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The blonde elf saunters into the bar - saunters is the only word for it, really, that slow and rolling walk - and looks it over appraisingly. It is half-full and filthy, as the Hanged Man tends to be at this hour. Rough human men, miners mainly, well into their cups by now, dominate the room. Not much to look at, in any case. But he's not fishing tonight, not for any of these fellows anyway.
He searches. Isabela is not at the bar, or at her usual table. He slides through the taproom and up the stairs to the inn, where Isabela's door is shut and nobody answers it. As are the other rooms, all occupied, just as the barkeep had assured him hours ago.
He frowns, and returns to the tavern.
Fenris observes all of this from his table, where he too has been awaiting Isabela. He is nearly ready to give up on her for the night. Since they had begun sleeping together she had started to do this -- keep him waiting, perhaps to demonstrate that he is not necessarily her top priority. Which is fine. Not showing up at all is more unusual, but not unprecedented.
Fenris does not identify himself to the Antivan elf when he sees him passing by, but before long he has been spotted in return. His white hair and lyrium markings make him easy to espy in a crowd.
"Ah, hello there," Zevran approaches with a friendly smile, tracing the rough-hewn surface of his table with his fingertips. "Fenris, yes? I believe you are a mutual friend of a certain Rivaini pirate? Might you have an idea of where she is at the moment?"
He gives the other elf a measured look.
"No."
Zevran waits for him to elaborate, and when it doesn't happen, he proceeds. "Oh. Well. You see, I had hoped to see her tonight, before I leave the city in the morning."
Fenris merely raises an eyebrow.
Zevran continues, "She is an old friend, you see. And I seem to have been, well, stood up, I'm sorry to say. I had hoped to pass the evening with Messere Hawke, but it seems his paramour, the blonde mage, has objected to my visit."
He snorts at this, playing with his wineglass and eyeing the Antivan closely.
"Which leaves me in rather a quandry, as to where to spend the night. And as I have passed many pleasant evenings with Isabela, I had hoped..."
"To pass the evening in her bed," Fenris finished.
"Yes. I mean, no. Are you her..." Zevran backpedals, applying his most charming smile. "Yes, you look like her type. You are a couple then, yes? I did not mean to offend..."
Fenris lets him trail off into silence for a few moments before letting him off the hook. Then he straightens, and he shrugs. "We are not exclusive."
"Ah, but it is still awkward." Zevran slides into a seat opposite him. "That would explain why she did not drag me home immediately, as I might have expected of her. I was quite disappointed. In truth, what I need most at the moment is simply a bed. I was not able to secure a room for the night here or elsewhere, and I had hoped... but no matter. Let me buy you a drink, to make up for my offense."
"I am not offended," the other elf rumbled in his spiced-rum voice, with a hint of amusement. His lips quirked ever-so-slightly on the right side, barely a smile.
Zevran admires the expression, the way it eases the lines of tension from the the white-haired elf's face, as he signals the barmaid for more ale. "She has good taste, I have to say. Only the most attractive playmates for our Isabela. Myself included, of course," he adds semi-modestly.
"Of course," the other elf responds dryly. Fenris accepts the ale Norah brings, and nods his thanks.
Zevran launches into a story about Isabela, how once in a brothel in Denerim she taught the Hero of Fereldan how to duel, and drank her dwarf companion under the table, and then took the other three of them to bed, all in a single memorable evening. The story leads inevitably to other recollections of his long adventures, both with the Warden Commander and without her, one tale running into another, seemingly without end.
Fenris listens, and observes. He is intriguing, this Zevran. You could almost mistake him for harmless, a sort of vapid lothario, prattle perpetually tumbling from his (admittedly pleasing) lips. He talks endlessly, about everything and nothing. He talks circles around the reticent Tevinter elf and yet it is difficult to make out what he is really thinking. Fenris suspects there is more to him than his babble would suggest. Something sharp and serious in his gaze gives him away.
A Crow Assassin is one of the more dangerous figures a person can encounter; even in Tevinter, Fenris knew this.
Fenris wonders if this elf is flirting with him specifically, or if he simply flirts with everyone as a matter of policy. He makes innuendos so casually it is hard to know what to make of it. Fenris considers such advances dangerous. Flirtation is a considerable weapon, the ultimate distraction. This man has plenty of distracting qualities to put to use. Golden skin, full lips, and lean, corded muscle under tight leather armor.
Such relentless advances would repel him, normally, but it was difficult to maintain any kind of resentment towards this strange assassin. If one were annoyed by him in one moment, he would in the next moment grin and say something amusing in his charming Antivan purr and your irritation would dissolve away into nothing.
Fenris reminds himself to be careful. Isabela trusts this man, but she is a thief and a cheat herself, and her standards leave much to be desired.
Still, despite his best efforts, he is soon enjoying himself, ordering additional drinks for the both of them and forgetting completely all his intentions of leaving.
Zevran, too, is enjoying the company. The Tevinter elf is quite pleasing to look at, and he gives a wonderful smouldering look whenever Zevran has been especially clever. All as he had anticipated, from their brief acquaintance. As the wary Fenris relaxes and engages in the conversation, Zevran is delighted to discover as well his dry wit, and his curiousity. He is piercingly intelligent, this one. Despite having seen little of the world, he seems widely knowledgeable on a number of subjects. He listens carefully and with interest to Zevran's stories, and asks pointed questions that cut through all of his feints and omissions. A warrior, yes, but no brute, and no fool.
He knows that if he plays his cards well, he will find a comfortable bed to sleep in after all. Of course, he has been warned that Fenris is prickly and tempermental, and that he could rip a man's still-beating heart from his chest without breaking a sweat, and thus antagonizing him would be extremely unwise. He will step carefully.
Zevran enjoys a challenge. He knows that it took Isabela six years of fairly persistent persuasion to get him into her bed, and Isabela, he knows from experience, is incredibly persuasive. He has nowhere near as much time to work with, but still, he does not plan to fail.
What they need is a mutual opponent. Fenris is a warrior, his bonds have all been formed in combat. Anything too bloody, though, will spoil the light mood carefully established here. Just a little competition, ideally with despicable opponents. Easy enough to find in this place.
It happens very quickly. One moment, Fenris is enjoying a glass of wine with a charming Antivan elf, and the next, he is embroiled in an argument with a band of obnoxious louts. He recognizes them - they have treated him to stares and mutters nearly every evening he spends in this place, with resentful comments about knife-ears getting above themselves and going back to the alienage where he belongs. The usual sort of thing. Having yet another elf in the Hanged Man seems to have unhinged them completely. Or perhaps it is Zevran's subtle taunting, raising his voice above the din to comment about the manhood of the typical Hanged Man patrons.
Either way, their table is suddenly surrounded by large dirty men, and Zev's jaunty grin only serves to enrage them. Fenris prepares for a fight, but his companion has other ideas.
"Let us settle this like gentlemen," Zevran offers, and suddenly Fenris is embroiled in a game of Targets.
Hanged Man regulars who are not invited to Varric's card games typically spend most of their time either hunched over their drinks or playing at Targets. Played with pocketknives and a target board, it is a simple game with a complex scoring system. Fenris has observed them playing at it many times, but has never joined a game.
He pulls the Antivan aside hastily. "You are aware I do not actually know how to play?"
Zevran places a hand on his spiky shoulder. "It is simple. Take my knife. Aim for the smaller circles for more points; try to hit one on each side. You will do well."
"I thought you did not have any money?" Zevran has wagered a good deal of coin on this game.
"Ah... I don't, actually. I seem to have wagered your money. But don't worry," he adds quickly, to diffuse the murderous look Fenris is giving him, "there is no way that the two of us will lose. I guarantee it."
Zevran is right, of course. The humans have underestimated their opponents, believing all elves effete and weak, despite all the years they have watched Fenris bring his greatsword into the tavern. The two humans who volunteer themselves from the group are barely competent, and often miss, bouncing their razors off the harder wood of the wall, either from drunkenness or pure ineptitude. Fenris and Zevran destroy them. Their razors hit and stick in the target board every time, and can even pinpoint the quadrants the way a proper player should.
The humans lose a soverign each to them, and demand another game. The elves defeat them again, cheerfully this time. Quickly the humans tire of losing to the elves, and slink away muttering.
This was when the real wagering began, with just the two of them.
"First to fifty points," Zevran suggests, and the two of them take turns at the line, and watch each other throw. They are evenly matched. Despite the Tevinter's inexperience, he throws hard and straight, taking a bullseye for five points each throw. Zevran throws more inconsistently, but with more variety, hitting multiple targets for additional multipliers, and their scores keep even pace.
"You throw too strongly," he cautioned his opponent.
"I am used to a much larger weapon," Fenris replied from the line, whipping a razor through the air like an arrow. It hits perfectly. "Strength is a good match for agility, it seems."
Was Fenris flirting with him? He remains stone-faced, impossible to read. But he makes little comments about his opponent's dexterity and flexibility, and it conjures for Zevran some exciting mental images of tangling with the lyrium-lined elf in bed. Perhaps he is mistaken, but he doesn't think so.
Fenris wins, and wins again.
Before very long Zevran has lost all the money he won from the humans, and a bit more besides. "I'm afraid I cannot spare another sovereign, my friend. But perhaps I could wager something else?"
Fenris arches an eyebrow. "I do not believe you have anything I would want."
A sly look flashes across the Antivan elf's face, one which should warn his opponent that he has been had.
"I will wager... a kiss."
Fenris only grunts. "But what will *I* win?"
Zevran chooses not to be insulted, and he laughs; a good-humored, robust laugh that tips his head back and rumbles in his chest and earns from the dour Fenris one of those very faint nearly-invisible smiles.
Zevran is growing rather fond of those.
"Ah, my friend, you are difficult to please. But let me try. What I do have that I think you would be appreciative of, is a bottle of fine Antivan wine. If you win, the bottle is yours."
Fenris looks dubiously at the rogue and his meagre pack, but he nods to accept the bet.
Zevran defeats him easily. Suddenly his every shot is perfect, completely on the mark. He hits all of the targets in sequence, racking up points twice as quickly. A deep focus reveals itself that seems out-of-place in the unserious elf's demeanor. His eyes narrow, and his movements become crisp and measured. Still, the smile never leaves his face.
For his part, though he grows more and more put out to realize how thoroughly he has been tricked, Fenris is also a little fascinated by this other side of Zevran. This capable, skillful side, so thoroughly hidden behind his jovial demeanor.
When it is over, he slumps into his seat, looking cross. "All right, you've won. I will not wager any further, as I plan to keep your money." He had considered giving it back, when he was winning, but now no longer.
Zevran smirks at that. "It's a worthy investment. Well worth a kiss from a handsome stranger."
The Antivan hovers over his defeated companion, a gleam of victory in his eyes. Fenris shifts uncomfortably in his seat, not looking at him.
"Get on with it then," he grumbles.
Zevran leans over and plants a kiss very carefully on the other man's cheek.
Fenris blinks in surprise. His green eyes grow large and flicker up to meet the Antivan's, and then hastily avert away.
Zevran stays close, watching those green eyes, and he smiles gently. "Disappointed?"
He has no response to that, but that is an answer in itself. Fenris does not meet his gaze again, but he does not rise and walk away, either.
Leaning over once more, Zevran leaves him another kiss, on the lips this time. Nothing too fancy or deep, just a brush of lips together, until the white-haired elf parts his lips and a small sigh escapes them when the kiss is ended.
Zevran stands up straight again, an admittedly goofy grin on his face.
Recovering quickly, Fenris levels a glare at him. "That was two kisses."
"So it was! You had better give me one then. To even things out."
The Antivan waggles his eyebrows in an exaggerated and thoroughly silly manner, and Fenris is unable to prevent a laugh from escaping his pursed lips. He is fairly certain that didn't make any sense at all. Still...
In one of his sudden, decisive lurches, Fenris stands and draws the shorter elf to him. He is nearly a head taller than Zevran, and pulling him up by the arms to make him rise onto his toes will only just bring him within range of his mouth without having to bend over uncomfortably. He pulls, and Zevran rises, and their lips meet again, with more familiarity.
Zevran is caught by surprise. Very pleasant surprise. A low laugh reverberates in his chest as Fenris clasps him to his chest. Ah, he will be one of these stoics with deep and hidden wells of passion. The very best kind.
"I must confess," he says relucantly when the kiss breaks, some time later. "I have not been entirely honest with you."
Fenris does not seem especially surprised. "You do not actually have a bottle of Antivan wine?" he guesses, his hands still clenching the sleeves of the shorter elf's jacket.
"Oh no no, my handsome friend, that I do have. I came prepared. You see, I did not come here looking for Isabela. In fact, I spoke with her earlier today, regarding my sleeping arrangements. She mentioned that I may find your manor quite ammenable, if I were able to persuade you to invite me. You come rather highly recommended. And I must say, you have lived up to your reputation impressively."
Happily, Fenris seems no more bothered by this revelation than he had of Zevran's pursuit of Isabela. He brings a hand up to lightly trace the tattoo on Zevran's cheek. "She is... remarkably thoughtful, our Isabela."
Then his expression changes, and suddenly his hand is removed from Zevran's face and he has turned away to gather his belongings.
Zevran hesitates, thrown by the sudden shifts in the other elf's demeanor. He follows Fenris at a slight remove, watching his hunched shoulders, uncertain of where he stands, if he has pushed things too far for this cautious companion.
All at once he is astonished to realize that he is nervous. He holds his breath watching Fenris lift and sheath his enormous sword, and seeing him walk to the door without once looking back makes his guts twist in a truly unpleasant fashion. It is more than the failure, and the loss of a bed, that troubles him; if he has somehow spoiled his chances with the lyrium elf he will be sorry, remarkably so.
Just as he reaches the door, the taller elf speaks over his shoulder. "Come," he says. On further consideration, he adds, "and bring your wine."
Relief! He practically skips to the the door. Anticipation thrums through Zevran as his natural confidence returns, and he is himself again.
They leave the tavern at near-midnight, Fenris leading the way to Hightown, Zevran following along behind him like a fish on a hook, wondering who, exactly, has been seducing who.