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“I didn’t know you could sing.”
Zevran was shaken out of his thoughts by his Warden waking,a big hand on his thigh. He often joked with Maiti about his size, calling him the world’s most muscular elf. It was probably true. Mahariel was huge, pounds of muscle packed into an elven frame, all sinew and brawn. During the Blight Maiti would, after a fight, strip his armor off and to get air and in doing so give Zevran a front seat view of that heaving, deliciously sweaty chest.
“Are you talking about my little lullaby from last night?” he said, smiling and hoping it reached his eyes. “I wouldn’t really call that singing.”
“It was lovely,” said Maiti, hand moving to caress Zevran’s thigh further. He was calm now, but Zevran knew the Calling whispered at him, plaguing the back of his mind, slipping into his thoughts.
“Count yourself lucky then,” said Zevran. “It’s the only time I’ve sung in a long time. You’re special.”
When Maiti Mahariel grinned the skin around his eyes creased. Zevran lived for that. “You’re only telling me I’m special just now?” he said, a whine creeping into his tone.
“You know you are, Hero of Ferelden,” he said, moving from Maiti’s side to hovering over him, a leg on either side of the Warden’s torso.
Mahariel’s face fell. “I’m not proud of myself for that,” he said. “That’s not…I don’t deserve any special treatments. I made mistakes. All I want is to be special to you, to the one person that matters.”
Maiti reached up and traced the tattoos on Zevran’s face. Zevran let him. His Warden was a sentimental fool, and the Crow he had been many years ago would have laughed at Mahariel’s words and the tone with which he said them.
“You are, mi amor,” he said, leaning down to kiss his Warden, threading his fingers through thick red hair, their noses bumping like teenagers new at the whole business. “We will make it through this. We always do.”