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It's with a surprised laugh and an energetic jump upward from his desk (writing paperwork that would no doubt be important to the Wardens somewhere at some point) that Macsen catches a glimpse of peaceful drifting white outside the window. It's snowing in Denerim, outside the castle, where they've been staying before the coronation. Something Zevran has never seen, not in person at least.
It is no small feat that Macsen manages to drag Zevran into the courtyard. It is also, coincidentally, the first time he has seen the mage smile so truly since, well, never really. Certainly he must have smiled after they defeated the Archdemon, but never with this much childlike glee. It was cute in a way. Even when they step outside and it is akin to striding directly into ice.
It is colder than he anticipated, and far wetter. Normally that observation would call for a dirty comment, but nothing comes to mind, and especially so when a sodden drop of slush manages to trickle down his back from the gutter ledge the instant he steps out the door. All Zevran could do is bite back an unceremonious yelp and curse up a storm, leaping forward away from the roof.
Zevran's arms are folded around himself and every so often there is a stifled shiver coming from the elf. As though he doesn't want to give Macsen the barest inclination that he is not enjoying this. The gloves help, surprisingly. But despite that, the Antivan elf is enjoying the way Macsen's face lights up at the snowflakes trickling down. The way he spins in the snow, laughing. Laughing! Zevran had never heard him laugh so sweetly.
There's a halo of silver white cresting his hair, and Macsen's hands are raised to the greying sky to catch the swirling flurries with his palms and tongue. And Zevran feels a sharp tug in his chest at the realization that yes, he is so in love with this mage.
Macsen drapes a scarf around Zevran's shoulders, both ends in his hands. He pulls the elf in for a slow kiss, and it's almost enough to warm Zevran from the top of his head to the freezing tips of his toes. Despite the boots, he is quite freezing. Macsen coils the ends of the scarf in his hands to reel Zevran in closer, and his hands tuck in so easily on the careful rise of Macsen's waist. It also did not hurt that he could easily work his hands into the folds of the mage's robes, where his already freezing fingers, despite the gloves, could find some shelter. His armor's skirt, which normally showed off his tanned and shapely legs, were doing very little in the way of keeping out the cold and damp. The elements were clearly against him here, and Zevran couldn't help but wish for pants this time.
"Tell me, my love, what is the appeal of this snow ? All I have seen so far is it is damnably cold ." Zevran calls, giving him a look over the admittedly toasty warm silken scarf, at the other man. Macsen's eyes, which were always beautiful, sparkle with mirth, and Zevran's already half hidden pinched frown falters at the sight of it, lips pulling up in a smile.
With a laugh, Macsen pulls him in for a kiss, which Zevran graciously accepts. He tastes cold , like what Zevran suspects mountain air would taste like. The Antivan elf eases back with a low chuckle, their breath billowing hot in the space between them. "Doesn't snow much in Antiva, does it?"
"No." Zevran pointedly responds, shifting in closer to Macsen's warmth, huddling in a way he suspects the mage anticipated, bringing him outside like this. "You are lucky in your warm layers, leaving me out in the cold. I would suggest making some warmth but I think I would freeze if I undressed any further."
He brings Zevran in for a warm embrace, and at least they're nice and cozy then. Zevran's arms settle in the familiar shape of Macsen's waist, and his fingers brush back and forth along the curve of Macsen's back. Macsen's fingers play with the fringe at the end of His scarf, and Zevran is distracted by that for a moment. It's almost enough to make him forget the chill biting into his poor defenseless calves.
Though, to be honest, this was not absolutely terrible. Not when Macsen could be folded up against like the best space heater. Zevran could learn to appreciate the snow, when too, he looks at the mage and sees the way his eyes light up so beautifully. With a wrench in his chest, Zevran comes to realize he can hardly take a breath when looking at Macsen, especially when he can see the white halo of snow that sets so perfectly atop his hair, the way the tips of his ears seem to redden in the cold. It would no doubt melt into something heinous and freezing later, to trickle down into the back of his neck — or worse, to dribble onto Zevran himself the next time Macsen leaned in to kiss him.
Which was immediately after that thought, where Macsen gave him a brilliant smile and pressed his mouth to the elf's again, tipping his head down to meet him halfway, and horrors upon horrors, some slush dripped down Zevran's otherwise impervious decolletage.
Zevran was not an undignified man, quite the opposite, he was unflappable , but the cold? Now, that was too much to handle. But the mage was so happy like this, and Zevran felt that same tug in his chest at the thought of ruining that.
So he fights through the cold droplets running down his chest, screaming internally, and gives the mage a smile in return, the tip of his tingling nose brushing against Macsen's own.
Even if, perhaps, Zevran was reconsidering taking the mage's hand and running for shelter every time it snowed if it was going to be freezing like this every time. Antivan Crows do not, as a rule, run from danger, but snow? Surely he could make an exception for that.
But it was worth it to see Macsen smile like that, brighter than the sun. It was enough to warm him up, make it feel like a summer's day. That made him forget about the cold winding its way between his legs, and about the frost making his ears sting. It made everything worth it, in the end.