulder and sighed. "I love you."

The Tevinter Warden accepted this inebriated declaration with a calm nod. "Yes, I love you, too. And now you need sleep. Come on, off we go."

Amid gentle, noticeably lethargic protests from Leliana, Rhodri carried her to the front end of the room, and the pair disappeared up the stairs. Alistair, who had watched them leave, sighed and turned just in time to catch Zevran winking at a woman who had been eyeing him periodically through the night. Alistair frowned at Zevran, but said nothing.

Zevran could have said something. Made a joke about Alistair being jealous, either coveting Zevran's diverted attention, or the gaze of the other lady. But after tonight, where they had played cards in utter civility, with not a single cross or even vaguely unfriendly word uttered, Zevran found he had gotten a taste for the friendlier side of Alistair's social offerings, and he chose silence.

Alistair turned his focus to tracing his finger around the rim of his latest mead glass, and when he did eventually speak, he addressed the table.

"I just don't get you, Zevran, you know," he said quietly, and shook his head. "Why are you always flirting with people?"

Zevran chuckled. "Always, you say? Like the way I was endlessly flirting with you and Leliana over cards tonight?"

Alistair's heart didn't look in it as he rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean. It's not like you've never flirted with us. Is there anyone you haven't spoken to like you want to seduce them?" He quickly added as Zevran raised an eyebrow, "I–sorry, I don't want to sound rude. I just… why, you know?"

There was nothing like a lonely noble. Being of a class that was necessarily small in number and possessing riches that kept them far above the vast majority ensured their isolation twofold, and it invariably had an effect of some kind.

Not everyone was lonely, and that was probably for the best. Nobles were, by virtue of their upbringing, only fit to socialise with their own class (Zevran called it nature's little joke when he was feeling unsympathetic), and Maker knew there were few at the top. These were the ones who happily forewent the wide, reliable social circles most Antivans enjoyed in favour of currency and all the–largely solitary– privileges having large amounts of it entailed.

A handful of them, however, were painfully aware of the gilded partitioning around them, and none of the usual solutions plugged the gap. In Zevran's experience, the pain drove them one of two ways: into power-hungry cruelty, or into the habit of making desperate entreaties to the wrong people– and whichever direction they went, they often ended up with him.

"It's lonely at the top," Zevran's mark mumbled into his second wine.

Zevran leaned forward and tucked a loose lock of greying hair behind the man's ear, nodding sympathetically. "I can only imagine," he purred. "To be handsome and clever are difficult enough on their own, but to have wealth and power, too? Oh, that does make it hard for most to relate to you."

"They don't even care about how it feels," the man moaned. "They just tell you, 'Cope!' and then that's it." He looked up at Zevran hopefully. "I think you're the only person who's ever given a damn about me, you know. About how I feel."

Zevran bit his lip and inched his barstool closer. "How could I not?" he crooned gently. "I was helpless from when you looked at me from across the room." He peered up at the man through his lashes. "There is a very passionate man under all this finery, isn't there? A good man."

"Yes," the man whispered. "I knew you'd see it. I'm not a monster. I care. I give so much, and nobody ever notices."

"I am noticing you," Zevran brushed his knuckles over the man's cheek. "I see you right here, right now."

The man took Zevran's hand and pressed one, two kisses into his palm. He cast his eyes over Zevran with the same appraising scan the rich had for the pretty things they desired. That was their life, from beginning to end: consumption. Feeding the beast that the additional wealth made that much hungrier, that much harder to sate, and Zevran couldn't help feeling like a last meal under the current scrutiny.

His mark stood up, still gripping Zevran's hand. He tossed a silver onto the counter, just enough to pay for his own drink, as if unaware that Zevran also had a drink, and that it was custom to at least offer to pay for the other, if not simply paying outright. Without another glance at the bar, he pulled Zevran off his stool and out of the bar, his thumb massaging the saliva of his kiss into Zevran's palm.

Zevran gave a wan laugh and shrugged, and when Alistair's expectant stare didn't dwindle, he opted for a soft truth.

"Why?" He shrugged. "Well, why not? In my experience, people enjoy the attention. They feel admired, important. And it is an easy thing to do, no?"

Alistair harrumphed gently. "For you, maybe."

He smiled. "After all the years I've spent charming others, I would certainly hope so. But you know, I think that with a little practice and some pointers, anyone can do it."

"... Anyone?" The Templar glanced up at Zevran hopefully.

"Oh, yes," Zevran waved a hand airily, not of a mind to let Alistair have what he wanted without making him work for it first. "Anyone at all."

"What about me? Do you think I could be charming? … To Leliana?"

Zevran feigned astonishment. "My good friend Alistair! I cannot believe my ears. You are humble, you are kind, delightfully unassuming… and very handsome, to boot!" He winked, paying only the briefest mind to Alistair's enormous eyes as he did.

"I–" Alistair held up his hands as though one more compliment, if allowed to pass Zevran's lips, would kill him dead. "No, I– oh, no… I… no, look." He hung his head and sighed. "You know what I'm like. And Leliana, she's just so…"

"Poetic?" Zevran offered, when the Templar failed to follow-up with anything more. "Silver-tongued? … Orlesian–?"

"Perfect," Alistair finally said. "She's perfect, and I'm just so… tongue-tied. I thought I'd try to follow her lead and say her flirts back to me, but I don't speak any Orlesian, and it'd just be weird." He ran his fingers through his hair and let out a frazzled sigh. "I wanna sweep her off her feet, you know? Not literally, like Rhod just did– well, like that, too, I suppose… argh…"

"Dear Alistair!" Zevran cut over the man's angsty musings and tapped the table with his index finger. "It is simple, I promise you. Do not look at me like that, my friend, it is true." He held Alistair's gaze and showed him his palms. "Charm is two things: showing interest, and putting a little power in their hands– not all, but enough."

A somewhat-mollified Alistair raised an eyebrow. "Well, she knows I'm interested, so I must be halfway there…"

He smiled. "Exactly! I barely have anything to teach you, no? But interest goes two ways. You must show her you are interested, and show an interest in gauging her interest."

"... So I have to ask her if she's interested?"

"Always."

Alistair gaped. "But I know she's interested!"

Zevran waved a hand. "Never take interest for granted. It is the murderer of charm. You must always be checking, checking. Do you know what has worked the best for me, when it comes to charming someone?"

"... I don't suppose it was giving them cheese?"

That might have been funny, had Zevran not had a sinking feeling Alistair considered the giving of cheese a perfectly legitimate way to woo someone. He smiled and pushed firmly on.

"Not quite, no. I ask them, 'My goodness, do you come here often?'"

"... That's it?"

He shrugged and nodded. "I have more lines than just that, but it is very effective. It tells them the impact they have on me and suggests I am willing to come back if only for their company, but it gives them room to decide the way forward. Simple but elegant." Zevran smiled now, "And Leliana, well. She is Orlesian, no? They love to be seen and admired, and there is nothing quite so flattering as a handsome, earnest man taking an interest in where their gaze is wandering, hmm?"

Alistair chewed his lip pensively. "Show an interest in her interest all the time. It's really that simple?"

"It has worked for me well enough."

"Mmm… wow." Alistair glanced at Zevran, and then looked away again. "Thanks, Zevran. That was… really nice of you."

Zevran chuckled. "I aim to please."

The Templar nodded and gulped– and, to Zevran's significant alarm, appeared to be blinking back tears. "I… yeah. I know you do."

"... I'm sorry?"

"You're always really nice." Alistair hung his head. "Even though I've been such an arse to you, you've been nothing but kind back, and… I'm sorry, Zevran."

Zevran's mouth fell open before he could stop it. Really, it was a miracle he had contained his astonishment thusly and not simply fallen over dead. It had already been the plan to eventually retire to bed and stay awake all night contemplating the man's spate of liquor-induced civility, but this? At this point, Alistair was clearly too drunk, and Zevran was nowhere near drunk enough.

"Oh," he waved away the remark, rather more urgently than airily. "No need at all for that–"

"No, there is a need," Alistair insisted, and Maker help him, the man was sniffling now. "I was always so suspicious of you–"

"Quite rightly, really–"

"Not for this long. I… I was afraid, truth be told. You heard about Duncan, didn't you?"

"The Grey Warden who mentored you, yes?" Zevran nodded. "I heard you speak about him from time to time."

That was something of a charitable exaggeration; there had been very little coherent subject matter divulged about Duncan while Zevran was in earshot. In fact, most of Zevran's background of the man had been pieced together during Alistair's episodes of grief, snippets coughed out when the intensity of Alistair's sobbing had not precluded him from speaking altogether.

Alistair wiped under his eyes and nodded. "Y-yeah. Nobody really gave a damn about me 'til him, you know? And then at Ostagar, he– oh, Maker, I'm not good at this–" he rubbed his brow and cleared his throat.

Zevran– carefully– touched the Templar's arm. "I… did hear about what happened to him, yes. It's… very sad."

"Yeah. And–oh, keep it together, Alistair–" he sighed and rubbed his eyes again. "Honestly, I felt like I should've died instead of Duncan. It would've been better for everyone that way, but Duncan was down on the battlefield, and I was up in the Tower with Rhod.

"And–" he bit his lip to stifle a sob. "And Rhodri– well, you know what she's like. Puts herself between you and danger without a thought, and she did that in the Tower even though she'd only known me for a week. Just us and two hundred Darkspawn… Maker, she must've taken twelve arrows to the chest before she stopped casting, and even then, she was telling me to stick behind her."

"Ah…" Zevran gulped and hoped he never saw another arrow again.

Alistair glanced at Zevran through red eyes and chuckled weakly. "Don't tell her I told you. She'd kill me, I think. My point is that I felt like Rhod was all I had after that. Duncan was the first person to care, but Rhod treated me like family from the start. I'd just dumped all my misery and duties onto her, and she just… carried it without a thought. And then you came along," he pointed at Zevran now, "and then she decided to give you a chance, treated you just like she treated me, and I was ready to bet money that you'd try and off her the first chance you got."

Zevran grinned and folded his arms. "Well," was all he said.

"Yeah, yeah…" Alistair huffed a laugh and shook his head. "I know. Leli's been at me to give you a chance all this time, too. Said I was mad to be suspicious of you for this long."

He shrugged with all the graciousness he could manage. "Oh, I don't know. I think if you are not familiar with how assassins work, any approach could be reasonable, no? Ingratiating oneself over many months, only to strike the unexpected deathblow over breakfast."

Zevran held up his hands before suspicion could erase Alistair's remorseful look and added, "But assassins do not have months to complete a contract. We are tools, no? Tools with a tight schedule, might I add. Beyond travel; I would have had… mmm…" he wobbled his head thoughtfully, "perhaps a day to carry out the deed, and then go home to report back and bid for my next contract."

Alistair ran a hand through his hair. "Not long, then."

"Not long at all. Certainly not all this time I have spent with you all."

"Mmm. Well… I dunno… for what it's worth, I'm glad you joined us. You're a funny feller, and you make Rhod light up and all." He shrugged awkwardly. "And… well. Maybe I've royally stuffed it, but if you ever do forgive me for being such an arse, I'd… love for us to start fresh. Clean slate, you know?"

Was Zevran falling off his chair? Or was it just a bout of dizziness that was simulating his plummet through thin air, and he was still as firmly seated as ever? Something, in any case, was going on. Perhaps that third glass of brandy had been poisoned and now he was passing away. What would they put on his tombstone, if there was one? Here lies Zevran, who died of shock and mild inebriation?

With a gargantuan effort, Zevran slung his elbows onto the table in the hopes of at least physically convincing himself that he was stationary, even if his mind refused to accept it.

"Oh," he croaked. "Oh-ho-ho. No need for any such– that is to say, a clean slate is quite fine, yes–!"

At that moment, Alistair reached over and pulled Zevran, chair and all, around the table to the empty space beside him, and from there into his arms. The man was sobbing into Zevran's shoulder, his huge hands clumsily patting Zevran on the back, and Zevran couldn't have gone any number if he tried. His own extremities had ceased to exist in his mind, though he was sure he had entered the evening with four of them. To think that there had once been a point in his life where he was constantly wary of Rhodri's disarming bluntness, when he could have been spending it living in fear of targeted emotional outbursts from Alistair. At least he knew now where the true enemy was. Too late to do anything about it, of course, but even so.

Praying that his hands were merely num and hadn't actually fallen off, he compelled the approximate region of his left arm to move and administer awkward pats to Alistair's back, and could have sung for joy (he compromised by humming under his breath) as Rhodri re-appeared. Either Zevran's shock (and possibly discomfort) was on display and she had noticed, or the uncharacteristic affection had alarmed her. Whichever it was, she was watching Zevran closely and made an enquiring gesture. Zevran smiled and answered with the layman's sign for 'drinking,' and Rhodri quickly strode over and touched Alistair's shoulder.

"Alistair?" she tapped him again. "Let go, amicus. Zevran is a little uncomfortable."

Alistair shifted back immediately; Zevran could have died of the shame. Not least because the Templar's face was now shining with tears and snot. Oh, agony.

"Oh," he said thickly. "'M sorry, Zevran–"

"Did you ask to hold him, first?" she enquired gently.

"N-no, I– sorry, Zev, I–"

"Not at all," Zevran said hurriedly. "I was merely a little surprised. No worrying, no?"

Rhodri peered down at the fellow and raised an eyebrow. "You're usually good at asking," she said. "I'm sure the drinks have something to do with it, hmm? I think it might be time for bed, don't you?"

Alistair sighed and nodded. "Yeah…"

And then made no effort to get up. He glanced up at Rhodri and looked away again.

The Tevinter Warden bent down to eye level with Alistair and watched him with a raised brow. "You would like me to carry you to your bed?" she asked archly.

A coy, victorious little smile came to him. "... Yeah," he said with a snuffly laugh that quickly progressed to an outright cackle as Rhodri scooped him up off his seat. He sighed and waxed lyrical and kicked his feet like a child on a swing until one of his boots came off and landed a good few metres away from the staircase."

"Oh, Rhodri," Alistair trilled, not quite with the remorse he ought to have had. "My SHOE! It's off!"

Rhodri went over to dislocated footwear and stood beside it, watching Alistair pointedly. "I see," she said. "And with what arms will I pick up your shoe, my brother? Do I look like an octopus to you?"

Zevran, who had since managed to rediscover any and all missing body parts, shot out of his chair and picked up the boot.

"You do look a little bit like an octopus, you know," Alistair said with a shrug of a hand that could, if properly utilised, have reached down and picked up said boot. "You know, 'cause octopuses have that little angry face all the time."

Rhodri's frown deepened; Zevran, unable to stop his own awkwardness, dropped the boot and picked it up again, and when he had run out of distracting things to do, he had no option but to rejoin the hideously embarrassing moment. Worst of all, he was hardly in a position to disagree; all fairness to Alistair, he had made a tremendous point. The frown was almost identical!

After a moment, Rhodri nodded emphatically, and Zevran resumed breathing.

"That's a very good point, Alistair," she said. "I never considered it, but you're absolutely right." She chuckled and bounced him in her arms. "I wasn't named Severin because I smile all the time, sic? Now, enough distractions. To bed– ah, and thank you, Zev. Shall I take the boot?"

"No, no," he shook his head. "I shall retire to bed, too, I think. I can take the shoe the last little way."

And so it was that the three of them– plus Alistair's left boot– made their way up to the bedrooms. Zevran placed Alistair's absent footwear inside the room and, with a wave goodnight, made for his own bed next door. The walls in this establishment were not of the calibre of their accommodations in South Reach; Zevran could hear an awful lot of any current event his neighbours got up to, and for now, that meant that the next minutes involved the only sober Warden convincing the two drunks she'd just put to bed to imbibe a little more water before nodding off.

"Ah, come, Leliana, three more mouthfuls for me," Rhodri coaxed from next door. "No headache for you tomorrow. That's it, yes. Two… and one more for luck… bonus. Ah, perbonus! All right. Sleep well— yes? You want to tell me a secret? What's the secret…? Ah. Yes, I love you, too. That isn't really a secret, is it? No, it isn't. But I love to hear it all the same. Now, you will come and get me if you need anything, sic? Bene. Good night, then, you two."

Zevran heard the door close, and footsteps echoed past his room and further down the hall to the room on the other side of him. In went Rhodri to her own room, and that was that. Zevran sighed and changed into his sleeping pants, knocking back two glasses of water before sliding into bed.

The inside of his head bigger than the inside of the bedroom, Zevran lay still in his bed, scarcely knowing what to do with himself and the evening in general. There was too much to think of, and no words to give the thoughts life. Always the way, wasn't it?

Next door, Alistair started speaking.

"Hey, Leli," he mumbled.

"Yes, love?"

"D'... d'you come here often?"

Leliana let out a surprised, 'Oh!' "... I've no idea," she said after a moment. "I… ummmm… I don' think so. Where are we? I don'–cher, do you hear that coughing? I think iss Zevran."

"You okay, Zev?" Alistair called out. He smacked the wall haphazardly.

Zevran forced a breath between sobs of laughter and wiped the tears out of his eyes. "Fine!" he gasped back. "Com-pletely fine!"

§

The next day started slower and with a frustratingly persistent headache– a reasonable punishment, Zevran supposed, for the supplemental doses of medicinal brandy he'd taken on top of the first one.

After spending an entire silver on a cup of coffee that tasted like floor sweepings, he passed the day by the fire with a miserable-looking Alistair and Leliana. The three of them said little, taking turns to fetch water and sweet bread rusks from the kitchen until the dinner bell rang. Zevran uttered a (quiet) word of thanks to the Maker that his headache had dwindled to near nothingness by that point, otherwise the clanging of pots and pans for the dinner preparations would have been nightmarish.

His appetite kicked in again as he walked past the kitchens on the way to their table; someone was frying potatoes and onions, and though he was certain their sole seasoning was salt, his mouth watered all the same.

Rhodri arrived just as the food was being served, red and sweaty as usual. She rushed through her food with barely a word, and was out again before there could be talk of desserts. Her own dessert, Zevran (and everyone else, presumably) supposed, lay in the boudoir of whomever she would be visiting now.

The others had given up asking about it all, and indeed, appeared to even have stopped wondering, and Zevran wished he could stop, too.