[His first thought, as Karlach wanders off to check upon her charge and Fenris attempts to do the same with his own, isn't that Astarion might have disappeared out of spite. And that's important. It's important because everything between them is so terribly tentative, and now more than ever Astarion deserves the benefit of the doubt. It would be a lie to say his mind doesn't dart towards a more carnal explanation (especially in wake of how utterly frustrated his lord had been by the end of that first night), but still, he bites his tongue and keeps that thought to himself.
Though frankly, Fenris thinks as he approaches that wolf pack in noble attire, even if he was utterly convinced that was why Astarion ran off, he still would keep it to himself. He does not like Astarion's friends. Likely he'll never like any of them individually (except maybe Dalyria, and even then, he likes her for her ability to hold her tongue more than anything), but gods, he especially despises them when they're together. There's such an air of sneering, airy judgement about them— childish compared to Danarius and his ilk, but all the more vicious for it. They've nothing to blunt their teeth upon just yet, and so they turn upon one another— or any other luckless victim too powerless to properly fight back.
It's not that Fenris is intimidated as he stands before them. Even if he was, he's too practiced at making his face stone to give away any hint of anxiety or fear. But it's uncomfortable watching them watch him. Hunger in their gaze and nothing but malicious sport in their hearts— and no matter what he says or does next, there's nothing that can save him from it.
But really, what can they do? Actually do? Not much. They can't bed him, not without earning not just Astarion's wrath, but that of his father. They can't bully him into running some embarrassing errand, or force him to get drunk . . . all they have is their words, and what can they say that hasn't already been whispered in Fenris' ear? How far down does that lyrium go, what a savage beast, what a thrilling bit of sport, oh, he's heard it all. So what's there to be afraid of?
He wishes that thought helped.]
Luck?
[He regrets it the moment it slips past his lips, but the question takes him by surprise. There's smirks all around— and despite himself, despite all that he'd just assured himself on, still, Fenris feels a rush of hot embarrassment. He isn't stupid, but this lot will take his question as proof of it nonetheless.
'Yes, luck,' Violet drawls. Her head tips back, her hair tossed artfully over her free shoulder. 'From your little conquest— well. I say little . . .'
'We had a debate, you see.' Petras again, his words slow but deliberate. 'On what your type was. Astarion seemed confident he knew it, but then again . . . perhaps he didn't count on you having a taste for the strong, savage type.'
And the puzzle pieces fall into place. Fenris exhales slowly, his mouth thinning as he glances around the room. There's no shock of white hair that pops out immediately, but then again, this estate is a grand thing. There's plenty of rooms where he might be hiding.]
Where is he?
['Settle our argument first,' Violet commands— and it is a command, snapped out so effortlessly that Fenris feels his spine instinctively straighten. 'Did you end up bedding him? He keeps telling us you did.']
I—
[He knows why Astarion asserts that. He really does. It's so easy to lose standing among your peers no matter who they are, and this lot is the worst of them. Of course he said such a thing; there's no advantage to admitting that all you did was jerk off in an alley.
But suddenly Fenris is tired of this. These stupid games played by these idiotic children who have nothing better to do than endlessly speculate . . . well, let them. But there's nothing that says Fenris need play along.
Still: their eyes are gleaming. Still: they hang on to his every word, and will only laugh in spiteful mockery if he simply stalks off. And chalk it up to Astarion's influence, maybe, or his own newfound freedom— but Fenris feels something in him quietly snap.]
It was not a conquest. Simply because you six have little else going on in your lives beyond lustful machinations does not mean the rest of us do. And as for your argument—
[Gods. He hesitates for half a moment before finally continuing abruptly:]
— settle it yourselves. You have little else going on tonight.
[It won't win any awards for cleverest comeback of the year, but on the other hand, it's deeply satisfying to say. And certainly not what they expected: Violet's expression snaps into shocked indigence, while Petras (to his mild credit) snorts at that bucking bit of backtalk. Fenris doesn't bother to check the rest, turning on his heel and heading for the door.
The party spills into countless rooms, some more quiet than others. It takes him a few tries before he finds Astarion. His charge is sprawled in a chair in the middle of the room, a drained glass at his side and more than a few people gathered around him, chattering and laughing at something he says. And in his lap—
The son of the host himself, and oh, what a pretty thing he is. Giggling as he leans in to whisper in Astarion's ear, his cheeks flushed beneath tanned skin and teeth so white they gleam. A darling, daring little thing, drunk off champagne and all the bolder for it.
And it's all Fenris can do not to stalk over and tear the boy's throat out.
Somehow, impossibly, he makes his way over to a nearby wall. It's a miracle he doesn't bump into anyone, for he refuses to take his eyes off the sight of Astarion and this boy. This child, this drunken idiot who thinks it's the height of coy cleverness to splay his fingers against Astarion's chest, loudly admiring the supposed detailing on his buttons.
And unlike last time, he's no leave to grab Astarion and march him out. A bit of unsubtle flirting isn't enough to warrant any kind of scolding. And so he simply stands there, seething silently, his expression stone and his eyes thunderous, glaring fiercely at the brat in his brat's lap.
But oh— he has leave to say something, doesn't he? Innocuous and not untrue, and it's a flimsy excuse, but he'll take what he can get. His jaw clenched, Fenris slips between partygoers, glaring down at his errant charge.]
You should have told me you were leaving the room.
[There's a thousand statements layered beneath that, jealous and seething, angry and upset— but to the guests around them, he simply appears like an overly serious bodyguard. Enthusiastic, yes, but not particularly inappropriate.]
no subject
Though frankly, Fenris thinks as he approaches that wolf pack in noble attire, even if he was utterly convinced that was why Astarion ran off, he still would keep it to himself. He does not like Astarion's friends. Likely he'll never like any of them individually (except maybe Dalyria, and even then, he likes her for her ability to hold her tongue more than anything), but gods, he especially despises them when they're together. There's such an air of sneering, airy judgement about them— childish compared to Danarius and his ilk, but all the more vicious for it. They've nothing to blunt their teeth upon just yet, and so they turn upon one another— or any other luckless victim too powerless to properly fight back.
It's not that Fenris is intimidated as he stands before them. Even if he was, he's too practiced at making his face stone to give away any hint of anxiety or fear. But it's uncomfortable watching them watch him. Hunger in their gaze and nothing but malicious sport in their hearts— and no matter what he says or does next, there's nothing that can save him from it.
But really, what can they do? Actually do? Not much. They can't bed him, not without earning not just Astarion's wrath, but that of his father. They can't bully him into running some embarrassing errand, or force him to get drunk . . . all they have is their words, and what can they say that hasn't already been whispered in Fenris' ear? How far down does that lyrium go, what a savage beast, what a thrilling bit of sport, oh, he's heard it all. So what's there to be afraid of?
He wishes that thought helped.]
Luck?
[He regrets it the moment it slips past his lips, but the question takes him by surprise. There's smirks all around— and despite himself, despite all that he'd just assured himself on, still, Fenris feels a rush of hot embarrassment. He isn't stupid, but this lot will take his question as proof of it nonetheless.
'Yes, luck,' Violet drawls. Her head tips back, her hair tossed artfully over her free shoulder. 'From your little conquest— well. I say little . . .'
'We had a debate, you see.' Petras again, his words slow but deliberate. 'On what your type was. Astarion seemed confident he knew it, but then again . . . perhaps he didn't count on you having a taste for the strong, savage type.'
And the puzzle pieces fall into place. Fenris exhales slowly, his mouth thinning as he glances around the room. There's no shock of white hair that pops out immediately, but then again, this estate is a grand thing. There's plenty of rooms where he might be hiding.]
Where is he?
['Settle our argument first,' Violet commands— and it is a command, snapped out so effortlessly that Fenris feels his spine instinctively straighten. 'Did you end up bedding him? He keeps telling us you did.']
I—
[He knows why Astarion asserts that. He really does. It's so easy to lose standing among your peers no matter who they are, and this lot is the worst of them. Of course he said such a thing; there's no advantage to admitting that all you did was jerk off in an alley.
But suddenly Fenris is tired of this. These stupid games played by these idiotic children who have nothing better to do than endlessly speculate . . . well, let them. But there's nothing that says Fenris need play along.
Still: their eyes are gleaming. Still: they hang on to his every word, and will only laugh in spiteful mockery if he simply stalks off. And chalk it up to Astarion's influence, maybe, or his own newfound freedom— but Fenris feels something in him quietly snap.]
It was not a conquest. Simply because you six have little else going on in your lives beyond lustful machinations does not mean the rest of us do. And as for your argument—
[Gods. He hesitates for half a moment before finally continuing abruptly:]
— settle it yourselves. You have little else going on tonight.
[It won't win any awards for cleverest comeback of the year, but on the other hand, it's deeply satisfying to say. And certainly not what they expected: Violet's expression snaps into shocked indigence, while Petras (to his mild credit) snorts at that bucking bit of backtalk. Fenris doesn't bother to check the rest, turning on his heel and heading for the door.
The party spills into countless rooms, some more quiet than others. It takes him a few tries before he finds Astarion. His charge is sprawled in a chair in the middle of the room, a drained glass at his side and more than a few people gathered around him, chattering and laughing at something he says. And in his lap—
The son of the host himself, and oh, what a pretty thing he is. Giggling as he leans in to whisper in Astarion's ear, his cheeks flushed beneath tanned skin and teeth so white they gleam. A darling, daring little thing, drunk off champagne and all the bolder for it.
And it's all Fenris can do not to stalk over and tear the boy's throat out.
Somehow, impossibly, he makes his way over to a nearby wall. It's a miracle he doesn't bump into anyone, for he refuses to take his eyes off the sight of Astarion and this boy. This child, this drunken idiot who thinks it's the height of coy cleverness to splay his fingers against Astarion's chest, loudly admiring the supposed detailing on his buttons.
And unlike last time, he's no leave to grab Astarion and march him out. A bit of unsubtle flirting isn't enough to warrant any kind of scolding. And so he simply stands there, seething silently, his expression stone and his eyes thunderous, glaring fiercely at the brat in his brat's lap.
But oh— he has leave to say something, doesn't he? Innocuous and not untrue, and it's a flimsy excuse, but he'll take what he can get. His jaw clenched, Fenris slips between partygoers, glaring down at his errant charge.]
You should have told me you were leaving the room.
[There's a thousand statements layered beneath that, jealous and seething, angry and upset— but to the guests around them, he simply appears like an overly serious bodyguard. Enthusiastic, yes, but not particularly inappropriate.]