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The evening had grown late, somehow without either of them noticing. Zevran finished his glass of wine and stood, leaning on the table as his knees and back loudly protested.
“We are not so young as we used to be. Alas, I remember the years when we could continue until dawn.”
His partner chuckled, though there were lines deep in his face left from the years’ toll rather than the years’ joys. The latter still fought with the former. “What, for the days when I used my sword on any slaver I could find, and your daggers sank into Crow after Crow?”
“Well, when you put it that way, perhaps not. But there were advantages to our youth and vigor.”
“And costs.” Fenris stood more slowly than Zevran had, enough to keep his own bones from popping. “But no, I don’t miss those years.”
Hand in hand, they walked from the living room to their oversized bed. Neither slept particularly easily at the beginning, and it had been a compromise like so much else in their relationship. Zevran wanted the reassurance of Fenris’ breathing when he woke. Fenris longed for the ability to reach out his hand and find his lover there. They’d both realized that a normal bed would not manage that
and
the space either required, and so, this. It took up half the generous room, with only room enough for a small wardrobe and clothes chest.
Zevran had held onto his daggers longer than Fenris his sword, but they kept each other company now above the fireplace mantle.
“You don’t? Why is that?” He missed those earlier if more dangerous years often. The rush of passion, of adrenaline, of excitement: it was addicting. The feel of hard muscle against his body, the sweet discovery of each way to please the passionate, stand-offish man that had somehow claimed his heart.
“This,” Fenris said as he stripped to his smallclothes and eased himself into bed with a sigh.
Zevran gave him a narrow-eyed look, drawing an additional chuckle.
“Fine. I was used to pain, constant pain, even when we met. It was my life. I’d not trade a second of these aches for that life again, because of all the memories we’ve made since.”
“Ah.”
That was…
That was a remarkably good point. They had both been fugitives when they’d met. He from the Crows, Fenris from the monster who considered the man property. Zevran slept in taverns, whorehouses, caves, and worse places. Fenris had the dusty mansion, perhaps, but it was filled with the ghosts of men who hated him.
Now? Their cottage was
theirs,
and it was away from both Kirkwall and Antiva, while close enough to be able to see friends when they chose. The walls were stout, the furniture well-crafted, the gardens filled with vegetables and herbs thanks to one of the children who’d wanted a plot of their own…
Tryvor was thirty now, and it was his daughter who looked after their garden these days, planting to her heart’s content and for any child in the village to come and nibble if they grew hungry.
“Just come to bed,” Fenris suggested.
Zevran grinned. “That is an even better point, amour. Perhaps these old bones are not so bad afterall.” His hand slipped along Fenris’ side, and the purr his lover made had only grown richer over the years.
They were well-aged, Zevran decided as he leaned in for a kiss, on that was returned with interest. Old was for those who chose to be done living.