Until after you shoved your cock down my throat, you mean.
[That's a little unfair— but then again, Astarion not telling him his age was also a little unfair, so perhaps he can be forgiven. And anyway, what else is Fenris supposed to say? When Astarion sits there looking unfairly delicate, his sleepshirt too big on his slender frame and his expression screwed up defensively . . . fasta vass, and Fenris bites his lip as he glances away again, his thoughts roaring as they shuttle between sharp indignance and a wearied sort of acceptance.
For he knows even now that this won't change anything. It's a shock, yes, and he does not love it— but nor has he scrambled off the bed, swearing to never touch his ward again. Forty-five is so young, but it isn't criminal, and gods know Astarion's no doeish innocent waiting to be corrupted . . . gods, forty-five is an adult by human standards, and at least mature enough to consent in elvish ones.
Mmph . . . Fenris scrubs a hand over his mouth as he once again focuses back on the pale elf. He really does look so pretty like that, some dark part of Fenris' mind whispers. The instinctive part, the wolfish part— the part that wants to dart forward and sweep Astarion up in his arms, pinning him to the bed beneath his bulk and worrying at his neck until he leaves a definitive mark. Mine, you're mine, all mine, I'll protect you, I'll keep you safe, snarling at the outside world and every fool tutor he'll someday hunt down and beat into submission.
A short sigh. Another quick scrub, as if that might somehow clear his head.]
Stop looking at me like that.
[So vulnerably, his frame so small as he hunches his shoulders . . . fasta vass, and he curses under his breath even as he leans forward, tugging Astarion into his lap. It isn't a reward; his fingers dig in firm against the other elf's hips, keeping him still. Stay here, and it's no mistake the hem of his nightshirt is tucked beneath his hips: a vague bit of modesty for the sake of Fenris' strained nerves.]
Are there any other secrets you might have forgotten to mention? Another sibling beyond your brother? Or is the fact you haven't even hit half a century more than enough for the day?
[Gods. Gods . . .]
You cannot lie to me like this, Astarion. Not again.
[To be fair, none of this is fair; Astarion doesn't go hostile for that start.
Least of all because it's true.
As for the rest? There's a pair of warm arms circling him by the end of it, and a sturdy lap beneath him. There's a shoulder primed for his cheek to rest on, even if it's tense enough from turmoil to feel more like a rock than a pillow. There's a sense— or just a hunch on Astarion's side of things— that doesn't spell the end of their unnamed arrangement, or to quote Fenris, the end of this by way of 'if we are to do this', and that's the part he unexpectedly likes most.
So if that means taking the (rightful) blame for his behavior for the first time in his less-than-half-a-centuried life— maybe there's a second meaning to his smile. The pressure set across a faintly glowing shoulder.
Maybe he's also still a menace:]
I'm actually an ancient vampire trapped in an eternally young body, and held captive by an estate that only pretends to be my family. I have— [oh, what's a rounded number] six other siblings, none of them by blood, with you about to make the seventh.
[Punctuated by a chomp of his dull teeth into the shoulder he's draped on.
(No, he hasn't got anymore secrets.)]
I wasn't trying to lie to you after that night, you know. [First night? yes. Aftermath, well— span it a few weeks between the glowers and the attempts to seduce for cruelty and competition's sake, right up until cool, damp cloth sank kind against his skin.]
I just didn't think you'd last.
[No one else did, anyway.
Chin still pushed into that shoulder; gaze still unfixed for a beat.]
[Admittedly, he snorts quietly at that story. Little menace, and absently Fenris turns his head, returning that dull bite with a nip of his own against the tip of Astarion's ear. Stop that, the scold as tame as the teasing itself.
But ah . . . honesty at last, and to his quiet surprise, Fenris finds he appreciates it. There's something to be said for a straightforward answer, especially in wake of all they've done.]
Mmm.
[It's a noise somewhere between a hum and a grumble: acknowledgement combined with a grudging little hmph as the last of his resentment still embers. Perhaps he'll be sore about it for a fair bit— no, almost assuredly he will, for this was a rather unpleasant shock. But he'll get over it in time. And until he does . . . well. There's scolding and scolding— and perhaps he'll bring this up the next time they fuck.
For now: all is at least forgiven enough that they can curl up together like this. With a little hup Fenris shifts himself backwards, pulling Astarion with him as he settles back against the headboard.]
And now?
[I didn't think I'd care, and it's not that he expects Astarion to admit that he's secretly fallen in love with him. That's far too soon, and anyway, they're only just starting to admit they're even somewhat fond of each other. But perhaps he wants to hear it pinned. Perhaps, after all the aggression of the past few days, he wants something concrete.]
[His scoff is the lightest brush across that shoulder underneath.]
About what happens to you? [About you.] Mmhm.
[He wants those fingers behind his ears. He wants the soft pull of them tucked under his curls— please— without playing into that he's sorry. That he was wrong. That he might not want to do better, but he wants to try. Good behavior the last thing allowed to sit beside him via choice if he's not getting anything out of it.
But like everything else, Astarion won't beg for it— he pushes.
Starting first through words. Then by shoving back against those teeth as they close in, ignoring the twitch of a bitten ear that flicks once— twice— one part whipping out of reach while the rest of him drives nearer in their sprawl: arching his back. Locking his legs a little more, and using his toes to push over thick sheets. A kind of angled drive that slants him into Fenris right down to the margins.
Which is as far as it all goes.
Considering the messy tangle of conflicted emotion they're otherwise burning through, he's not actually trying to incite a second (third?) bout; there's no skipping over the shaky midline of it all to get right back to the spot where they'd left off, despite the run of his own nature. Even his shirt hem stays put, surprisingly. Balled up somewhere between the corner of an angled thigh and pinched in the creasing merger of rough fabric, it's doing the hard, thankless work of keeping modesty intact.]
You already know you're the most interesting person I talk to, and....
[Oh, give him a second. He's thinking.]
....a fairly decent lay.
[Guilt and indemnity aside, once again: Astarion Ancunín's not laying it on thick unless he's being catered to first.]
It's a startled thing more felt than heard, an exasperated chuckle that bursts out of him in one exhale. His arms wrap tighter around him, drawing him in as he presses close, his movements as insistent as any pup. His weight is a pleasing one draped across Fenris' body, warm and soft in ways that he isn't used to having for himself. One arm slings around his hips, but though the other brushes against the base of his neck, he doesn't card through his hair just yet.]
A fairly decent lay . . . perhaps we should shift your focus from how to wield a gun to how to compliment people, brat.
[All at once his fingers knot tight in Astarion's hair right at the root: a tight, mean grip that grabs his attention and forces his head to tip back, just so Fenris can smile beatifically down at him. There's no anger in his gaze, no sadistic intent to start another round— just a swift reminder that Astarion's favorite tutor isn't nearly as much of a simpering pushover as the last twenty-five.]
He likes the way fingers lock down in his hair, aching.
He likes the way that diminutive name hits: stellula, and it's not the first time he's been called star, but it's the first time he's enjoyed it for exactly what it promises: that despite the yawning loneliness of his not-quite-as-long-as-formerly-professed life, someone isn't tolerating him for a selfish, unspoken cause. They're just tolerating him.
Which is all part of this, too.
(And maybe, blown back in the face of shit-poor odds, someone might even— )]
You try again.
[Snap— the quick click of his teeth catching around those syllables when he grins like a flipped card in the last round of Wicked Grace, fingertips busy shoving back against the dead center of Fenris' chest.]
Who says I was trying to compliment you? [And in his defense (it's not a defense), it's still a day for truths, apparently:]
I save all my flattery for the people I actually need to win over.
[Gods, what a charmer his noble is. He isn't immune, Fenris knows, but perhaps that's why it strikes at him: because he so often is. Because almost any other noble in this world could try their damnedest to charm him, whether it be via flirtation or friendliness, only to be met with a steel wall. He has no time for pity nor sympathy, amusement nor pleasure; he is an elite hound first and foremost, bred and trained for three centuries into being the perfect protector—
And yet he is disarmed with a smile. With silver eyes that flash with curiosity and cheeks that flush with excitement. And he does not know why it's so addicting to bait his Astarion, only that it is— and that if they have all morning to play with one another, Fenris will take every minute he can steal.]
I did not say flatter me. I do not want false compliments— and I like you best when you're honest.
[His fingers stay knotted firm in Astarion's hair, though there's amusement clear in his expression.]
But I was more than fairly decent. Or do you pass out in pleasure for every decent fuck you've had?
[This time it's Astarion that laughs, clear and bright as the sunlight washed across their tangled feet through half-shut windows.]
I was tired.
[His hips shift....just a touch. A test. Not strictly misbehaving, but not not misbehaving either in the way he tugs against the leash of stronger fingers, scalp burning in a way he's come to love.
(And if Fenris wants none of it— if he stiffens in the wrong ways, stopping's so easy when they're both laid up like this.
Well.
Mostly laid up, considering it's more of an intertwining tangle, now. Knuckles to his scalp; knuckles to the warm, inviting center of Fenris' chest. Knees to thighs and ankles to ankles.)]
Trying to make you jealous was exhausting; that spoiled brat [says the elf barely any older, if that] wouldn't stop wriggling in my lap.
By the time I got to you, it's a wonder I was even awake at all.
[Oh, that little shift, and though his eyes flick up to catch Astarion's gaze, he doesn't make a move to stop him. There's something a little wonderful about the playfully intimate mood that's come upon them both— and so long as that continues, he'd be as happy to keep talking as he would be to start another round. But, ah . . . something quieter this time, though. Something softer than all the competitive aggression of the past, more tender and honest than their bullish posturing. He is not so soppy as to think something like making love, but at the same time . . .
Something sweet, Fenris thinks, and, using the grip he has in his hair, tips Astarion's head back so he might lay a scolding nip just against his pulsepoint. Something real, now that the playing field has finally evened out.
But all that talk of last night jogs his memory, and he aims an amused smile up at his noble as he draws back.]
So you were jealous of Karlach last night.
[Of course he was, if he was trying to make Fenris feel the same. And it's mean, maybe, to keep that tight grip in his hair, but he wants to see if he'll fluster again.]
I did not realize until you had left . . . she is a friend, and an old one. We have worked together many times, for my old master had many dealings with hers. But not a rival for your affections . . . was it you or your friends who came up with such an idea in the first place?
[He's blushing more for that comment than the bite it's brought in by: red marks staining pallid skin in the shape of dragging teeth despite the fact that all his flush is stuck high in his ears. His pink-tinged cheeks, squeezed higher by degrees for the curl of a lip around one inset canine (and ignore the way his pulse is hosting a revolt all on its own, drumming into a frenzy away from Fenris' hard grip).
His eyebrows are pinched into a point so sharp he might actually be able to stab a man to death with it.]
J-jealous— I never— [Never, but he doesn't have it in him to bristle like he should. His best attempt melts in the margins of bent knees and balled-up fingers, bitter as his mood and somehow even harder to swallow. In fact the only reason why he gets it down is because momentum practically tramples it in favor of something else:]
I thought I was your only friend.
[Is he playing that angle up as a distraction?
Well, no, actually.
Because if he was, he'd be more clever about it. Drag out the sympathetic angle instead of the flash of silver cast by narrowed eyes in the seconds where his back arches and his weight drops a little further into that waiting hold. Maybe opt not to change the subject like the inattentive thing he is.]
[Oh, pretty thing. Pretty, petulant, lonely thing, and Fenris' amusement quiets as he regards that bitter expression. His fingers finally loosen their grip in silver curls, sweeping gently through his hair as he keeps him close.]
You are my only lover. And you are a friend, and one I trust more than, perhaps, you realize.
[He says it simply, though trust his heart races as he does. It's nothing that they haven't been dancing around, but it's one thing to obliquely refer to it; it's quite another to say it aloud. His fingers comb patiently through Astarion's hair, his other hand splaying gently against the small of his back. Settle, not a harsh command but soft cajole.]
And Karlach is . . .
[Mm.]
Not unlike what I am, and then again not unlike what I was, too. She is far more devoted to her master than I ever was— but it helped, having someone understand all the rigors of service.
[But oh, she's so devoted to Gortash. Fanatical about him, really, starry-eyed and adoring. Fenris has met the man but once, and he cannot say he doesn't understand— but nor does he have any love for him. A man who deals even obliquely with slaves, even if he's so very careful not to get his own hands dirty, is not someone Fenris can ever regard with anything but disgust.
He's told her as such, angrily and emphatically both, for all the good it's ever done. She's too fanatical to see what her master truly is, and Fenris only hopes it isn't when he has a blade at her throat.]
And as for your friends . . .
[He scoffs dismissively.]
Why value their opinions so highly? You must know most of them are fools.
[It's not that he suddenly feels as naked as he is once that hold slides free, it's—
Actually, he doesn't know. Hasn't got a clue, really, what it is in him that pulls him towards tractability (right down to the way upturned ears flick high towards each pull, or the slow stop-start hitching of his well-framed heart once that heavy palm sets in), in ways he's always bucked against on thoroughly compulsive instinct: angry to be told no, regardless of how nicely. Prone to shoving, scowling, scoffing— he's lost track of how many times he's made a game of sinking deeper into his own chair during grander speeches just because he knows it'll leave his own kin seeing red.
But not this.
Or—
Or if yes this, considering the oscillating flow of contrary momentum, it at least isn't rearing up right now.
Not so long as he can shift a little more forwards across that sprawled-out form. Not as long as he's tended to and seen, considering all the questions Fenris has ever posed are a damned sight more perceptive than what the average Patriar would expect of any bodyguard, let alone a former slave.
Come to think of it, they're more perceptive than the average Patriar, too.]
I don't value their opinion at all— even a blind, deaf, inbred Gur could—
No. No. That was a mistake, right? It— he didn't mean to say— ]
Did—
[His fingers are raised. Flexing. Hovering over the centerpoint of where they'd been anchored, they've taken to doing something just shy of a hold-up gesture meets intermittent, very shitty pointing.]
Did you just say [lover] that we're friends?
[NO.LOVER, ASTARION. THAT'S THE PART YOU WANT TO ASK ABOUT: LOVER.]
[Lover, and he expects the word so much that it trips him up when it's not what he hears. Fenris blinks at him, his eyes darting around his face— but no, it's no joke at his expense. Not when Astarion looks so terribly unsure.]
Yes.
[Simply said.]
I do not say what I do not mean. You value my companionship above all others? But I could say the same for you.
[And it's true, he's surprised to realize. Karlach is enjoyable enough, but Fenris cannot honestly say he trusts her, not when she's so devoted to her master. And what other casual acquiantances he has are just that: people that he knows purely by sight alone, familiarity breeding vague affection, but not trust. Not desire, neither to lay with them nor converse with them. And Astarion—
Oh, he is a vexing thing. Frustrating and spoiled, naive and sheltered— and yet Fenris recognizes more of himself through the gilded bars of Astarion's cage more readily than he wants to admit. He likes his humor. He likes his wit and his intensity, his intelligence and his talent— oh, so much of it is buried underneath all the faff that the upper class insist upon, but there is a boy there that Fenris adores. Cares for. Wants so badly to keep safe, just so that he might linger near him a little longer.]
Of course you are my friend. And, [he adds, as if Astarion might not have heard,] my lover, too.
[One shouldn't come without the other, though it often does.]
[It's different when you say it back isn't the defense his logic means for it to be when it kicks in somewhere around the cluttered back of his own skull. And it's only then the rest makes sense, too, you know, having been inadvertently stacked as a one-to-one ratio against Karlach— peer and fellow fighter— known for ages (years?) in a way that sucks all the air out of Astarion's highborne greatness, making him feel small. Young. Unequivalent. With the teasing, without that teasing, it didn't change a thing: he was always destined to be jealous.
Because he never thought that it was real.]
People don't say it like that.
[Friend. Lover. Two words that are boxed up inside superficial confines that reek of either irreverence or possessiveness with nothing in between—
So what does it mean when neither adjective applies?]
[No, they most certainly haven't. They haven't even really talked about what they are, or what that's meant to look like. And perhaps he was being too hasty, assuming such things without checking first— but he is so new to this. He is so new to all of this, gawky in a state of freedom and hesitant now that he has the power to make his own choices. And this— them, in whatever form it takes— has been unorthodox from the start.
So. Start again. Forget everything you assume you know, and focus only on the now. On Astarion warm in his arms, his expression bewildered and his bearing just a little hunched. Focus on how he, Fenris, feels: beneath all the nervousness and lingering frustration, what else is left? Uncertainty, yes. An eternal feeling of being half a step behind his coltish charge, teetering between trying to maintain a sense of responsibility and indulging his own wants. The teetering feeling of uncertainty when it comes to Astarion and his intentions— for though Fenris does not think his charge has lied to him, still. There is such a difference between what one thinks and hopes and desires, and what one does— and Fenris cannot shake the nagging fear that if everything were to come to a head, it would be, Fenris, who bore the brunt of the consequences.
But there is desire, too. A feeling of want that suffuses through him, drawing him in despite his better judgement. It isn't about sex, although there is that, too. But it's more than that. It's the warm, contented feeling that had risen in him that day at the shooting range; it's the same feeling that had him pressing a cold cloth to Astarion's cheek. It's what makes him gather him up so close now, quietly delighted by the tangle of limbs and a familiar weight settled in his lap.]
In truth, Astarion . . . I am unfamiliar with most customs people do or do not follow. And I do not know how this is meant to go.
[He brushes the back of his knuckles against his cheek, gentle in his attentions.]
What do you wish us to be?
[It's a soft question, but a real one. And it isn't an ultimatum, understand; he does not ask while drawing away. But perhaps they should start there. With what they both want— and whether or not it's feasible.]
[He promised him that. And for all the stupidness and recklessness and bold-faced roughhousing behind shut doors, the reason Astarion is coltish (or buckish, or whatever you want to call it), is because he knows his limits. Knows everyone else's, too, which is arguably more important in the long run when ambition's like a set of hungry jaws around your ankles, and it doesn't care if you don't want it or don't ask for it or don't even care.
It just wants whatever it is you're holding, if you've got anything at all worthwhile.
And gods' breath does it ever hate what doesn't pay it tribute.
So: safe.]
Lesson one? [Rearranging himself, Astarion only fidgets to find a better angle for the cushion of his bare hips (he's trying— as much as he can— to not jab either of them with the sharp bones under his skin), lacing his fingers over the back of Fenris' neck. Casual the only summary.] Lover. Thrown out by a patriar with a title, it really means I own you. Said by a patriar that's married, it means I want my significant other to really feel their pride sting. Said to someone else completely unaffiliated? It just means whore. Bitch.
Said by a smitten idiot that doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut, like the word friend, it means I want to ruin my life as fast as possible and let everyone have a nice clean shot at it— and that rule goes for even the pack I hang out with, too.
If I told them I don't hate being around them? They'd rip me apart before sunrise.
And the rest almost doesn't matter. Safe, and someday Fenris will have the words to tell Astarion just what it means to hear that word first and foremost slip past his lips. He cannot remember the last time anyone cared for his safety or his well-being, not beyond the fuss of an owner cherishing his property. Safe, Astarion says, and he means it in every way possible: not just from being fired and retaken, but from humiliation, too. Hurt. Grief. Whore, bitch, and they would call him that and worse. They would tear them apart with sharp tongues, his peers and his kin both; the wicked cruelty of a bored aristocrat with nothing else to do. Safe, and suddenly two and a half centuries between them means nothing, for Fenris aches to bury his face in the crook of Astarion's shoulder and shudder himself to pieces.
And he doesn't, of course. They haven't broached that kind of intimacy yet, for all that Astarion is half-naked in his lap. But perhaps some of that longing and adoration makes it to his expression. Or perhaps it comes out in the way he cannot help but touch Astarion over and over: idle motions against the sweep of his arms or the curve of his waist, fingers brushing through his hair, all of it gentle.
But ah . . . lover, friend, and he pays attention, he does, though Astarion's fingers are warm against the back of his neck. But in truth, it sounds bizarre to him. Not unusual, for it wasn't as if Danarius' line was free of sin. Fenris cannot recall his grandfather's proclivities, but he was young then, and far beneath the notice of his master. His father, though, assuredly had a mistress, for there was tension in the house from the moment she first arrived. But he was mere bodyguard then, forgotten and only used if necessary, not privy to the nuances of all the social dances that his masters indulged. If the man had used the term lover as a knife (and Fenris assumes he did, for no other reason than the entire family is sadistic), it flew far above Fenris' head at the time.
And Danarius . . . ah, but he kept it simple. Why tie yourself down to a single woman when you could get your heirs illegitimately? And it kept things so competitive between them. And as for friends, ah . . . no, that was what Fenris was for, wasn't it? A confidant (and a thousand other things) that could never wag his tongue or spill secrets for power.
And the point is this: he understands what Astarion means, oh, yes, and he can recognize the truth in his words. But it makes no sense to him, not really. Not on an innate level.]
Why?
[Forget the term lover for a moment. Forget them (as if his heart doesn't still ache with longing, safe, oh, he will kiss him a thousand times for that word). Fenris asks not just for their sake, but because he wants to understand. Astarion is entrenched within that world, and while dismissing the whims and priorities of nobles is all well and good, it's different when it comes to him.]
What is the point of allies if you all loathe each other so much?
Because they know I'd do it to them too— and it's better than having nothing and no one at all on your side.
[As affection washes over his borders through trailing fingerprints like the island that it is, he starts picking at the fibers of his world from its isolated shores, trying to make himself into a stranger to what shaped him. Made him.
(When even nursemaids have to abide by it, he could drop himself into cynicism just to aggrandize about what really suckled him from birth.
You know, if he was a pretentiously insufferable prick.)]
Orlais calls it the Grand Game, right?
[Purely rhetorical, that question: just a passive segue to pinpoint a way of life that Fenris may or may not know. The man's not thick by any stretch, but recent freedom's still recent freedom, and they both have their blindspots. So start there, drop a reference alluding to a nation practically written by their love of cambions and devils, all of it romanticized for being the embodiment of noble subterfuge, while also being publicly denounced by an equally beloved Chantry.
Always did make for a fascinating read.]
The end goal of everything being to outsmart and outmaneuver your competition— friends and enemies alike. Which is, obviously, the same thing.
Because the more elevated you are, the more the world foists into your lap just by virtue of being you. Id est: the more you have, the more you're admired by the world at large by anyone that wants even a speck of what you have. And the more you're admired, the more fervently you're hated in reverse by people you've never even met for that same reason, too. [And it's not a coincidence that high society's cluttered with cautionary tales about betrayal and longing and love. If it doesn't sink in early, then at least crude repetition might finish filling in the blanks for younger nobles before reality sets in.
Something to keep them away from reckless decisions like these.]
But you? You say these things in private, knowing it can't leave. Not wanting it to, anyway. [Not for status or pride; he'd gritted his teeth and waited out the worst of Astarion's teasing misbehavior with a noble in his lap, and it means Fenris isn't afraid to back off. back out. Fuck off.
Everything— all of it— rings so sincere it hurts for someone that's not used to it.
Makes astarion want to be the same, hungry as he is for love. Touchstarved fingers picking at pale swaths of straightset hair somewhere just behind tan ears, always leaning into every scuff. More. More.
But back to the lesson at hand, before he forgets the whole point of teaching.]
And I already know my father didn't send you to seduce me. [Spoken with the smallest shrug.] Even if he tried to bribe you by offering you freedom, you're too proud: you could maybe try to agree, but I don't think you'd ever bring yourself to do it— besides, my brother's too young to inherit right now anyway, and there's no guarantee that when that finally changes, he won't get hit with the same unruly distemperment as me come puberty. The scandal from making a play like that too early would be blunt as razors.
[It's nothing he hadn't vaguely known before, but there's such a difference between watching a graceful dance and knowing all the steps involved. Fenris listens with a solemn gaze, his hands still roaming as he meets every silent bid for more with as much affection as he can offer. Like that, like that, his palms rough but doting as they sweep over his charge's body, memorizing the arch of his back or the curve of his waist again and again.
And it's so easy to give that affection. Far easier than Fenris thought it might be— and once he starts, he finds he doesn't want to stop, for there's something so soothing about being able to touch like this. Call it relief after weeks of circling one another, maybe, or the last vestiges of last night's jealousy finally exorcised— but perhaps it's neither. Perhaps it's just been a long, long time since he touched anyone like this, and his hands relish relearning such a skill.
But it's strange to receive it. Cool fingers stroke through his hair, caressing the line of his downturned ears, and he tries very hard not to lose focus beneath their touch. It's just that it's so soothing; it's just that he cannot remember the last time anyone touched him like this, affectionate and fond without ulterior motivation. His ears flick beneath the attention, something melting in his gaze even as he attends to Astarion's lesson.]
Then you know I mean it.
[Yes, he does— but there's a relief to confirming it aloud. To knowing that doubt has not crossed Astarion's mind; that he doesn't suspect Fenris might be playing the same tiresome game his peers and family do, for no other reason than boredom or spiteful bribery.
(And he wonders, quietly and briefly: would he refuse if Astarion's father offered him his freedom? Yes, he thinks after a moment— but he does have to think about it, and quietly, that worries him).]
You know this world. You have played this game before.
[He tips his head up, leaning against those clever fingers.]
In this matter, then . . . you must take the lead. In public, we will act as our roles define us . . . but that is easy to say, and less easy to enact. I cannot . . .
[No. What is he trying to say?]
I do not want to go through another party watching you paw at some idiot simply to make me jealous. I do not want to go through another party waiting for one of your friends to strike at me, taunting me over who I've fucked or what kind of bedsport I would make. And I know you cannot . . . it would foolish for you to utterly give up your ways in an instant, and expect no one to notice the difference. But I cannot— will not— go through that again. Not like it has been before.
[For those humiliations would feel different now. It would sting so badly, knowing that Astarion adores him and refuses to show it— for good reason, yes, but what does his heart care for good reason and common sense?]
[Leaning pressure meets willing pressure through the unroughened edgeline of his palm, sighing down at the grown elf underneath him who looks so damn young in his confession with those wide, wet eyes. The flinty gold-green possessed of a gravity all its own, and it's had him for a long, long time, offset by a single fulcrum: if.
If, if, if— always that word comes up between them. If I held this whole estate. If I was older. If I didn't have to pretend. If I could just give you more....(oh, they wouldn't be living the lives they do.) And so if meets no somewhere in the back of Astarion Ancunín's absent mind, a little pinprick trickle slipping through the dry bed of waking possibility, quenching limitations at their brittle root.]
My....friends would notice a change that drastic, you're right. [Hummed out through his nose in thought, slim touch twisting that fringe between his fingers. He's not a creature given to pity, so it's not pity that pangs inside his chest, aching.
I can take the lead, yes. I can stop playing around. But if he plays too gentle....]
Unless you want to come clean, you'll have to be more assertive. Authoritative. [A proxy for his kin's propriety.
[It does feel like déjà vu, doesn't it? A strange dissonance, and it's not the first time he's felt with Astarion. And yet there's no lead to follow, no thread to chase, and so Fenris simply notes it and puts it away.
Better to focus on the here and now. The way it makes him feel to hear Tevene curled around Astarion's tongue: warmth followed by a short, sudden drop as he returns to reality and listens to what his master says. How good of an actor are you?]
I can hide my emotions if I wish.
[Every servant can, or they don't stay employed for long. And yet . . . mmph. It's not that he minds being authoritative. He can play the role of forbidding bodyguard, constantly keeping Astarion from running too wild; that doesn't bother him. But his mind flits to the party. To that circle of seven nobles, their eyes glittering with malice and their mouths twisted up into a jeering smirk; to his own sinking humiliation, and the realization that the pack had found their prey for the night . . .
And what will it do to him to see Astarion enact that role? Perhaps he will not sink his claws in as deeply as he had before, but it will still sting. And he could tolerate one night, or two, but . . . it will be years before Astarion can successfully pretend he's been tamed; decades more before he inherits. And if pressed, Fenris will admit: he could do it. That is the way his life has always been: he is set a task and he accomplishes it, for he has no choice in the matter.
But now he does. Here, now, with this elf in his lap . . . Fenris hums softly, his eyes flicking up as he focuses.]
Is there even a choice?
[It's a real question.]
They would tear us both apart if you told them you were fond of them, you said. Would they be similarly inclined if you were upfront about what we were? Or would that be akin to handing a child a loaded gun?
[For it seems more the latter to Fenris' mind— but Astarion has proven unexpectedly earnest. And for all that Fenris does not trust nobles, he does not have much knowledge of them, not really. Not beyond Danarius and his family. It's a fractured view and he knows it, so best to fill those gaps in his knowledge now.]
[Lanky joints fit around relaxed muscle in a way that leaves their outlines flush through the loose, milky opaque hang of his blouse; he's not sugarcoating any truths this morning.] But me making the absurd decision to try and keep the source of my supposed infatuation is at least, in their eyes, a move that makes sense. Confirming their petty little teases as something real gives them the satisfaction of being proven right, rather than being left out of the loop until all hell breaks loose.
[Plus, there's the chance that it could even endear them on some odd level, like bought stock or a racehorse invested into on a whim: when a hunch is made true, instinct can occasionally evolve into an odd little twitch of protectiveness. Your own secret. Your personal proof of validity on a microcosmic scale.]
I'd be careful about trusting Violet or Petras with holding either drink or your reputation, but— let's be honest— [the next bit said with a dose of implied exclusion, as if Astarion doesn't count:] who listens to children anyway?
[No one, is the answer. Not in higher circles, that is. And it doesn't count if a high lord's trying to fuck you, turning an ear to adolescent gossip while sticking his hand inside your pants— he won't care or remember it later, it's worth less than the chattering of servants. Whores. Anyone with a weathered nose for insights and lessened odds on petty gripes.]
Besides.
[He says, scoffing mostly to himself as he rolls two strands of hair into each other— the start of working on a braid along the edge of Leto's temple.]
[The word bursts past his lips without his say-so, more baffled than incredulous. It's not beyond the realm of imagination that such a group might find the hired help pleasing, in the same way they might grow fond of a stray dog that had taken to following them around. It's just that when he tries to apply that thought to himself it all sort of falls apart. Why me, for all he can imagine is Violet's indignant stare or Petras' sputtered offense.
It's playing with fire either way, Astarion says, and Fenris believes him— but still, surely they should go for the safer option. Fenris' misery be damned; he'll learn to cope with it, for long-term goals are always better than short-term happiness. And yet . . . is it the safer choice? Fenris wonders even as lithe fingers begin to braid his hair (and oh! what a thing, for he's never had anyone play with his hair like this before). That group is like bloodhounds on a scent when it comes to hidden secrets and idiotic gossip— and though Fenris is more inclined to deride than compliment, he has to admit, they're perceptive. How long will it take them to spot even the most minimal sign of misery? A tight mouth, a rigid spine . . . and then they'll test it. They'll prod at it like a doctor with a scalpel, trying eagerly to see just what it is that triggers it . . .
And when they find out, they'll be in the same position as before. Only this time, it won't be a shared thing. It will not be a secret they were let in on early; instead, they'll treat it like blackmail. Like a filthy secret to be held over Astarion's head.
It's a lot to ask to trust them. And maybe there is no right choice, Fenris thinks. But better to take control than to hope that Fenris can pretend enough to fool six clever little things with too much time on their hands.
With a little sigh, he tips his head, pushing gently against Astarion's fingers. They really do feel good. There's something a little intoxicating about the steady tug against his scalp; the doting care that comes from fussing with one's appearance . . . and it reminds him, just a little, of home. Tevinter, loathed and despised and yet home nonetheless, and Fenris misses the styles and food just as much as he despises everything else about the country.]
Let us tell them.
[He finally says it aloud, surfacing from his thoughts, though in truth he was only quiet for a few moments.]
It seems inevitable they will find out either way. And better to trust them with it and rely on their egos to keep the secret than to give them something unwillingly.
[And then, a little curiously:]
Why would they like me? All I have ever done is scold you and backtalk them.
Edited (dont lie dw i picked out an icon) 2023-12-27 19:52 (UTC)
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albinomilksnake2023-07-11 12:43 am
no subject
[That's a little unfair— but then again, Astarion not telling him his age was also a little unfair, so perhaps he can be forgiven. And anyway, what else is Fenris supposed to say? When Astarion sits there looking unfairly delicate, his sleepshirt too big on his slender frame and his expression screwed up defensively . . . fasta vass, and Fenris bites his lip as he glances away again, his thoughts roaring as they shuttle between sharp indignance and a wearied sort of acceptance.
For he knows even now that this won't change anything. It's a shock, yes, and he does not love it— but nor has he scrambled off the bed, swearing to never touch his ward again. Forty-five is so young, but it isn't criminal, and gods know Astarion's no doeish innocent waiting to be corrupted . . . gods, forty-five is an adult by human standards, and at least mature enough to consent in elvish ones.
Mmph . . . Fenris scrubs a hand over his mouth as he once again focuses back on the pale elf. He really does look so pretty like that, some dark part of Fenris' mind whispers. The instinctive part, the wolfish part— the part that wants to dart forward and sweep Astarion up in his arms, pinning him to the bed beneath his bulk and worrying at his neck until he leaves a definitive mark. Mine, you're mine, all mine, I'll protect you, I'll keep you safe, snarling at the outside world and every fool tutor he'll someday hunt down and beat into submission.
A short sigh. Another quick scrub, as if that might somehow clear his head.]
Stop looking at me like that.
[So vulnerably, his frame so small as he hunches his shoulders . . . fasta vass, and he curses under his breath even as he leans forward, tugging Astarion into his lap. It isn't a reward; his fingers dig in firm against the other elf's hips, keeping him still. Stay here, and it's no mistake the hem of his nightshirt is tucked beneath his hips: a vague bit of modesty for the sake of Fenris' strained nerves.]
Are there any other secrets you might have forgotten to mention? Another sibling beyond your brother? Or is the fact you haven't even hit half a century more than enough for the day?
[Gods. Gods . . .]
You cannot lie to me like this, Astarion. Not again.
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Least of all because it's true.
As for the rest? There's a pair of warm arms circling him by the end of it, and a sturdy lap beneath him. There's a shoulder primed for his cheek to rest on, even if it's tense enough from turmoil to feel more like a rock than a pillow. There's a sense— or just a hunch on Astarion's side of things— that doesn't spell the end of their unnamed arrangement, or to quote Fenris, the end of this by way of 'if we are to do this', and that's the part he unexpectedly likes most.
So if that means taking the (rightful) blame for his behavior for the first time in his less-than-half-a-centuried life— maybe there's a second meaning to his smile. The pressure set across a faintly glowing shoulder.
Maybe he's also still a menace:]
I'm actually an ancient vampire trapped in an eternally young body, and held captive by an estate that only pretends to be my family. I have— [oh, what's a rounded number] six other siblings, none of them by blood, with you about to make the seventh.
[Punctuated by a chomp of his dull teeth into the shoulder he's draped on.
(No, he hasn't got anymore secrets.)]
I wasn't trying to lie to you after that night, you know. [First night? yes. Aftermath, well— span it a few weeks between the glowers and the attempts to seduce for cruelty and competition's sake, right up until cool, damp cloth sank kind against his skin.]
I just didn't think you'd last.
[No one else did, anyway.
Chin still pushed into that shoulder; gaze still unfixed for a beat.]
Or that I'd care.
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But ah . . . honesty at last, and to his quiet surprise, Fenris finds he appreciates it. There's something to be said for a straightforward answer, especially in wake of all they've done.]
Mmm.
[It's a noise somewhere between a hum and a grumble: acknowledgement combined with a grudging little hmph as the last of his resentment still embers. Perhaps he'll be sore about it for a fair bit— no, almost assuredly he will, for this was a rather unpleasant shock. But he'll get over it in time. And until he does . . . well. There's scolding and scolding— and perhaps he'll bring this up the next time they fuck.
For now: all is at least forgiven enough that they can curl up together like this. With a little hup Fenris shifts himself backwards, pulling Astarion with him as he settles back against the headboard.]
And now?
[I didn't think I'd care, and it's not that he expects Astarion to admit that he's secretly fallen in love with him. That's far too soon, and anyway, they're only just starting to admit they're even somewhat fond of each other. But perhaps he wants to hear it pinned. Perhaps, after all the aggression of the past few days, he wants something concrete.]
You care for me?
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About what happens to you? [About you.] Mmhm.
[He wants those fingers behind his ears. He wants the soft pull of them tucked under his curls— please— without playing into that he's sorry. That he was wrong. That he might not want to do better, but he wants to try. Good behavior the last thing allowed to sit beside him via choice if he's not getting anything out of it.
But like everything else, Astarion won't beg for it— he pushes.
Starting first through words. Then by shoving back against those teeth as they close in, ignoring the twitch of a bitten ear that flicks once— twice— one part whipping out of reach while the rest of him drives nearer in their sprawl: arching his back. Locking his legs a little more, and using his toes to push over thick sheets. A kind of angled drive that slants him into Fenris right down to the margins.
Which is as far as it all goes.
Considering the messy tangle of conflicted emotion they're otherwise burning through, he's not actually trying to incite a second (third?) bout; there's no skipping over the shaky midline of it all to get right back to the spot where they'd left off, despite the run of his own nature. Even his shirt hem stays put, surprisingly. Balled up somewhere between the corner of an angled thigh and pinched in the creasing merger of rough fabric, it's doing the hard, thankless work of keeping modesty intact.]
You already know you're the most interesting person I talk to, and....
[Oh, give him a second. He's thinking.]
....a fairly decent lay.
[Guilt and indemnity aside, once again: Astarion Ancunín's not laying it on thick unless he's being catered to first.]
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It's a startled thing more felt than heard, an exasperated chuckle that bursts out of him in one exhale. His arms wrap tighter around him, drawing him in as he presses close, his movements as insistent as any pup. His weight is a pleasing one draped across Fenris' body, warm and soft in ways that he isn't used to having for himself. One arm slings around his hips, but though the other brushes against the base of his neck, he doesn't card through his hair just yet.]
A fairly decent lay . . . perhaps we should shift your focus from how to wield a gun to how to compliment people, brat.
[All at once his fingers knot tight in Astarion's hair right at the root: a tight, mean grip that grabs his attention and forces his head to tip back, just so Fenris can smile beatifically down at him. There's no anger in his gaze, no sadistic intent to start another round— just a swift reminder that Astarion's favorite tutor isn't nearly as much of a simpering pushover as the last twenty-five.]
Try again, stellula.
no subject
He likes the way fingers lock down in his hair, aching.
He likes the way that diminutive name hits: stellula, and it's not the first time he's been called star, but it's the first time he's enjoyed it for exactly what it promises: that despite the yawning loneliness of his not-quite-as-long-as-formerly-professed life, someone isn't tolerating him for a selfish, unspoken cause. They're just tolerating him.
Which is all part of this, too.
(And maybe, blown back in the face of shit-poor odds, someone might even— )]
You try again.
[Snap— the quick click of his teeth catching around those syllables when he grins like a flipped card in the last round of Wicked Grace, fingertips busy shoving back against the dead center of Fenris' chest.]
Who says I was trying to compliment you? [And in his defense (it's not a defense), it's still a day for truths, apparently:]
I save all my flattery for the people I actually need to win over.
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And yet he is disarmed with a smile. With silver eyes that flash with curiosity and cheeks that flush with excitement. And he does not know why it's so addicting to bait his Astarion, only that it is— and that if they have all morning to play with one another, Fenris will take every minute he can steal.]
I did not say flatter me. I do not want false compliments— and I like you best when you're honest.
[His fingers stay knotted firm in Astarion's hair, though there's amusement clear in his expression.]
But I was more than fairly decent. Or do you pass out in pleasure for every decent fuck you've had?
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I was tired.
[His hips shift....just a touch. A test. Not strictly misbehaving, but not not misbehaving either in the way he tugs against the leash of stronger fingers, scalp burning in a way he's come to love.
(And if Fenris wants none of it— if he stiffens in the wrong ways, stopping's so easy when they're both laid up like this.
Well.
Mostly laid up, considering it's more of an intertwining tangle, now. Knuckles to his scalp; knuckles to the warm, inviting center of Fenris' chest. Knees to thighs and ankles to ankles.)]
Trying to make you jealous was exhausting; that spoiled brat [says the elf barely any older, if that] wouldn't stop wriggling in my lap.
By the time I got to you, it's a wonder I was even awake at all.
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Something sweet, Fenris thinks, and, using the grip he has in his hair, tips Astarion's head back so he might lay a scolding nip just against his pulsepoint. Something real, now that the playing field has finally evened out.
But all that talk of last night jogs his memory, and he aims an amused smile up at his noble as he draws back.]
So you were jealous of Karlach last night.
[Of course he was, if he was trying to make Fenris feel the same. And it's mean, maybe, to keep that tight grip in his hair, but he wants to see if he'll fluster again.]
I did not realize until you had left . . . she is a friend, and an old one. We have worked together many times, for my old master had many dealings with hers. But not a rival for your affections . . . was it you or your friends who came up with such an idea in the first place?
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[He's blushing more for that comment than the bite it's brought in by: red marks staining pallid skin in the shape of dragging teeth despite the fact that all his flush is stuck high in his ears. His pink-tinged cheeks, squeezed higher by degrees for the curl of a lip around one inset canine (and ignore the way his pulse is hosting a revolt all on its own, drumming into a frenzy away from Fenris' hard grip).
His eyebrows are pinched into a point so sharp he might actually be able to stab a man to death with it.]
J-jealous— I never— [Never, but he doesn't have it in him to bristle like he should. His best attempt melts in the margins of bent knees and balled-up fingers, bitter as his mood and somehow even harder to swallow. In fact the only reason why he gets it down is because momentum practically tramples it in favor of something else:]
I thought I was your only friend.
[Is he playing that angle up as a distraction?
Well, no, actually.
Because if he was, he'd be more clever about it. Drag out the sympathetic angle instead of the flash of silver cast by narrowed eyes in the seconds where his back arches and his weight drops a little further into that waiting hold. Maybe opt not to change the subject like the inattentive thing he is.]
Khh. They did.
[Goes without saying who they are.]
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You are my only lover. And you are a friend, and one I trust more than, perhaps, you realize.
[He says it simply, though trust his heart races as he does. It's nothing that they haven't been dancing around, but it's one thing to obliquely refer to it; it's quite another to say it aloud. His fingers comb patiently through Astarion's hair, his other hand splaying gently against the small of his back. Settle, not a harsh command but soft cajole.]
And Karlach is . . .
[Mm.]
Not unlike what I am, and then again not unlike what I was, too. She is far more devoted to her master than I ever was— but it helped, having someone understand all the rigors of service.
[But oh, she's so devoted to Gortash. Fanatical about him, really, starry-eyed and adoring. Fenris has met the man but once, and he cannot say he doesn't understand— but nor does he have any love for him. A man who deals even obliquely with slaves, even if he's so very careful not to get his own hands dirty, is not someone Fenris can ever regard with anything but disgust.
He's told her as such, angrily and emphatically both, for all the good it's ever done. She's too fanatical to see what her master truly is, and Fenris only hopes it isn't when he has a blade at her throat.]
And as for your friends . . .
[He scoffs dismissively.]
Why value their opinions so highly? You must know most of them are fools.
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Actually, he doesn't know. Hasn't got a clue, really, what it is in him that pulls him towards tractability (right down to the way upturned ears flick high towards each pull, or the slow stop-start hitching of his well-framed heart once that heavy palm sets in), in ways he's always bucked against on thoroughly compulsive instinct: angry to be told no, regardless of how nicely. Prone to shoving, scowling, scoffing— he's lost track of how many times he's made a game of sinking deeper into his own chair during grander speeches just because he knows it'll leave his own kin seeing red.
But not this.
Or—
Or if yes this, considering the oscillating flow of contrary momentum, it at least isn't rearing up right now.
Not so long as he can shift a little more forwards across that sprawled-out form. Not as long as he's tended to and seen, considering all the questions Fenris has ever posed are a damned sight more perceptive than what the average Patriar would expect of any bodyguard, let alone a former slave.
Come to think of it, they're more perceptive than the average Patriar, too.]
I don't value their opinion at all— even a blind, deaf, inbred Gur could—
2/3
Oh wait.
Wait wait wait.
Wait wait wait wait wait.]
3/3
No. No. That was a mistake, right? It— he didn't mean to say— ]
Did—
[His fingers are raised. Flexing. Hovering over the centerpoint of where they'd been anchored, they've taken to doing something just shy of a hold-up gesture meets intermittent, very shitty pointing.]
Did you just say [lover] that we're friends?
[NO. LOVER, ASTARION. THAT'S THE PART YOU WANT TO ASK ABOUT: LOVER.]
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Yes.
[Simply said.]
I do not say what I do not mean. You value my companionship above all others? But I could say the same for you.
[And it's true, he's surprised to realize. Karlach is enjoyable enough, but Fenris cannot honestly say he trusts her, not when she's so devoted to her master. And what other casual acquiantances he has are just that: people that he knows purely by sight alone, familiarity breeding vague affection, but not trust. Not desire, neither to lay with them nor converse with them. And Astarion—
Oh, he is a vexing thing. Frustrating and spoiled, naive and sheltered— and yet Fenris recognizes more of himself through the gilded bars of Astarion's cage more readily than he wants to admit. He likes his humor. He likes his wit and his intensity, his intelligence and his talent— oh, so much of it is buried underneath all the faff that the upper class insist upon, but there is a boy there that Fenris adores. Cares for. Wants so badly to keep safe, just so that he might linger near him a little longer.]
Of course you are my friend. And, [he adds, as if Astarion might not have heard,] my lover, too.
[One shouldn't come without the other, though it often does.]
Why does it surprise you?
no subject
Because he never thought that it was real.]
People don't say it like that.
[Friend. Lover. Two words that are boxed up inside superficial confines that reek of either irreverence or possessiveness with nothing in between—
So what does it mean when neither adjective applies?]
We've never said it like that.
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So. Start again. Forget everything you assume you know, and focus only on the now. On Astarion warm in his arms, his expression bewildered and his bearing just a little hunched. Focus on how he, Fenris, feels: beneath all the nervousness and lingering frustration, what else is left? Uncertainty, yes. An eternal feeling of being half a step behind his coltish charge, teetering between trying to maintain a sense of responsibility and indulging his own wants. The teetering feeling of uncertainty when it comes to Astarion and his intentions— for though Fenris does not think his charge has lied to him, still. There is such a difference between what one thinks and hopes and desires, and what one does— and Fenris cannot shake the nagging fear that if everything were to come to a head, it would be, Fenris, who bore the brunt of the consequences.
But there is desire, too. A feeling of want that suffuses through him, drawing him in despite his better judgement. It isn't about sex, although there is that, too. But it's more than that. It's the warm, contented feeling that had risen in him that day at the shooting range; it's the same feeling that had him pressing a cold cloth to Astarion's cheek. It's what makes him gather him up so close now, quietly delighted by the tangle of limbs and a familiar weight settled in his lap.]
In truth, Astarion . . . I am unfamiliar with most customs people do or do not follow. And I do not know how this is meant to go.
[He brushes the back of his knuckles against his cheek, gentle in his attentions.]
What do you wish us to be?
[It's a soft question, but a real one. And it isn't an ultimatum, understand; he does not ask while drawing away. But perhaps they should start there. With what they both want— and whether or not it's feasible.]
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[He promised him that. And for all the stupidness and recklessness and bold-faced roughhousing behind shut doors, the reason Astarion is coltish (or buckish, or whatever you want to call it), is because he knows his limits. Knows everyone else's, too, which is arguably more important in the long run when ambition's like a set of hungry jaws around your ankles, and it doesn't care if you don't want it or don't ask for it or don't even care.
It just wants whatever it is you're holding, if you've got anything at all worthwhile.
And gods' breath does it ever hate what doesn't pay it tribute.
So: safe.]
Lesson one? [Rearranging himself, Astarion only fidgets to find a better angle for the cushion of his bare hips (he's trying— as much as he can— to not jab either of them with the sharp bones under his skin), lacing his fingers over the back of Fenris' neck. Casual the only summary.] Lover. Thrown out by a patriar with a title, it really means I own you. Said by a patriar that's married, it means I want my significant other to really feel their pride sting. Said to someone else completely unaffiliated? It just means whore. Bitch.
Said by a smitten idiot that doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut, like the word friend, it means I want to ruin my life as fast as possible and let everyone have a nice clean shot at it— and that rule goes for even the pack I hang out with, too.
If I told them I don't hate being around them? They'd rip me apart before sunrise.
[And then, with a thoughtful little scoff:]
Maybe even you.
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And the rest almost doesn't matter. Safe, and someday Fenris will have the words to tell Astarion just what it means to hear that word first and foremost slip past his lips. He cannot remember the last time anyone cared for his safety or his well-being, not beyond the fuss of an owner cherishing his property. Safe, Astarion says, and he means it in every way possible: not just from being fired and retaken, but from humiliation, too. Hurt. Grief. Whore, bitch, and they would call him that and worse. They would tear them apart with sharp tongues, his peers and his kin both; the wicked cruelty of a bored aristocrat with nothing else to do. Safe, and suddenly two and a half centuries between them means nothing, for Fenris aches to bury his face in the crook of Astarion's shoulder and shudder himself to pieces.
And he doesn't, of course. They haven't broached that kind of intimacy yet, for all that Astarion is half-naked in his lap. But perhaps some of that longing and adoration makes it to his expression. Or perhaps it comes out in the way he cannot help but touch Astarion over and over: idle motions against the sweep of his arms or the curve of his waist, fingers brushing through his hair, all of it gentle.
But ah . . . lover, friend, and he pays attention, he does, though Astarion's fingers are warm against the back of his neck. But in truth, it sounds bizarre to him. Not unusual, for it wasn't as if Danarius' line was free of sin. Fenris cannot recall his grandfather's proclivities, but he was young then, and far beneath the notice of his master. His father, though, assuredly had a mistress, for there was tension in the house from the moment she first arrived. But he was mere bodyguard then, forgotten and only used if necessary, not privy to the nuances of all the social dances that his masters indulged. If the man had used the term lover as a knife (and Fenris assumes he did, for no other reason than the entire family is sadistic), it flew far above Fenris' head at the time.
And Danarius . . . ah, but he kept it simple. Why tie yourself down to a single woman when you could get your heirs illegitimately? And it kept things so competitive between them. And as for friends, ah . . . no, that was what Fenris was for, wasn't it? A confidant (and a thousand other things) that could never wag his tongue or spill secrets for power.
And the point is this: he understands what Astarion means, oh, yes, and he can recognize the truth in his words. But it makes no sense to him, not really. Not on an innate level.]
Why?
[Forget the term lover for a moment. Forget them (as if his heart doesn't still ache with longing, safe, oh, he will kiss him a thousand times for that word). Fenris asks not just for their sake, but because he wants to understand. Astarion is entrenched within that world, and while dismissing the whims and priorities of nobles is all well and good, it's different when it comes to him.]
What is the point of allies if you all loathe each other so much?
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[As affection washes over his borders through trailing fingerprints like the island that it is, he starts picking at the fibers of his world from its isolated shores, trying to make himself into a stranger to what shaped him. Made him.
(When even nursemaids have to abide by it, he could drop himself into cynicism just to aggrandize about what really suckled him from birth.
You know, if he was a pretentiously insufferable prick.)]
Orlais calls it the Grand Game, right?
[Purely rhetorical, that question: just a passive segue to pinpoint a way of life that Fenris may or may not know. The man's not thick by any stretch, but recent freedom's still recent freedom, and they both have their blindspots. So start there, drop a reference alluding to a nation practically written by their love of cambions and devils, all of it romanticized for being the embodiment of noble subterfuge, while also being publicly denounced by an equally beloved Chantry.
Always did make for a fascinating read.]
The end goal of everything being to outsmart and outmaneuver your competition— friends and enemies alike. Which is, obviously, the same thing.
Because the more elevated you are, the more the world foists into your lap just by virtue of being you. Id est: the more you have, the more you're admired by the world at large by anyone that wants even a speck of what you have. And the more you're admired, the more fervently you're hated in reverse by people you've never even met for that same reason, too. [And it's not a coincidence that high society's cluttered with cautionary tales about betrayal and longing and love. If it doesn't sink in early, then at least crude repetition might finish filling in the blanks for younger nobles before reality sets in.
Something to keep them away from reckless decisions like these.]
But you? You say these things in private, knowing it can't leave. Not wanting it to, anyway. [Not for status or pride; he'd gritted his teeth and waited out the worst of Astarion's teasing misbehavior with a noble in his lap, and it means Fenris isn't afraid to back off. back out. Fuck off.
Everything— all of it— rings so sincere it hurts for someone that's not used to it.
Makes astarion want to be the same, hungry as he is for love. Touchstarved fingers picking at pale swaths of straightset hair somewhere just behind tan ears, always leaning into every scuff. More. More.
But back to the lesson at hand, before he forgets the whole point of teaching.]
And I already know my father didn't send you to seduce me. [Spoken with the smallest shrug.] Even if he tried to bribe you by offering you freedom, you're too proud: you could maybe try to agree, but I don't think you'd ever bring yourself to do it— besides, my brother's too young to inherit right now anyway, and there's no guarantee that when that finally changes, he won't get hit with the same unruly distemperment as me come puberty. The scandal from making a play like that too early would be blunt as razors.
He's not that stupid.
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And it's so easy to give that affection. Far easier than Fenris thought it might be— and once he starts, he finds he doesn't want to stop, for there's something so soothing about being able to touch like this. Call it relief after weeks of circling one another, maybe, or the last vestiges of last night's jealousy finally exorcised— but perhaps it's neither. Perhaps it's just been a long, long time since he touched anyone like this, and his hands relish relearning such a skill.
But it's strange to receive it. Cool fingers stroke through his hair, caressing the line of his downturned ears, and he tries very hard not to lose focus beneath their touch. It's just that it's so soothing; it's just that he cannot remember the last time anyone touched him like this, affectionate and fond without ulterior motivation. His ears flick beneath the attention, something melting in his gaze even as he attends to Astarion's lesson.]
Then you know I mean it.
[Yes, he does— but there's a relief to confirming it aloud. To knowing that doubt has not crossed Astarion's mind; that he doesn't suspect Fenris might be playing the same tiresome game his peers and family do, for no other reason than boredom or spiteful bribery.
(And he wonders, quietly and briefly: would he refuse if Astarion's father offered him his freedom? Yes, he thinks after a moment— but he does have to think about it, and quietly, that worries him).]
You know this world. You have played this game before.
[He tips his head up, leaning against those clever fingers.]
In this matter, then . . . you must take the lead. In public, we will act as our roles define us . . . but that is easy to say, and less easy to enact. I cannot . . .
[No. What is he trying to say?]
I do not want to go through another party watching you paw at some idiot simply to make me jealous. I do not want to go through another party waiting for one of your friends to strike at me, taunting me over who I've fucked or what kind of bedsport I would make. And I know you cannot . . . it would foolish for you to utterly give up your ways in an instant, and expect no one to notice the difference. But I cannot— will not— go through that again. Not like it has been before.
[For those humiliations would feel different now. It would sting so badly, knowing that Astarion adores him and refuses to show it— for good reason, yes, but what does his heart care for good reason and common sense?]
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[Leaning pressure meets willing pressure through the unroughened edgeline of his palm, sighing down at the grown elf underneath him who looks so damn young in his confession with those wide, wet eyes. The flinty gold-green possessed of a gravity all its own, and it's had him for a long, long time, offset by a single fulcrum: if.
If, if, if— always that word comes up between them. If I held this whole estate. If I was older. If I didn't have to pretend. If I could just give you more....(oh, they wouldn't be living the lives they do.) And so if meets no somewhere in the back of Astarion Ancunín's absent mind, a little pinprick trickle slipping through the dry bed of waking possibility, quenching limitations at their brittle root.]
My....friends would notice a change that drastic, you're right. [Hummed out through his nose in thought, slim touch twisting that fringe between his fingers. He's not a creature given to pity, so it's not pity that pangs inside his chest, aching.
I can take the lead, yes. I can stop playing around. But if he plays too gentle....]
Unless you want to come clean, you'll have to be more assertive. Authoritative. [A proxy for his kin's propriety.
It almost feels like déjà vu when he asks:]
Hm. How good of an actor are you?
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Better to focus on the here and now. The way it makes him feel to hear Tevene curled around Astarion's tongue: warmth followed by a short, sudden drop as he returns to reality and listens to what his master says. How good of an actor are you?]
I can hide my emotions if I wish.
[Every servant can, or they don't stay employed for long. And yet . . . mmph. It's not that he minds being authoritative. He can play the role of forbidding bodyguard, constantly keeping Astarion from running too wild; that doesn't bother him. But his mind flits to the party. To that circle of seven nobles, their eyes glittering with malice and their mouths twisted up into a jeering smirk; to his own sinking humiliation, and the realization that the pack had found their prey for the night . . .
And what will it do to him to see Astarion enact that role? Perhaps he will not sink his claws in as deeply as he had before, but it will still sting. And he could tolerate one night, or two, but . . . it will be years before Astarion can successfully pretend he's been tamed; decades more before he inherits. And if pressed, Fenris will admit: he could do it. That is the way his life has always been: he is set a task and he accomplishes it, for he has no choice in the matter.
But now he does. Here, now, with this elf in his lap . . . Fenris hums softly, his eyes flicking up as he focuses.]
Is there even a choice?
[It's a real question.]
They would tear us both apart if you told them you were fond of them, you said. Would they be similarly inclined if you were upfront about what we were? Or would that be akin to handing a child a loaded gun?
[For it seems more the latter to Fenris' mind— but Astarion has proven unexpectedly earnest. And for all that Fenris does not trust nobles, he does not have much knowledge of them, not really. Not beyond Danarius and his family. It's a fractured view and he knows it, so best to fill those gaps in his knowledge now.]
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[Lanky joints fit around relaxed muscle in a way that leaves their outlines flush through the loose, milky opaque hang of his blouse; he's not sugarcoating any truths this morning.] But me making the absurd decision to try and keep the source of my supposed infatuation is at least, in their eyes, a move that makes sense. Confirming their petty little teases as something real gives them the satisfaction of being proven right, rather than being left out of the loop until all hell breaks loose.
[Plus, there's the chance that it could even endear them on some odd level, like bought stock or a racehorse invested into on a whim: when a hunch is made true, instinct can occasionally evolve into an odd little twitch of protectiveness. Your own secret. Your personal proof of validity on a microcosmic scale.]
I'd be careful about trusting Violet or Petras with holding either drink or your reputation, but— let's be honest— [the next bit said with a dose of implied exclusion, as if Astarion doesn't count:] who listens to children anyway?
[No one, is the answer. Not in higher circles, that is. And it doesn't count if a high lord's trying to fuck you, turning an ear to adolescent gossip while sticking his hand inside your pants— he won't care or remember it later, it's worth less than the chattering of servants. Whores. Anyone with a weathered nose for insights and lessened odds on petty gripes.]
Besides.
[He says, scoffing mostly to himself as he rolls two strands of hair into each other— the start of working on a braid along the edge of Leto's temple.]
I think they like you.
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[The word bursts past his lips without his say-so, more baffled than incredulous. It's not beyond the realm of imagination that such a group might find the hired help pleasing, in the same way they might grow fond of a stray dog that had taken to following them around. It's just that when he tries to apply that thought to himself it all sort of falls apart. Why me, for all he can imagine is Violet's indignant stare or Petras' sputtered offense.
It's playing with fire either way, Astarion says, and Fenris believes him— but still, surely they should go for the safer option. Fenris' misery be damned; he'll learn to cope with it, for long-term goals are always better than short-term happiness. And yet . . . is it the safer choice? Fenris wonders even as lithe fingers begin to braid his hair (and oh! what a thing, for he's never had anyone play with his hair like this before). That group is like bloodhounds on a scent when it comes to hidden secrets and idiotic gossip— and though Fenris is more inclined to deride than compliment, he has to admit, they're perceptive. How long will it take them to spot even the most minimal sign of misery? A tight mouth, a rigid spine . . . and then they'll test it. They'll prod at it like a doctor with a scalpel, trying eagerly to see just what it is that triggers it . . .
And when they find out, they'll be in the same position as before. Only this time, it won't be a shared thing. It will not be a secret they were let in on early; instead, they'll treat it like blackmail. Like a filthy secret to be held over Astarion's head.
It's a lot to ask to trust them. And maybe there is no right choice, Fenris thinks. But better to take control than to hope that Fenris can pretend enough to fool six clever little things with too much time on their hands.
With a little sigh, he tips his head, pushing gently against Astarion's fingers. They really do feel good. There's something a little intoxicating about the steady tug against his scalp; the doting care that comes from fussing with one's appearance . . . and it reminds him, just a little, of home. Tevinter, loathed and despised and yet home nonetheless, and Fenris misses the styles and food just as much as he despises everything else about the country.]
Let us tell them.
[He finally says it aloud, surfacing from his thoughts, though in truth he was only quiet for a few moments.]
It seems inevitable they will find out either way. And better to trust them with it and rely on their egos to keep the secret than to give them something unwillingly.
[And then, a little curiously:]
Why would they like me? All I have ever done is scold you and backtalk them.
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