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He’s been staring for too long. Alistair knows that it’s weird, but it’s really hard to stop. Nerian seems deeply entranced in his work as his slender fingers move across the fabric with his needle as if locked in a delicate kind of dance. That’s how far he has come, Alistair thinks as his heart hammers in his chest from all the unbidden thoughts and images in his brain; he has started waxing poetically about another man’s fingers.
He can almost hear Zevran’s chuckle, see the wiggle of his eyebrows if he knew what Alistair was thinking about now as his eyes stay fixed on those deftly moving hands while they embroider a dark blue tunic with delicate, yellow yarn.
The camp is surprisingly quiet this evening. The only sounds are the panting of the mabari somewhere over by Sten’s tent, the crackling of fire at the camp’s center and the usual background noise of cicadas in the bushes. It should feel more peaceful than it actually does.
These days, Alistair just waits for an attack to happen at any point in time. There’s hardly any rest happening, his mind always racing with the growing burden and responsibility to save not only an entire nation, but truly the entire world. What a ridiculous fate to put on the shoulders of two twenty-year-olds who have no idea what they’re doing.
Alistair sighs and rubs at his face before his eyes wander back to Nerian’s hands. For quite some time he was doing his best to deny the feelings and the attraction, but there truly is no way for him to explain away the sexual dreams or the one time he stumbled in on Nerian bathing in a nearby creek and watching the way the water droplets ran down his naked back, wishing those were his fingers.
He never thought that about another man in his entire life and barely thought it about a woman either.
Maker, he is a mess.
Alistair is so entranced in the needlework and his inappropriate thoughts about Nerian’s fingers, he doesn’t realize that Nerian has looked up and is staring right back at him.
Alistair immediately feels his cheeks redden and his throat go dry. He desperately tries to think about what he could either excuse himself with or occupy himself with to seem busy with something else than being a creep. But then Nerian gives him one of those very rare and very small smiles and Alistair feels like the entire air has been sucked out of his lungs.
“Do you want to try?” Nerian asks, as if that’s why Alistair has been staring, but it seems like a convenient out so he foolishly tries to take it. Wynne has admonished him for not being able to mend his own socks, but this looks far more intricate than just fixing a hole in his garments.
“Oh. Uh. Perhaps? I don’t think I’d be much good at it,” he says, feeling terribly embarrassed.
As he scoots closer to where Nerian is sitting, Alistair realizes with a start that his nervousness about being attacked or otherwise in danger has somewhat subsided in the face of whatever social danger he’s finding himself in right now. It’s almost a relief, even though he wishes for a nice little darkspawn attack just so he can find a distraction from those terribly alluring fingers. None of this back and forth makes sense. He needs to get a grip.
Their legs press together when Alistair sits down next to Nerian. He smells of sage and campfire smoke and Alistair has never once in his life wanted to kiss someone so badly.
“So… what are you working on?”
Nerian spreads the dark blue fabric out over his thighs and smoothes it over with both hands, so Alistair can see what he’s been working on.
“I felt inspired,” he says, that tiny smile still on his face. Alistair feels as though his entire body is filled to the brim with lightning as he stares down at the beautifully intricate rose pattern Nerian has started to embroider on the tunic. “I really like your rose tattoo.”
Alistair stares at him. Then he stares at his softly curving lips and, as if the Archdemon itself possesses him in the moment, he reaches for one of Nerian’s hands and pulls it up towards his face, pressing his lips against his knuckles. The touch of skin to lips is overwhelming and makes his blood rush through his veins just like a darkspawn attack would.
Nerian’s fingers squeeze his hand, probably in surprise, and Alistair pulls his face back and his hand away. Everything inside of him feels on fire. His lips are tingling, his heart is beating so fast that it almost hurts and there are those dark brown eyes, looking back at him with an expression Alistair finds very hard to read.
Oh, how he wishes to do it again. How he wishes he could lean forward and kiss Nerian on the mouth too, to taste him, to—
Those slender fingers he just held in his hand reach out to touch the side of his face. Alistair sucks in a breath. His ribs feel ready to burst under the pressure of his beating heart. And then, as if it has always been inevitable, Nerian leans forward, tilts his head to the side and presses his lips against Alistair’s.
Time slows down as his heart speeds up impossibly faster. Nerian’s lips are warm and soft and the fingertips on his cheek leave a slight tingling sensation as they move lower to cup Alistair’s jaw. The world could evaporate around him in this moment and Alistair doubts he would notice it at all. With Nerian’s smell in his nose and his warm body so close to his, everything seems suddenly at the same time very far away and very possible to achieve.
Without really knowing what he’s doing, Alistair wraps his arms around Nerian’s much smaller body to pull him close. A small sound escapes Nerian and shoots straight down between Alistair’s legs. Another pair of fingers slides into Alistair’s short hair, pressing against his scalp. It feels so soothing and lovely and Maker, Alistair didn’t realize until now how much he craves the touch of another person.
When he pulls away to take a breath, to see if the world has actually bled away or if it still exists around them, Nerian’s eyes are half closed and his mouth is slightly open. He looks so beautiful in this moment. After all the years of listening to fellow recruits boast about their beloveds as if they were the most beautiful people on Thedas, Alistair always wondered how love and infatuation can warp someone’s perception so much.
But here he is, sitting in front of someone who is, objectively, a deeply ordinary looking man. Brown skin, brown eyes, brown hair, a little gap between his front teeth, some freckles on his nose and cheekbones. But, had Alistair passed him in the streets a year ago, he would have been unmoved and unimpressed.
He remembers Zevran calling Nerian handsome, and obviously Alistair knows that beauty is subjective. But considering how much Zevran must have gotten around, Nerian cannot be the height of beauty he encountered over his travels. Which leads Alistair to believe that Zevran must look at Nerian with eyes not dissimilar to Alistair’s.
“I—um,” he stammers, voice hoarse and raspy. Maybe he should have considered what he wanted to say before he started making a fool of himself.
Nerian draws back a little.
“Was that alright?” he whispers, looking almost bashful in the campfire light. As Nerian slowly pulls back from Alistair, Alistair immediately mourns the loss of his close proximity. He really is terribly smitten, unsure of what to do with himself and the depth of his feelings.
“Yes,” he replies hastily and swallows. “More than alright. I would—I would love to do it again.”
Another tiny smile tugs at Nerian’s lips. His eyes wander away from Alistair’s face for a moment and get stuck somewhere, which causes Alistair to follow his gaze. Next to Leliana’s tent, Zevran is idly polishing one of his daggers, but he is unmistakably looking right at them.
Alistair’s heart lurches. He didn't see Zevran there before.
“Would you like to retire to my tent?” Nerian asks, eyes still fixed on Zevran. Alistair has a brief moment of panic about Nerian only doing this with Alistair to make Zevran jealous, but there is sadness in his eyes and the brush of his fingers against Alistair’s has felt deeply tender. Neither of them knew Zevran was there when they started this.
He probably shouldn’t overthink this. Yes, he felt a surge of bravery two weeks ago, when Zevran gave him his tattoo, when Alistair vowed to himself that he would woo both of them and see where it goes. So far, he hasn’t done any wooing. Well, now he has, more by accident than on purpose. But his complicated feelings for Zevran haven’t changed either.
Laughing about some of his silly, daring stories, sharing jerky with him by the fire, standing back to back with him in combat. It all means something to Alistair. He just has trouble figuring out whether it means something to Zevran, too.
“Y—yes. I—um. I don’t really know…”
He trails off, cheeks blazing hot and ears as red as beetroot.
Nerian touches his hair again and Alistair closes his eyes, allowing himself to bask in the tenderness.
“That’s alright. Me neither. We can just… kiss. I would like that.”
Alistair exhales and nods, probably a little too hastily.
“Good. Yes. Please.”
Nerian carefully puts his embroidery project into a small basket he keeps his crafting supplies in and stands up without letting go of Alistair’s hand. They walk over to Nerian’s tent and Alistair tries his best not to look at Zevran, but both of them linger in the entrance of the tent for a little bit too long and Alistair realizes that he’s not the only one thinking about kissing Zevran, too.