Time passes— not quickly, per se (though for Fenris, who spent a great deal of his recovery sleeping under watchful gaze, it might’ve felt more akin to an uncomfortably long dream), just near enough to it to be something of a blur in total. Spring weather already blooms bright, the Vinmark warming with each passing day. Hunting’s gotten easier, and a little more symbiotic besides— given that Astarion can quite tidily steal blood from any caught wildlife for himself, and subsequently offer up the rest of the kill to his companion.
Only when Astarion returns this time in the late evening, it’s not with the carcass of some leaner woodland beast in tow, but with a rare bottle of wine snared between long fingers, and a few non-alcohol related splashes of crimson across otherwise fine clothing.
“They came close, tonight. Closer than ever before, your shadows.” Cheerful, crooning: Astarion seats himself on the bedside table and props his boots up just along the edge of the mattress— grinning proudly when he holds out the base of that heavy bottle like a profound offering.
And really, after a month of scraping up scraps in the forest, it might as well be.
“A little gift. Plucked from their supplies.” The bottle’s contents swish softly as Astarion sways it back and forth, mimicking the swing of a pendulum.
“I’ll share it with you if you can manage pulling yourself upright.”
A pause, before:
“And if you can’t, I’m getting in with you instead.”
Being laid low for so long irritates his instinct to keep moving. But there is nothing for it: moving too much too soon would aggravate the wound and keep it from healing, putting him in more danger from a worse fate than boredom. And his watcher - Astarion - has been quick to keep him from doing anything rash. But he's also been keeping Fenris from starving and so there is some begrudging gratitude.
And it does not go unnoticed when he comes back with blood on him and no prey save for a bottle.
"Close indeed," he mutters, attention drifting to the bottle and then back to the look on Astarion's face. He wants to resist the offering, but after the time he's had, a drink - any drink - would be damned welcome. And if his shadows are Tevinter in origin, then the wine will be good no matter what it is. The challenge makes his sharp gaze cut back to Astarion and his lip curls in a silent snarl.
Rather than answer, Fenris tries to push himself up. The movement immediately pulls on the worst of his injuries and his jaw briefly tightens, but there is determination there. He makes it... partly upright before he has to lean back against the wall and whatever pillows there are.
"Halfway, then." Astarion concedes as Fenris grits his way to middling success. Not quite upright, not quite collapse, either.
A tie, by any other name.
Slipping forward by a handful of inches, he sits with his legs now mostly folded at a loose angle along the edge of the mattress, the rest of him still comfortably resting on that wobbly nightstand, ancient wood somehow still holding up just fine.
With fangs he pulls the cork from the bottle's neck, jerking his chin back with momentum as it pops— filling the air with the almost spiced scent of rare wine. Good wine, probably. Better than a pack of simpler huntsmen could afford. Astarion might not know enough to make the leap beyond the most basic shape of the pack being well-funded, but the simple truth is yes, probably Tevene.
And probably sent by more than just the average pawn.
"Anyway you're right, of course." The first sip of that rich red? Taken by Astarion himself, of course. And without cups it's a little graceless, the way he fits the bottle to his lips and angles it high before holding it out to Fenris, but maybe there's a novelty to that, too, for someone who's gone too long alone.
"Which is why I'm opting to gift you the rest, even if you haven't quite earned it just yet."
He catches the faint scent of familiar spices and he finds himself both longing for the taste and hating it all at once. He does not hate all things Tevene, it was his home once. Little reminders of small pleasures aren't unwelcome. The last time he had anything quite like that, he'd been emptying out Danarius's wine cellar.
Fenris reaches for the offered bottle, then stills.
"And how would you suggest that I earn it in the first place?" he asks, lifting an eyebrow as he keeps his gaze on Astarion. There's a challenge there, he thinks, in the offer and he cannot quite ignore it.
Astarion’s lips twitch as they pull high to one side, the gesture stopping just short of an amused exhale.
Because truth be told, Fenris is so direct a creature it almost stings at times, getting caught right in the crosshairs of an unblinking stare. The way an animal raises itself when challenged—
Only in this case, challenges are always little things: a bottle of offered wine here, an offhanded remark there, the way Astarion reaches for him to swap out his bandaging, the list goes on. But it’s not exactly unpleasant, either. In fact, beneath all of Astarion’s performative ease, etched into the well-hidden scarring across his own back, it just makes sense.
“Keep me company tonight instead of passing out before sunset, for starters.” He counters mildly, manually completing their transaction by pressing the bottle into Fenris’ stilled (and open) palm. “I know you need your beauty sleep, but it’s getting terribly boring sitting around listening to you snore day in and day out.”
Air from outside whistles against the gaps in the rotted roofing overhead as if acting as punctuation for Astarion's point: the only voice he's been hearing frequently is, in fact, no voice at all.
“And you’re pretty enough to go one night without. Just for me.”
His head cocks nearer to his shoulder when he leans back, his own hooded stare just as focused.
Fenris rolls his eyes at the first request. He takes the bottle but does not yet drink from it, waiting to hear the rest of Astarion's demands. Really, if this man meant him true harm he would have done something by now, surely, rather than keeping Fenris safe and alive. Still, there is wariness there and he wrinkles his nose at the accusation.
"I do not snore." Surely he'd be dead by now if he did. He glances up, briefly, at the sound of the wind blowing through the roof only to have his gaze snap back to the other man at pretty. Fenris scoffs.
"Is that all?" He shifts, still keeping a hold on the bottle as he tries to sit up more. It hurts, but the pain does not stop him reaching that particular goal. The last thing he wants is to choke on the wine he's about to drink. He he's careful not to splash any out as he goes. There's another brief look at Astarion before Fenris finally takes a drink. The taste is exactly as he remembers.
There’s no offer to help. No wincing rush to coddle the wounded elf in his struggle to finish what he’d started: pride, after all, is a valuable thing to anyone that still remembers the weight of hands pressed hard across their shoulders like a mooring anchor. And to his credit, eventually Fenris succeeds. Rewarded for his trouble with dignity, the soothing heat of a harsh drink, and— well, the right to snap his teeth however he likes.
“Disappointed?” Astarion asks in response to the question is that all, though it comes late enough that it might seem more akin to measuring Fenris’ appreciation of the drink itself.
“I could always take more, if you’re offering.” The words so lightly exhaled his teeth almost click at the edge of every consonant. Performative. Instinctive, really.
At times, he’s still what he was made to be, even without thinking.
“But if you’re expecting me to start filling out a lengthier list of expectations— no, my dear, all I want is to survive, no doubt to the perpetual distress of my own former master.” There, at least, his tone returns to something normal, and when he speaks he takes the opportunity to finish slipping down to sit atop that mattress at Fenris’s side, weight now fully settled rather than a half-measure.
“The sooner you’re on your feet, the better our collective odds.”
To that extent, Astarion reaches for Fenris’ side with every intention of lifting high the looser shirt he’s been fitted with since that first, initial encounter, wanting to make certain that all current fuss hasn’t somehow agitated mending injuries.
"Surprised," he counters. Astarion has not made any outrageous demands of him, but Fenris hasn't been in much of a condition to be useful, either. He's on the mend, more or less, and he does not expect that this care will be free forever. Especially not with little perks like the wine.
Fenris is an animal in a corner, one who has survived by claw and tooth for long enough that he isn't entirely sure he could stop. That someone else understands that is... unexpected? Perhaps in this sort of random encounter, anyway. That someone else understands and still dragged him off to help him is not easy to set aside.
He moves his arm so that Astarion can lift his shirt. There is faint bleed-through there, but nothing heavy. In an attempt to distract him from prodding, Fenris offers the wine back. Astarion isn't wrong, though. The sooner Fenris is able to contribute to their odds, the better off they'll be. He is healing.
He has to stoop forward to inspect the damage, mild as it is. Nothing terrible (and nothing that Astarion’s own predatory instincts can’t easily resist, even up close like this), hunched low across his own folded legs, already fiddling with the bandaging when—
Oh.
There, in his direct peripheral view, hovers that bottle. An offering. Surprised, to use Fenris’ own wording.
Judging by the mellow smile that works its way across his own features, it’s not unwelcome, either. Chased by acceptance, though it comes by way of Astarion’s slightly cooler hand settling around Fenris’ own to pull it near enough to drink from directly: opposite hand still fitted to Fenris’ side, thumb tucked beneath the bandaging’s frayed edges.
Tart, that taste. Sharp and acidic and laced with spices. Unfamiliar to Astarion, but— much like the man at his side whose bandaging he quickly returns to unraveling— not unpleasant. He’s never been so close before. And lonely, touch-starved for anything that isn’t cruelty, there’s something so uniquely comforting about the heat of another living creature resting entirely within reach. Tangible in the air itself.
“You expected me to be worse, I assume.” In all things, not just teasing games with unimportant stakes.
“...how long have you been on the run?”
Or on his own, if the two aren’t one and the same.
It takes a few more days before Fenris is able to get up and move around without irritating his wounds, and another week before he can stretch without risking tearing them open again. And that's where he starts: stretches and walking as far as Astarion will let him. Fenris insists on both, though, because he is tired of feeling stiff and bedridden.
In the intervening time there has been passing intimacy, one instance in particular involved the pale elf whispering filth in his ear with a hand on his cock and, try as he might, Fenris has not been able to forget most of what he said. Some days are easier than others. There are times yet when the lyrium etched into his skin is too sensitive and he flinches away before a tender touch can get far. But there is some progress there, too.
Fenris isn't about to turn down the opportunity to spar when Astarion presents it. Much to his own annoyance, he isn't entirely ready to wield his sword again given the range of motion required to do so with any efficiency. He has shorter blades and settles on a dagger from his pack. He holds the hilt between his teeth as he ties his hair back. It's getting long. He could probably just take a knife to it when it gets to the point of being a true annoyance.
"Ready when you are," he announces as soon as his mouth is free.
Relaxed as he is slung against a rotted portion of fence, Astarion watches Fenris ready himself in more ways than one: stretching his own stiffened muscles, pressing the blade to his teeth and tying back the long sections of that pale white hair. It’s nice, he thinks, the luxury of little moments like this.
Because there was a time when he’d thought Fenris might’ve died there in that bed. Because before that struggle, Astarion had been fleeing wildly for his own neck, hoping to keep one step ahead of his own pursuants. Because still, in the back of his mind, is the promise he had nothing before this. Nothing. And if he's unlucky, he might return to it again.
A simple puppet dancing on a string.
Still, for now his smile comes easily. He uncrosses his own ankles, striding in close after a single, studious beat.
“Come here, my love. Tip your chin up. There’s a longer section still caught against your neck and if you don’t fasten it properly, you’re likely to lose an eye.”
They both have shadows to keep ahead of, some looming longer than others. Fenris has long wondered when he would feel free. There are moments, but forever that feeling in his back that the next strike is waiting. He tries to stay in the moment. Anything else risks despair or anxiety and he's had enough of both.
He lifts a brow as Astarion smiles at him and leaves the sad-looking fence. Fenris is certain he's lying.
"Are you just trying to get me to come closer?"
Look, he wouldn't put it beyond Astarion to cheat. Fenris would.
His wicked grin blooms entirely on reflex alone (say what you will about Astarion— most, if not all of it’s entirely true— but he thrives inherently in being met in all his mischief), reveling in the thrill of knowing someone else can keep pace with his strides.
“Well I’d wanted to make your loss quick, but if you insist on being savvy...”
His lunge is as vicious as his own sense of humor, not an ounce of sympathy or hesitation spared for a soul fresh off the heels of recovery, dagger leading the charge as he slips low— serpentine— aiming to press Fenris back on his heels before he has a chance to react.
“We’ll just have to do this the hard way—”
And if Fenris isn’t careful, he’s going to find himself flat on his back with a blade at his throat just as quickly as he lends the opportunity.
Astarion is quick, faster than Fenris anticipates. Rather than trying to back away, Fenris darts to the side, spinning out of the way as he lashes out with the dagger. He tries to pull the attack, not actually wanting to cut into the man who's spent the better part of a month keeping him alive.
"You'll have to do better than that."
The welcome rush of adrenaline lights a vicious smile. He may not win, but it feels good to move, to feel something other than helpless and bored. He stumbles as he recovers his footing, trying to keep Astarion in his line of sight. Fenris isn't as fast as he might be without injury, but he is dogged in the way he approaches combat. He really won't stop until Astarion gets him on his back and keeps him there.
It's the latter part that's the trick.
He tries to avoid Astarion slamming into him whenever he can, convinced that he will go down if the pale elf manages to hit him.
“Luckily— ” he pants, smirking through his fangs on the third attempt at cutting off Fenris’ fierce capacity for putting distance between them each time Astarion thinks success is snared just within his grasp.
It leads into rushed feign left, weight sunk so low his ankles ache— and then suddenly Astarion darts right, open hand outstretched to try and catch Fenris’ momentum at its height, twisting into it, throwing the whole of the elf’s balance off with his own weight and subsequently slinging the both of them to the ground.
And when the thick dust settles, Astarion straddles him. Blade pinching as it settles just against the base of Fenris’ throat. Biting, but not yet breaking the skin.
Yet, being the important part.
“I can, darling.”
And low as he's slumped to leverage his weight against it, Fenris eclipsed in the whole of his own shadow, almost nothing in the way of distance now lingers between them.
(Of course, don't let that stop you from fighting back, Fenris.)
Fenris hits the ground and the breath is forced out of him. It takes a few seconds for his world to stop feeling, plenty of time for Astarion to get on top of him. He can feel the sharp edge of a blade against his throat like a warning and and weight pressing him in place. His green eyes are bright as he focuses on the man above him and tries to catch his breath.
There's a faint, sharp prick against Astarion's side where Fenris has angled his own blade up against the pale elf's ribs. It might not be as devastating an injury as a slit throat, but it certainly would give someone a really bad day. He might be down, but he certainly isn't going out alone.
Fenris keeps his grip on the hilt firm even as he tries to slow his heart. His body aches and he is aware of every injury and every over-exerted muscle, but he feels better than he has in weeks. White hair clings to his face where he's started to sweat and his body is quite warm beneath his opponent's.
His hips move as he draws a leg up, trying to get his foot planted.
"Is that a knife in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?"
World's most awful joke there, but it lands all the same— if charisma counts for anything at all.
...which admittedly, it might not.
"Ah ah. Don't you dare." That shift prompts a heavy re-settling of Astarion's weight, leg snaking around the underside of Fenris' own. It equates to a loss of total leverage— prompts the tip of Fenris' borrowed dagger to dig, nipping at Astarion's side— but in the grand scheme of things it feels worth it. Doubly so when his free hand works its way around Fenris' unarmed wrist, testing the elf's ability to work back against his own vampiric strength.
The blade slips higher, flat edge cold as it tips Fenris' chin higher, closer to his own mouth.
His voice is honey. A throaty purr dripping with contentment.
"Say you yield."
Edited (it's me, king of redundancy) 2022-01-21 07:21 (UTC)
Fenris wakes slowly, lulled by the comfort of warm blankets and a decent bed. It takes just a few seconds of consciousness for him to realize he is alone in the bed - not an immediate cause for panic, but enough to jolt him further awake. He sits up, bed-warm skin exposed to chilly morning air. He runs his fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face - he keeps thinking that it's getting long and that he ought cut it, yet never does.
He looks around the small room, but other than Astarion's absence, nothing seems amiss. Sun filters in through the window, suggesting that he slept later than he meant to. Fenris sits for a moment, notes that his clothes and armor are where he left them, as is is sword. At first, the piece of paper left on the desk beneath the window doesn't even register, but he sees it when he gets up. He drags the blanket with him and wraps it around his shoulders as he approaches the desk. He looks at the paper for a long moment, feeling the familiar welling of frustration and quiet shame. The marks on it mean nothing to him. He could not even say what language it's written in. Despite speaking a few fluently, he cannot read or write in any of them.
Fenris leaves the paper where it is. He could dress himself and leave, perhaps running into Astarion somewhere. Surely he's just running an errand? Even with time spent together, even with quiet promises made, there is part of him that treacherously whispers that Astarion could be selling him out. He hasn't yet, why would he now? But it is a difficult anxiety to silence. As if to rebel against it, Fenris doesn't dress at all. But, he also stays away from the window.
After a while, he makes himself sit on the bed again. He manages to make himself quite small under the blankets with his back to the wall, and as the minutes pass he grows more sullen and more angry and more worried. Only the last one has anything to do with Astarion. Dark imaginings resurface, and all this for the inability to decipher the note possibly left for him.
When the door opens again, he doesn't move. Nor does he snap where have you been like he wants to. Given how long he's had to stew, surely the mood in the room is palpable.
It's, admittedly, a little ominous in reality, shoving open that creaking excuse for a front door only to find his darling companion hunkered sullenly under thin sheets— green eyes glinting like a cat's in the darkness of a coming evening. It's also more than a little charming, too, particularly to a vampire of all creatures; all too often he'd gladly choose to stay in bed until nightfall provided nothing else needed doing.
"Did you miss me, beautiful?" Sly and richly-purred, canines flashing when he smiles, "Gods know I certainly missed your touch."
A few potion phials in one hand, a bundle of packaged food in the other (alongside a little kindling for Thedas' shoddiest excuse for a fireplace), and Astarion grows far more suspicious after he's set his assortment of gifts down on the table in the center of the room— glancing up to see he's still being stared at with that same, seethingly placid expression.
...hm.
Something must be upsetting him. No blood in the air, though. No scent of a scuffle or lingering traces of damage, so nothing's tried to bring him to harm. Maybe a nightmare? A bit of loneliness?
Expression thinned, Astarion slips closer in a few silent strides, sinking down onto the edge of the mattress and reaching out with the intent of smoothing back a few strands of Fenris' pale hair.
"What's wrong, my darling? Did something happen while I was away?"
When Astarion returns, the welling anxiety is replaced by shame, embarrassment, and something sharper. Anger is a far easier thing to feel. He's spent enough time around other people to know that anger probably isn't fair, but that doesn't make it any easier to push down. It's been his first defense for so long he isn't sure what to do without it.
Fenris lowers his gaze, finally, when Astarion sits on the bed. Gentle fingers brush his hair aside and the marked elf closes his eyes. Tension is etched in every line of his body. Astarion can't possibly know what he's done wrong. He hasn't done wrong, and Fenris struggles to keep back both his bite and his bark.
"You were gone," he says at last, voice tight as he tries to hold back the wave of feeling that comes with it. This is ridiculous. He is being ridiculous. "I had no idea where you were, I imagined--"
He imagined a lot of things. Many of them Astarion could probably guess as someone who knows what it's like to be hunted. He looks up, meets the other man's gaze again.
That's what it was. Recognition slapping him in the face the second those words leave Fenris' lips, foreign and strange and— if he allows himself even a moment of honesty in his own mind— ill-suited for someone like him. For as far back as he can remember, kindness of any stripe (let alone concern) has never—
His expression pinches subtly, crease lines digging into the space between his brows.
There's a great deal Astarion takes lightly, deflecting it for all the pain it could readily cause. Trust, gentleness, affection. He never feels so small, so uniquely fragile, as he does in those moments when they come slipping nearer to his side.
But right now, between the two of them (back to the wall and covers pulled high) it's Fenris that looks the most fragile; barely relaxing as steady hands smooth aside soft wisps of pale hair. Confessing things Astarion could never begin to conceive, and gods above, his wretched heart aches for it.
"Of course I am." Low, reassuring. Easier to focus on than immediately tracking back towards the former subject. "I'd never do anything but, my darling."
Not if he can help it.
"....I left you a note. Didn't you—" Mm. No. Perhaps. "Did you stay in bed all day?"
Fenris looks at Astarion, searching the other man's face as he makes his promises. He wonders if the pale elf can really understand what those words mean to him, what they could mean to him. Doubt and fear well in him, filling his chest with a gripping cold. Never is a very big word.
But perhaps he can still trust it. Astarion has shown care since they fell in together - since the other elf chose to pick him up and keep him alive. He hasn't betrayed Fenris yet.
He shifts his shoulders, letting the blanket slide down and exposing more warm skin and lyrium. Backed into a corner but not snapping at every stray movement - surely that is some growth. He wants to trust. He is tired of the alternative.
"No," he says quietly. "I searched the room first."
To ensure he hadn't been robbed or otherwise left at loose ends. He sighs quietly and glances at the table where the note sits, acknowledging it and perhaps trying to indicate that he had seen it. He'll have to tell Astarion eventually, won't he? If they are to go on like this. If Astarion is to know how to give him important information.
Fenris sighs and pushes his fingers through his pale hair, following the path of Astarion's to push it fully out of his face.
Jarring, just how swiftly Astarion thinks silently that he won't ever betray Fenris, when all Astarion's ever been devoted to was the ever-reliable promise of himself.
It's swept away in the very next second (palm still tucked against Fenris' cheek, cold and uniquely devoid of warmth— but maybe to someone who'd been touched too much, there's a comfort in it), crimson eyes lost at first beneath rapidfire blinks that shuttle over his (still) doeish stare, underscoring the unsubtle leap between vulnerability and shock.
"—I," quick. Tongue to the back of his teeth, wedged against the roof of his mouth until it turns into a gentler huff of a sound. An exhale that's far more knowing in nature than its owner, given that he's slow to readjust: scooting closer across the mattress, not pulling Fenris away from the wall, only lifting his head far enough to let it rest across his folded leg— the other left dangling over the edge of the bed itself.
Easier to reach him like this. Petting and reassuring all the while through touch alone.
"....I didn't know."
Not an apology, but the closest thing he can offer with sincerity on his tongue.
"Cazador's enslaved collection was a matter of prestige; he valued us for the pedigree and exceptionality we carried, stolen as we all were. So the idea of keeping you from something so simple as writing...."
Gods.
Far from shocking, yes, knowing the worst of any world where power equates to binding control— yet alien and unsettling all the same, even for a bloodthirsty brute like him.
And infinitely more so given it was Fenris who suffered it.
"No, you couldn't have. It hasn't exactly come up."
Maybe there were small signs here or there, but ones that are so easily swept over. Fenris doesn't carry books with him, or anything to write with. He doesn't pay much mind to signs or anything with lettering on it. The only one of them to ever read anything out loud - anywhere - has been Astarion announcing the names of pubs or towns as they near signs of any kind. Fenris knows where they are because he knows the area and he recalls maps well. He can match symbols that say Wildervale on a map with those same symbols on a road sign, but that is his limit. Rearrange those letters into wild, vale, idle or ale and they lose meaning to him. (Well, save perhaps ale. That he might recognize through sheer exposure.)
It is not a shortcoming that Fenris shows willingly or quickly, but it is a reality of his life that becomes more of an issue when he is surrounded by literate people.
"I was a matter of prestige," he says with quiet bitterness. "But not for my cleverness. I was a living symbol of my master's ingenuity and power. I was dangerous, and he held my leash."
Fenris was - is - a walking symbol of the might of his master. And he was a living warning to those who would move against Danarius. A terrifying creature: an elf marked all over with lyrium and able to channel its power. Danarius delighted in the way his friends and adversaries reacted to his little wolf's presence.
"Educating me served no purpose. I could already do what he needed or wanted of me."
"A beast on a leash, for all intents and purposes."
There's nothing jovial in his voice. Grim with anger he can't use, sorrow he can't diffuse, Astarion can only continue holding Fenris close: the edges of his fingertips gone white for tension, a subtle map of pressure pinned between lyrium leylines. His jaw aches. His fangs are set too tightly.
And it's futile, all of it. Unhelpful in the here and now, where Danarius is nothing but dust amongst dust.
(But does it matter, when everything he did remains?)
"....Bastard."
Is where he settles at last, snarling it at nothing but thin air. A way to buck the last of his own anger in some sort of seething, reactive measure— before a thin sigh slides its way throughout his lungs. His throat. His shoulders— which then sag by meager inches.
A few breaths, and his hand is lifted.
"Here." He murmurs, palm held upright just a few inches away from where Fenris lies, level with the ceiling. Outstretched.
"Touch it. Hold fast, if you like, love. Proof I haven't vanished into thin air— and that I don't plan to, besides."
Start there. Find your footing first. That's the thought process driving him in at first, though what follows it comes much, much later: only after Fenris has either reached for him, or opted not to beyond the shadow of a doubt.
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albinomilksnake2021-11-06 01:03 am
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Only when Astarion returns this time in the late evening, it’s not with the carcass of some leaner woodland beast in tow, but with a rare bottle of wine snared between long fingers, and a few non-alcohol related splashes of crimson across otherwise fine clothing.
“They came close, tonight. Closer than ever before, your shadows.” Cheerful, crooning: Astarion seats himself on the bedside table and props his boots up just along the edge of the mattress— grinning proudly when he holds out the base of that heavy bottle like a profound offering.
And really, after a month of scraping up scraps in the forest, it might as well be.
“A little gift. Plucked from their supplies.” The bottle’s contents swish softly as Astarion sways it back and forth, mimicking the swing of a pendulum.
“I’ll share it with you if you can manage pulling yourself upright.”
A pause, before:
“And if you can’t, I’m getting in with you instead.”
no subject
And it does not go unnoticed when he comes back with blood on him and no prey save for a bottle.
"Close indeed," he mutters, attention drifting to the bottle and then back to the look on Astarion's face. He wants to resist the offering, but after the time he's had, a drink - any drink - would be damned welcome. And if his shadows are Tevinter in origin, then the wine will be good no matter what it is. The challenge makes his sharp gaze cut back to Astarion and his lip curls in a silent snarl.
Rather than answer, Fenris tries to push himself up. The movement immediately pulls on the worst of his injuries and his jaw briefly tightens, but there is determination there. He makes it... partly upright before he has to lean back against the wall and whatever pillows there are.
"You wouldn't have it if the weren't hunting me."
no subject
A tie, by any other name.
Slipping forward by a handful of inches, he sits with his legs now mostly folded at a loose angle along the edge of the mattress, the rest of him still comfortably resting on that wobbly nightstand, ancient wood somehow still holding up just fine.
With fangs he pulls the cork from the bottle's neck, jerking his chin back with momentum as it pops— filling the air with the almost spiced scent of rare wine. Good wine, probably. Better than a pack of simpler huntsmen could afford. Astarion might not know enough to make the leap beyond the most basic shape of the pack being well-funded, but the simple truth is yes, probably Tevene.
And probably sent by more than just the average pawn.
"Anyway you're right, of course." The first sip of that rich red? Taken by Astarion himself, of course. And without cups it's a little graceless, the way he fits the bottle to his lips and angles it high before holding it out to Fenris, but maybe there's a novelty to that, too, for someone who's gone too long alone.
"Which is why I'm opting to gift you the rest, even if you haven't quite earned it just yet."
no subject
Fenris reaches for the offered bottle, then stills.
"And how would you suggest that I earn it in the first place?" he asks, lifting an eyebrow as he keeps his gaze on Astarion. There's a challenge there, he thinks, in the offer and he cannot quite ignore it.
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Because truth be told, Fenris is so direct a creature it almost stings at times, getting caught right in the crosshairs of an unblinking stare. The way an animal raises itself when challenged—
Only in this case, challenges are always little things: a bottle of offered wine here, an offhanded remark there, the way Astarion reaches for him to swap out his bandaging, the list goes on. But it’s not exactly unpleasant, either. In fact, beneath all of Astarion’s performative ease, etched into the well-hidden scarring across his own back, it just makes sense.
“Keep me company tonight instead of passing out before sunset, for starters.” He counters mildly, manually completing their transaction by pressing the bottle into Fenris’ stilled (and open) palm. “I know you need your beauty sleep, but it’s getting terribly boring sitting around listening to you snore day in and day out.”
Air from outside whistles against the gaps in the rotted roofing overhead as if acting as punctuation for Astarion's point: the only voice he's been hearing frequently is, in fact, no voice at all.
“And you’re pretty enough to go one night without. Just for me.”
His head cocks nearer to his shoulder when he leans back, his own hooded stare just as focused.
From one wild animal to another.
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"I do not snore." Surely he'd be dead by now if he did. He glances up, briefly, at the sound of the wind blowing through the roof only to have his gaze snap back to the other man at pretty. Fenris scoffs.
"Is that all?" He shifts, still keeping a hold on the bottle as he tries to sit up more. It hurts, but the pain does not stop him reaching that particular goal. The last thing he wants is to choke on the wine he's about to drink. He he's careful not to splash any out as he goes. There's another brief look at Astarion before Fenris finally takes a drink. The taste is exactly as he remembers.
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“Disappointed?” Astarion asks in response to the question is that all, though it comes late enough that it might seem more akin to measuring Fenris’ appreciation of the drink itself.
“I could always take more, if you’re offering.” The words so lightly exhaled his teeth almost click at the edge of every consonant. Performative. Instinctive, really.
At times, he’s still what he was made to be, even without thinking.
“But if you’re expecting me to start filling out a lengthier list of expectations— no, my dear, all I want is to survive, no doubt to the perpetual distress of my own former master.” There, at least, his tone returns to something normal, and when he speaks he takes the opportunity to finish slipping down to sit atop that mattress at Fenris’s side, weight now fully settled rather than a half-measure.
“The sooner you’re on your feet, the better our collective odds.”
To that extent, Astarion reaches for Fenris’ side with every intention of lifting high the looser shirt he’s been fitted with since that first, initial encounter, wanting to make certain that all current fuss hasn’t somehow agitated mending injuries.
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Fenris is an animal in a corner, one who has survived by claw and tooth for long enough that he isn't entirely sure he could stop. That someone else understands that is... unexpected? Perhaps in this sort of random encounter, anyway. That someone else understands and still dragged him off to help him is not easy to set aside.
He moves his arm so that Astarion can lift his shirt. There is faint bleed-through there, but nothing heavy. In an attempt to distract him from prodding, Fenris offers the wine back. Astarion isn't wrong, though. The sooner Fenris is able to contribute to their odds, the better off they'll be. He is healing.
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Oh.
There, in his direct peripheral view, hovers that bottle. An offering. Surprised, to use Fenris’ own wording.
Judging by the mellow smile that works its way across his own features, it’s not unwelcome, either. Chased by acceptance, though it comes by way of Astarion’s slightly cooler hand settling around Fenris’ own to pull it near enough to drink from directly: opposite hand still fitted to Fenris’ side, thumb tucked beneath the bandaging’s frayed edges.
Tart, that taste. Sharp and acidic and laced with spices. Unfamiliar to Astarion, but— much like the man at his side whose bandaging he quickly returns to unraveling— not unpleasant. He’s never been so close before. And lonely, touch-starved for anything that isn’t cruelty, there’s something so uniquely comforting about the heat of another living creature resting entirely within reach. Tangible in the air itself.
“You expected me to be worse, I assume.” In all things, not just teasing games with unimportant stakes.
“...how long have you been on the run?”
Or on his own, if the two aren’t one and the same.
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and here he thought this'd be easy
silly vampire
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resurfaces after holidays
also resurfaces to gather u in my strong arms
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In the intervening time there has been passing intimacy, one instance in particular involved the pale elf whispering filth in his ear with a hand on his cock and, try as he might, Fenris has not been able to forget most of what he said. Some days are easier than others. There are times yet when the lyrium etched into his skin is too sensitive and he flinches away before a tender touch can get far. But there is some progress there, too.
Fenris isn't about to turn down the opportunity to spar when Astarion presents it. Much to his own annoyance, he isn't entirely ready to wield his sword again given the range of motion required to do so with any efficiency. He has shorter blades and settles on a dagger from his pack. He holds the hilt between his teeth as he ties his hair back. It's getting long. He could probably just take a knife to it when it gets to the point of being a true annoyance.
"Ready when you are," he announces as soon as his mouth is free.
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Relaxed as he is slung against a rotted portion of fence, Astarion watches Fenris ready himself in more ways than one: stretching his own stiffened muscles, pressing the blade to his teeth and tying back the long sections of that pale white hair. It’s nice, he thinks, the luxury of little moments like this.
Because there was a time when he’d thought Fenris might’ve died there in that bed. Because before that struggle, Astarion had been fleeing wildly for his own neck, hoping to keep one step ahead of his own pursuants. Because still, in the back of his mind, is the promise he had nothing before this. Nothing. And if he's unlucky, he might return to it again.
A simple puppet dancing on a string.
Still, for now his smile comes easily. He uncrosses his own ankles, striding in close after a single, studious beat.
“Come here, my love. Tip your chin up. There’s a longer section still caught against your neck and if you don’t fasten it properly, you’re likely to lose an eye.”
For the record?
That’s a lie.
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He lifts a brow as Astarion smiles at him and leaves the sad-looking fence. Fenris is certain he's lying.
"Are you just trying to get me to come closer?"
Look, he wouldn't put it beyond Astarion to cheat. Fenris would.
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His wicked grin blooms entirely on reflex alone (say what you will about Astarion— most, if not all of it’s entirely true— but he thrives inherently in being met in all his mischief), reveling in the thrill of knowing someone else can keep pace with his strides.
“Well I’d wanted to make your loss quick, but if you insist on being savvy...”
His lunge is as vicious as his own sense of humor, not an ounce of sympathy or hesitation spared for a soul fresh off the heels of recovery, dagger leading the charge as he slips low— serpentine— aiming to press Fenris back on his heels before he has a chance to react.
“We’ll just have to do this the hard way—”
And if Fenris isn’t careful, he’s going to find himself flat on his back with a blade at his throat just as quickly as he lends the opportunity.
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"You'll have to do better than that."
The welcome rush of adrenaline lights a vicious smile. He may not win, but it feels good to move, to feel something other than helpless and bored. He stumbles as he recovers his footing, trying to keep Astarion in his line of sight. Fenris isn't as fast as he might be without injury, but he is dogged in the way he approaches combat. He really won't stop until Astarion gets him on his back and keeps him there.
It's the latter part that's the trick.
He tries to avoid Astarion slamming into him whenever he can, convinced that he will go down if the pale elf manages to hit him.
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It leads into rushed feign left, weight sunk so low his ankles ache— and then suddenly Astarion darts right, open hand outstretched to try and catch Fenris’ momentum at its height, twisting into it, throwing the whole of the elf’s balance off with his own weight and subsequently slinging the both of them to the ground.
And when the thick dust settles, Astarion straddles him. Blade pinching as it settles just against the base of Fenris’ throat. Biting, but not yet breaking the skin.
Yet, being the important part.
“I can, darling.”
And low as he's slumped to leverage his weight against it, Fenris eclipsed in the whole of his own shadow, almost nothing in the way of distance now lingers between them.
(Of course, don't let that stop you from fighting back, Fenris.)
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There's a faint, sharp prick against Astarion's side where Fenris has angled his own blade up against the pale elf's ribs. It might not be as devastating an injury as a slit throat, but it certainly would give someone a really bad day. He might be down, but he certainly isn't going out alone.
Fenris keeps his grip on the hilt firm even as he tries to slow his heart. His body aches and he is aware of every injury and every over-exerted muscle, but he feels better than he has in weeks. White hair clings to his face where he's started to sweat and his body is quite warm beneath his opponent's.
His hips move as he draws a leg up, trying to get his foot planted.
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World's most awful joke there, but it lands all the same— if charisma counts for anything at all.
...which admittedly, it might not.
"Ah ah. Don't you dare." That shift prompts a heavy re-settling of Astarion's weight, leg snaking around the underside of Fenris' own. It equates to a loss of total leverage— prompts the tip of Fenris' borrowed dagger to dig, nipping at Astarion's side— but in the grand scheme of things it feels worth it. Doubly so when his free hand works its way around Fenris' unarmed wrist, testing the elf's ability to work back against his own vampiric strength.
The blade slips higher, flat edge cold as it tips Fenris' chin higher, closer to his own mouth.
His voice is honey. A throaty purr dripping with contentment.
"Say you yield."
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He looks around the small room, but other than Astarion's absence, nothing seems amiss. Sun filters in through the window, suggesting that he slept later than he meant to. Fenris sits for a moment, notes that his clothes and armor are where he left them, as is is sword. At first, the piece of paper left on the desk beneath the window doesn't even register, but he sees it when he gets up. He drags the blanket with him and wraps it around his shoulders as he approaches the desk. He looks at the paper for a long moment, feeling the familiar welling of frustration and quiet shame. The marks on it mean nothing to him. He could not even say what language it's written in. Despite speaking a few fluently, he cannot read or write in any of them.
Fenris leaves the paper where it is. He could dress himself and leave, perhaps running into Astarion somewhere. Surely he's just running an errand? Even with time spent together, even with quiet promises made, there is part of him that treacherously whispers that Astarion could be selling him out. He hasn't yet, why would he now? But it is a difficult anxiety to silence. As if to rebel against it, Fenris doesn't dress at all. But, he also stays away from the window.
After a while, he makes himself sit on the bed again. He manages to make himself quite small under the blankets with his back to the wall, and as the minutes pass he grows more sullen and more angry and more worried. Only the last one has anything to do with Astarion. Dark imaginings resurface, and all this for the inability to decipher the note possibly left for him.
When the door opens again, he doesn't move. Nor does he snap where have you been like he wants to. Given how long he's had to stew, surely the mood in the room is palpable.
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"Did you miss me, beautiful?" Sly and richly-purred, canines flashing when he smiles, "Gods know I certainly missed your touch."
A few potion phials in one hand, a bundle of packaged food in the other (alongside a little kindling for Thedas' shoddiest excuse for a fireplace), and Astarion grows far more suspicious after he's set his assortment of gifts down on the table in the center of the room— glancing up to see he's still being stared at with that same, seethingly placid expression.
...hm.
Something must be upsetting him. No blood in the air, though. No scent of a scuffle or lingering traces of damage, so nothing's tried to bring him to harm. Maybe a nightmare? A bit of loneliness?
Expression thinned, Astarion slips closer in a few silent strides, sinking down onto the edge of the mattress and reaching out with the intent of smoothing back a few strands of Fenris' pale hair.
"What's wrong, my darling? Did something happen while I was away?"
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Fenris lowers his gaze, finally, when Astarion sits on the bed. Gentle fingers brush his hair aside and the marked elf closes his eyes. Tension is etched in every line of his body. Astarion can't possibly know what he's done wrong. He hasn't done wrong, and Fenris struggles to keep back both his bite and his bark.
"You were gone," he says at last, voice tight as he tries to hold back the wave of feeling that comes with it. This is ridiculous. He is being ridiculous. "I had no idea where you were, I imagined--"
He imagined a lot of things. Many of them Astarion could probably guess as someone who knows what it's like to be hunted. He looks up, meets the other man's gaze again.
"It doesn't matter. You're back."
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That's what it was. Recognition slapping him in the face the second those words leave Fenris' lips, foreign and strange and— if he allows himself even a moment of honesty in his own mind— ill-suited for someone like him. For as far back as he can remember, kindness of any stripe (let alone concern) has never—
His expression pinches subtly, crease lines digging into the space between his brows.
There's a great deal Astarion takes lightly, deflecting it for all the pain it could readily cause. Trust, gentleness, affection. He never feels so small, so uniquely fragile, as he does in those moments when they come slipping nearer to his side.
But right now, between the two of them (back to the wall and covers pulled high) it's Fenris that looks the most fragile; barely relaxing as steady hands smooth aside soft wisps of pale hair. Confessing things Astarion could never begin to conceive, and gods above, his wretched heart aches for it.
"Of course I am." Low, reassuring. Easier to focus on than immediately tracking back towards the former subject. "I'd never do anything but, my darling."
Not if he can help it.
"....I left you a note. Didn't you—" Mm. No. Perhaps. "Did you stay in bed all day?"
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But perhaps he can still trust it. Astarion has shown care since they fell in together - since the other elf chose to pick him up and keep him alive. He hasn't betrayed Fenris yet.
He shifts his shoulders, letting the blanket slide down and exposing more warm skin and lyrium. Backed into a corner but not snapping at every stray movement - surely that is some growth. He wants to trust. He is tired of the alternative.
"No," he says quietly. "I searched the room first."
To ensure he hadn't been robbed or otherwise left at loose ends. He sighs quietly and glances at the table where the note sits, acknowledging it and perhaps trying to indicate that he had seen it. He'll have to tell Astarion eventually, won't he? If they are to go on like this. If Astarion is to know how to give him important information.
Fenris sighs and pushes his fingers through his pale hair, following the path of Astarion's to push it fully out of his face.
"Most slaves aren't taught to read."
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It's swept away in the very next second (palm still tucked against Fenris' cheek, cold and uniquely devoid of warmth— but maybe to someone who'd been touched too much, there's a comfort in it), crimson eyes lost at first beneath rapidfire blinks that shuttle over his (still) doeish stare, underscoring the unsubtle leap between vulnerability and shock.
"—I," quick. Tongue to the back of his teeth, wedged against the roof of his mouth until it turns into a gentler huff of a sound. An exhale that's far more knowing in nature than its owner, given that he's slow to readjust: scooting closer across the mattress, not pulling Fenris away from the wall, only lifting his head far enough to let it rest across his folded leg— the other left dangling over the edge of the bed itself.
Easier to reach him like this. Petting and reassuring all the while through touch alone.
"....I didn't know."
Not an apology, but the closest thing he can offer with sincerity on his tongue.
"Cazador's enslaved collection was a matter of prestige; he valued us for the pedigree and exceptionality we carried, stolen as we all were. So the idea of keeping you from something so simple as writing...."
Gods.
Far from shocking, yes, knowing the worst of any world where power equates to binding control— yet alien and unsettling all the same, even for a bloodthirsty brute like him.
And infinitely more so given it was Fenris who suffered it.
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Maybe there were small signs here or there, but ones that are so easily swept over. Fenris doesn't carry books with him, or anything to write with. He doesn't pay much mind to signs or anything with lettering on it. The only one of them to ever read anything out loud - anywhere - has been Astarion announcing the names of pubs or towns as they near signs of any kind. Fenris knows where they are because he knows the area and he recalls maps well. He can match symbols that say Wildervale on a map with those same symbols on a road sign, but that is his limit. Rearrange those letters into wild, vale, idle or ale and they lose meaning to him. (Well, save perhaps ale. That he might recognize through sheer exposure.)
It is not a shortcoming that Fenris shows willingly or quickly, but it is a reality of his life that becomes more of an issue when he is surrounded by literate people.
"I was a matter of prestige," he says with quiet bitterness. "But not for my cleverness. I was a living symbol of my master's ingenuity and power. I was dangerous, and he held my leash."
Fenris was - is - a walking symbol of the might of his master. And he was a living warning to those who would move against Danarius. A terrifying creature: an elf marked all over with lyrium and able to channel its power. Danarius delighted in the way his friends and adversaries reacted to his little wolf's presence.
"Educating me served no purpose. I could already do what he needed or wanted of me."
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There's nothing jovial in his voice. Grim with anger he can't use, sorrow he can't diffuse, Astarion can only continue holding Fenris close: the edges of his fingertips gone white for tension, a subtle map of pressure pinned between lyrium leylines. His jaw aches. His fangs are set too tightly.
And it's futile, all of it. Unhelpful in the here and now, where Danarius is nothing but dust amongst dust.
(But does it matter, when everything he did remains?)
"....Bastard."
Is where he settles at last, snarling it at nothing but thin air. A way to buck the last of his own anger in some sort of seething, reactive measure— before a thin sigh slides its way throughout his lungs. His throat. His shoulders— which then sag by meager inches.
A few breaths, and his hand is lifted.
"Here." He murmurs, palm held upright just a few inches away from where Fenris lies, level with the ceiling. Outstretched.
"Touch it. Hold fast, if you like, love. Proof I haven't vanished into thin air— and that I don't plan to, besides."
Start there. Find your footing first. That's the thought process driving him in at first, though what follows it comes much, much later: only after Fenris has either reached for him, or opted not to beyond the shadow of a doubt.
"....would you like to be taught?"
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