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He’s allowed a few more hours of radio silence before a Crow is sent to play fetch. It doesn’t take long—Zevran left a trail of tobacco and self-loathing to follow.
Empty liquor bottles dot his bare apartment and two passed-out strangers lie in his bed. Foreign music plays in the background. A couch has been overturned, mysterious glass is scattered across the floor. Taliesen isn’t concerned. However, he is, as Zevran expects, terribly disappointed.
He finds Zevran soaking in the bath, deathly-still. He’s at least patched up his shoulder, but his broken nose has begun to bloom, marring his pretty face. Their handler won’t like that. Cinders from the unattended cigarette in his hand fall gently off the side and onto the tiles. He holds a picture in his other hand, crumbled in his fist.
His friend and lover tsks, leaning against the open doorframe.
The outside air seeps in, cold and unfriendly. Too much like a wake up call.
“Look at you. Sulking.”
Zevran doesn’t so much as blink. The bathroom had been so full of steam, he half-hoped he’d drown by breathing.
“It’s not your fault, you know. You attract flighty ones. But don’t worry; she’ll be dead and buried soon enough.”
Zevran cracks a smile.
They didn’t bury Rinna. There were gasoline fumes and a mock trial, but nothing remotely resembling a burial. As for Mahariel, it’ll be the same, if not worse.
She was his progeny, his student, his favorite. His.
He saw the signs and stayed silent. Her betrayal is nothing compared to his.
Taliesen knows this.
That’s why when he comes and sits on the edge of the tub, Zevran closes his eyes, lets down his guard. Tender fingers caress his jaw. Pins and needles skitter along his forehead and back. A strange kind of panic takes root. He doesn’t know how to soothe it, so he plunges the picture into the water.
“We’re blood brothers, you and I,” Taliesen says. Zevran breathes in those words, deep.
A hand he trusts cups his cheek, a mouth he’ll always listen to kisses his.
“I’ll help you see this through, like always.”