[They don't really talk after that. Least of all about it— not even on the night of.
Astarion, lean and undone where he still half-hunches against cold brickwork, puts his scuffed up knuckles to use in redressing himself: his blouse used to daub away the sweat and streaks of tacky slick, clearing its mess off his stomach, his clothes— bunching it into a ball between his fingers before cleaning them too— and tossing it into the gutter last, with only his slacks and shoes and jewelry left to walk him home. The expense is nothing, not even his kin would bat an eye at it. The budget carefully kept back home won't notice. Even an unraveling cuff's an excuse to toss rare silk into the trash for anyone of the patriar rank, and most people in the Lower City fetch their best wardrobes from the beautiful casualties tossed out of the upper reaches each day.
And from there, stubbornly, with his head still swimming slightly and his mood gone sedate, they walk home.
Astarion goes to sleep. Tends to his studies after that. His meals. In other words: he lives his life as usual, without trying to slip away once the sun's set— though whether that's because there isn't a worthwhile orgy to attend or a naked fountain swim he's been invited to, it's hard to say. No one should discount his nature for a second, after all. Least of all Fenris, who isn't spoken to so much as at— if at all— in the next handful of weeks: I'm going outside. I'm staying in. Stop hovering. Go the fuck away. Get out. Leave me alone.
The routine huffing of a thing with a long shadow, in essence, albeit one that knows its limits (he can't order Fenris around, but he can keep yanking him along to frustrate him. Test him. Rile him. Demand he come in close and then leave him standing watch while he fucks some pretty little treat of a servant in a shut closet. Stare at him from the dinner table whilst broaching every subject that could vex. Little nips at his figurative heels, but that's as far as it ever goes). The little sparks of animosity. The tepid traces of heat that still linger even when everything's cooled off.
They break, at least, whenever Fenris slips away to tend to his own needs.
Coming back's a different story.]
That wretched cunt barely knows the books he writes in, and you take his word over mine? I did you a favor—
['Two years until you take title, Astarion. Barely two years— and this is how you behave?'
Ah. The same argument as always, only it's catalyst different this time judging by what echoes behind shut doors. A so-called useless tutor, a so-called irresponsible student who refuses to behave. Reckless and indiscreet in his endless transgressions.
And like always it doesn't matter what Astarion has to say for himself. It doesn't matter if a blow is struck to his cheek for crude insult, or if the blow itself is the just the word that finally shuts him up; his father leaving without acknowledgment of either, only locking eyes with Fenris once he steps outside the room.
'Until I find another tutor, train him.' The finality of it: this is your role, now. One more addition to the rest, without a drop of concern spared for what a former slave might teach a highborne elf. Even a simple bid at perception would swear the man doesn't really care; it's clearly not about the lessons themselves, but the occupation of time. Odds are, he probably imagines that the less opportunity his son has to make trouble, the less trouble there'll inevitably be.
Although as today proves, that remains to be seen. 'Just make certain he stays indoors, quiet, and out of anyone else— I give you my permission to make that happen however it needs to.'
The sweep of his robes is almost silent when he leaves.
The inside of Astarion's room is fully silent.
A lofty space, still gilded and bright as ever. Those high ceilings, the attached wide balconies overlooking the Lower Reaches. No water, though. It's only the master suites that have the ocean views— and to be fair, it's not as palatial an estate as some of the literal palaces that take up whole portions of the upper city— but still. Beautiful.
And in the center of it all sits Astarion on his bed, nursing along his temper in dull solitude. He looks childish for his sulking (as anyone does), but ironically, not like the child he's been treated to be. Because buckling against the agonies of being a grown thing while handled like an annoying little upstart is—
Painful, maybe.
Like wearing clothing two sizes too small.
Like you can't even sit comfortably without feeling where restriction cuts deep into your own skin, and there's no way to relax but strip it all aside. And there's no one to confide in because there's—
no subject
Astarion, lean and undone where he still half-hunches against cold brickwork, puts his scuffed up knuckles to use in redressing himself: his blouse used to daub away the sweat and streaks of tacky slick, clearing its mess off his stomach, his clothes— bunching it into a ball between his fingers before cleaning them too— and tossing it into the gutter last, with only his slacks and shoes and jewelry left to walk him home. The expense is nothing, not even his kin would bat an eye at it. The budget carefully kept back home won't notice. Even an unraveling cuff's an excuse to toss rare silk into the trash for anyone of the patriar rank, and most people in the Lower City fetch their best wardrobes from the beautiful casualties tossed out of the upper reaches each day.
And from there, stubbornly, with his head still swimming slightly and his mood gone sedate, they walk home.
Astarion goes to sleep. Tends to his studies after that. His meals. In other words: he lives his life as usual, without trying to slip away once the sun's set— though whether that's because there isn't a worthwhile orgy to attend or a naked fountain swim he's been invited to, it's hard to say. No one should discount his nature for a second, after all. Least of all Fenris, who isn't spoken to so much as at— if at all— in the next handful of weeks: I'm going outside. I'm staying in. Stop hovering. Go the fuck away. Get out. Leave me alone.
The routine huffing of a thing with a long shadow, in essence, albeit one that knows its limits (he can't order Fenris around, but he can keep yanking him along to frustrate him. Test him. Rile him. Demand he come in close and then leave him standing watch while he fucks some pretty little treat of a servant in a shut closet. Stare at him from the dinner table whilst broaching every subject that could vex. Little nips at his figurative heels, but that's as far as it ever goes). The little sparks of animosity. The tepid traces of heat that still linger even when everything's cooled off.
They break, at least, whenever Fenris slips away to tend to his own needs.
Coming back's a different story.]
That wretched cunt barely knows the books he writes in, and you take his word over mine? I did you a favor—
['Two years until you take title, Astarion. Barely two years— and this is how you behave?'
Ah. The same argument as always, only it's catalyst different this time judging by what echoes behind shut doors. A so-called useless tutor, a so-called irresponsible student who refuses to behave. Reckless and indiscreet in his endless transgressions.
And like always it doesn't matter what Astarion has to say for himself. It doesn't matter if a blow is struck to his cheek for crude insult, or if the blow itself is the just the word that finally shuts him up; his father leaving without acknowledgment of either, only locking eyes with Fenris once he steps outside the room.
'Until I find another tutor, train him.' The finality of it: this is your role, now. One more addition to the rest, without a drop of concern spared for what a former slave might teach a highborne elf. Even a simple bid at perception would swear the man doesn't really care; it's clearly not about the lessons themselves, but the occupation of time. Odds are, he probably imagines that the less opportunity his son has to make trouble, the less trouble there'll inevitably be.
Although as today proves, that remains to be seen. 'Just make certain he stays indoors, quiet, and out of anyone else— I give you my permission to make that happen however it needs to.'
The sweep of his robes is almost silent when he leaves.
The inside of Astarion's room is fully silent.
A lofty space, still gilded and bright as ever. Those high ceilings, the attached wide balconies overlooking the Lower Reaches. No water, though. It's only the master suites that have the ocean views— and to be fair, it's not as palatial an estate as some of the literal palaces that take up whole portions of the upper city— but still. Beautiful.
And in the center of it all sits Astarion on his bed, nursing along his temper in dull solitude. He looks childish for his sulking (as anyone does), but ironically, not like the child he's been treated to be. Because buckling against the agonies of being a grown thing while handled like an annoying little upstart is—
Painful, maybe.
Like wearing clothing two sizes too small.
Like you can't even sit comfortably without feeling where restriction cuts deep into your own skin, and there's no way to relax but strip it all aside. And there's no one to confide in because there's—
No one.]