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His legs are too long.
Lacklon grumbles to himself as he clambers over the fallen log in the middle of the path. Already this job is too much trouble. This is not gonna be the type of job that gets you mentioned in a verse in a bard’s epic song. That’s reserved for the Lords of Fortune who find exceptional treasure, or battle dastardly villains, or defeat hordes of hideous monsters. They write songs about jobs that have the right balance of danger and beauty and—most of all—success.
But this job’s just a right piece of nugshit.
Start with the fact that they’re being led by an elf who clearly doesn’t want to be here. Definitely a good choice, giving the girl who wants out the job of finding a way in. Not to mention, she’s obviously a runaway slave who’s gonna turn tail and book it as soon as it really hits her where they’re going. Excellent first move. Dumbasses.
Then you’ve got the two mages. On the one hand, you’ve got the qunari—super popular in Tevinter, so definitely not gonna be a problem there. Definitely gonna be easy to stay out of sight with a seven foot tall horned woman who specializes in making explosions. Definitely. And on the other hand, you’ve got the nice one.
Nice people always have a hidden agenda.
Not to mention the two Orlesians. Ugh, Orlesians. So concerned about which fork to use at dinner they can’t see that everyone at dinner’s an asshole. Take Fairbanks. Too easy-going to be the guy who’s funding this, so of course he’s not, he’s representing the fucking Inquisition. Because that’s not a mountain’s worth of pressure right there. The best patrons, in Lacklon’s experience, are the anonymous ones who stay home and stay out of his way. How’s he gonna do his thing with the goddamn keeper of the coin who reports to the Herald of fucking Andraste breathing down his neck? Plus—and he can’t emphasize this enough—Fairbanks is the one who put the runaway slave at the front of the line. Nugshit for brains. And as for Roland…
Well. Roland’s legs are too long.
Said warrior takes this moment to turn around, eyebrow arched and an easygoing grin playing across his lips. The sunlight through the leaves of the forest dapples his dark skin in golden light, reminiscent of the shine on his buckler and breastplate. The purple of his doublet complements his emerald-green eyes perfectly, and the crows-feet at the corners of his eyes give hint to that echoing, honey-accented laugh.
“All right back there?”
Lacklon blinks. When did he stop walking?
He grimaces and pushes past Roland, ignoring the heat on his cheeks, muttering, “Everything about this is a mistake.” Roland just grins and hums.
Anyway, his legs are too long.
—
His legs are so long.
Lacklon rolls to the side as Roland’s blade hits the space he’d just occupied. He plants the end of his axe in the ground, using the momentum from his roll and the leverage from his weapon to spring back to his feet. He swings the haft of the axe up just in time to block Roland’s next slice.
It’s not that the Orlesian is faster than him. Lacklon’s pretty damn fast—you have to be, to be a Lord of Fortune. Well, a good one at least. Never know what kind of traps or guards or monsters’ teeth you’re going to have to speed past to get that sweet, sweet loot. And Lacklon’s really good at what he does. Not good enough yet to get in one of the songs yet, but good enough to still be alive. No, it’s not that Roland is faster than him.
It’s that he can cover the distance Lacklon moves in half the time because his legs are so damn long.
Lacklon shoves Roland backward, giving him space to rear back with his axe and come down in a great cleave aimed at Roland’s pauldron. Or rather, where his pauldron had been, except he’s pivoted on those long goddamn legs in a beautiful circle to bring his buckler up, smashing Lacklon’s axe to the side and pointing the tip of his sword at Lacklon’s throat.
Lacklon wastes no time, carrying the momentum from his parried axe around in a circle to knock the sword away, giving him the perfect opening to headbutt Roland in the stomach. Roland dances backwards, grinning before pivoting his weight on those long legs to spring back forward. They lock weapons briefly.
And then Roland fucking winks at him.
Locklon’s eyes narrow as his heart races—from the exertion of the sparring session, sure—and he spits out, “If you’re trying to distract me, it won’t work.”
Ancestors’ tits, that man’s eyes are piercing.
“Besides,” he grunts, pushing the taller man’s sword back, “your girlfriend’s still gotta find a way into the palace.”
For the first time since they met, he sees a look other than of charming joy or beautiful determination cross Roland’s face. It’s hard to name, exactly. Surprise? Befuddlement? Whatever it is, it parts his full lips in a—
Nevermind, it only lasts a second anyway. Long enough for Lacklon to push him completely off his axe. Long enough for Roland to recompose his features, his eyebrow shooting up and those lips twisting into the most cocky grin Lacklon’s ever seen. He says, “I don’t have a girlfriend.”
He strides on those long legs back across the courtyard to get a drink of water, as Lacklon wonders what the look on his own face says.
Probably just oh.
—
His legs are very long.
That’s the immediate thought that Lacklon’s brain spits out. Maybe it’s because he’s tired from fighting so many damn zombies. Maybe it’s the toothy grin on Roland’s face that’s taken his damn breath away. Maybe it’s the headrush from being suddenly bent backward over Roland’s knee in a perfect dip that even the most ardent dance instructor would probably call “a bit much.”
Because that’s where Lacklon is at the moment. Swept off his goddamn feet like the belle of the fucking ball over Roland’s perfect leg and Ancestors burn in their tombs if he doesn’t love it just a little bit.
Whatever the reason, all his poor addled brain can focus on during this frozen moment in time is that, in order for Roland’s beautiful face to be just the right height above his own, for Roland’s strong arms to be wrapped around his body in just the right way to support his weight, for Roland’s knee to be nestled in the small of his back just so, then Roland’s legs must be very long.
His second thought is, This is the kind of thing bards write songs about.
The warrior leans down ever-so-slightly, one hand adjusting its position behind Lacklon’s back. Lacklon’s breath quickens as Roland’s eyebrow arches, matching his mischievous grin. His weathered skin stretches around the look of impish glee, at odds with their dire situation but perfectly suited for his features. It’s beautiful.
He’s beautiful.
“Rolls,” Lacklon says breathlessly as his brain whirls, his axe forgotten at his side, “w-what are you doing?” Never in his whole goddamn life has he ever stuttered like that, but he can’t find it within him to care.
Because he never wants to stop looking at Roland’s face.
Roland's grin stretches wider as he responds in that honey-soaked accent, “Improvising.”
Before Lacklon can parse the meaning of that word, Roland scoops Lacklon around his body, his knee pushing up and his arms twisting in one fluid motion as he stands Lacklon up and rips the bag of grenades off of Lacklon’s hip and throws the whole goddamn bag of grenades at the zombie horde.
Lacklon looks on in horror, yelling “No!” while the bag sails through the air. Roland pulls him in the opposite direction, the whole hallway going up in a multicolored conflagration of light and fire and smoke. The force of it pushes the two of them into the air, and Lacklon lands on his back, Roland on top of him. Protecting him.
It lasts for a heartbeat. It lasts for forever.
All too soon, Roland rolls off of him. And immediately collapses into laughter. Lacklon takes half a moment to just lay on his back, his heart pounding in his ears. This is the weirdest fucking job.
He sits up, watching Roland continue to giggle into his hand. Lacklon grasps at what to do, what to say. Thank you for saving me. Or, I love the way you laugh. Or, your legs are very long.
What comes out of his mouth is, “You had to use the whole damn bag?”
Eh. This is why other people write the songs.
—
His legs are nicely long.
Okay, fine. Ancestors’ beards but Roland is a damn good looking man. For a human. From Orlais.
Okay, for any species from anywhere whatever.
Lacklon knew from the beginning this job was gonna be too much trouble. And guess what? He was right. There’s a mad magister and an animated corpse and a fucking dragon just on the other side of that wall, with his friend in their clutches. But as he looks at tall-dark-and-handsome over there, he thinks, Maybe trouble isn’t so bad.
Because if he’s gonna be in trouble, Roland’s the guy he wants to be in it with.
Start with the fact that he’s a damn good fighter. Not a lot of people in the guild can keep up with Lacklon swing for swing—hell, not a lot of people outside the guild can keep up with him—but Roland definitely can and then some. Fairbanks wanted them to be in synch and they more than delivered. Lacklon’s never fought side-by-side with someone who knows exactly where he’ll be before he gets there, who can take out the shambling corpse on his blind side while he focuses on the four in front of him, who fights like he knows how to dance.
He’s a damn good planner, too. Even now, with Miriam in the maw of hell and the three of them out of options, Roland’s somehow come up with an actual plan to rescue her. A plan that might even work, that fully utilizes all of their skills, including the seven foot tall horned woman who specializes in making explosions.
And he’s fucking beautiful on top of everything else. The way his lips, even now in the middle of planning for an impossible rescue, carry the hint of a smile on them. The way his ‘locs cascade over his shoulders, framing his face like a portrait in a museum. The way his eyes sparkle like gems in a vault just waiting to be discovered. The way his legs—his very nice, very long legs—tuck underneath him as he sits on the ground. Lacklon has never seen anyone who carries themselves with Roland’s particular combination of grace and elegance and kick-ass confidence.
Fuck it. He’s gonna do it. Don’t think about it just do it.
Roland’s in the middle of capping off the plan by telling Qwydion, “Just make sure you wait for my signal, and—“ when Lacklon pulls him down into a rough kiss.
It’s quick, fast like Locklan’s fast. He doesn’t waste time, just pulls Roland’s full lips into his and oh Ancestors it’s amazing. Maybe a little stilted. Roland clearly wasn’t expecting it, so he’s a little stiff. But still, worth it.
He lets Roland’s neck go and leans back. Okay. Okay, that was good. Great, time to move on, now he can ju—
Roland grins and swoops back in. This time, there’s no stiffness. He melts into Lacklon’s lips, bringing one gloved hand up to cup Lacklon’s cheek. His caress feels like protection and strength and the strumming of a lute at the beginning of a song.
He tastes like sunshine.
Lacklon kisses him back, tentatively. This isn’t his first kiss, not by a long shot, but something about this is…new. Exceptional. The right balance of danger and beauty and success.
Wonderful.
All too soon, Roland pulls back, smiling. Lacklon starts to get lost in that smile before he spies Qwydion out of the corner of his eye. She looks absolutely gobsmacked, and he realizes that he just kissed his friend while a fucking dragon is waiting outside. Suddenly embarrassed, he huffs and says, “What?” When she just continues to stare, he mutters, “This is the dumbest plan I’ve ever heard. We’re all gonna die here so…” He turns on his heel, walking away.
Behind him, he hears Roland in his honey-dripped voice say, “About damn time.”
Lacklon grins. Not bad for the first verse of his own epic song.