Chapter Text
The first time he propositions Zevran, Alistair is drunk.
Very drunk.
Exceedingly drunk.
Zevran is willing to allow that a month in the Deep Roads would do that to most people. He'll also allow that the proposition itself is more polite than most and involves no attempt to touch him other than the very careful tap on his shoulder that got his attention in the first place. It's also less coherent than most, and involves a great deal more blushing, but on balance, it's not bad. If Alistair were sober, Zevran might even have taken him up on it, though blushing virgins aren't usually his type.
But Alistair is not sober. He is drunk, so drunk he's using the edge of the bar to prop himself up, and if blushing virgins aren't Zevran's usual type, drunk blushing virgins aren't even close. If there's such a thing as a negative type, drunk anyone would fall into that category for Zevran.
Still, as he tucks a very drunk and very confused Alistair into bed (alone), the main thing he feels is amused.
The second time Alistair propositions him, it's the night before the attack on Denerim.
This time around, Alistair is sober, blushes and stammers less, and looks Zevran in the eye almost twice. All definite improvements.
And yet.
And yet, Zevran has the very strong feeling this is less about Alistair wanting to fuck him and more about Alistair not wanting to die a virgin. Which Zevran has no objection to, or rather, he didn't used to. When did he start caring whether the person he was fucking wanted him, or simply wanted a warm body? At least Alistair wants a willing warm body.
And yet.
"The offer is appreciated," Zevran says politely, "but perhaps another time." Then he closes his door and goes back to sharpening his daggers while he waits for dawn.
The third time Alistair propositions him, they're at the feast celebrating their victory over the archdemon.
Zevran has no objection to a celebratory fuck. In fact, he quite enjoys them and intends to have at least one tonight, because defeating an archdemon deserves every form of celebration possible, and the repeated enjoyment of same. It deserves the discovery of new forms of possible celebration, and if Zevran never met his co-celebrants before tonight, so what? This is about celebrating, not about whether they have anything in common or will have anything interesting to say to each other tomorrow.
Given all that, there's no reason for it not to be Alistair. He has just as much reason to celebrate as Zevran, and unlike whatever random person catches Zevran's attention, Alistair will understand everything that victory cost. Beyond that, he's kind, amusing, attractive, and clean (an underrated virtue in Zevran's opinion, given where he's likely to be putting his mouth). There's no reason to tell him no, and many reasons to tell him yes.
Zevran looks at Alistair a while and considers trying to explain to him the appeal of being wanted for something other than convenience and assumed availability. Then he thinks about the amount of blushing such a conversation would generate, and the whole idea is too exhausting for a party.
Since it is a party, he softens his rejection as best he can, but there are only so many ways to decline an invitation to fuck without looking like he's playing hard-to-get. A certain amount of bluntness is required. Watching the happiness and excitement on Alistair's face turn into hurt and embarrassment is painful. Zevran does it, though, and when he finds himself wavering, he thinks of those two previous propositions. If Alistair had ever given any indication he was interested at any time except these moments, Zevran would have already backed him up against a convenient wall. Since he hasn't, Zevran tells him no as gently as possible, then goes to find someone he doesn't care about to fuck.
The fourth time Alistair propositions him....