[His next chuckle is more an exhale than anything: hot breath ghosting against the sharp line of Astarion's ear as his fingers squeeze his thighs: brat, not for the question itself but the deliberately impudently way it was delivered. And yet Fenris is not offended; to his surprise, he's enjoying this immensely. No one has ever asked him about home before.]
No.
[Well—]
They revere dragons, but they do not worship them like gods. And you will not see snake meat served on any magister's plate, though it isn't the most uncommon thing down in the poorer districts. I have eaten it before. It was . . . fish-like.
[Someone once told him that snakes taste of whatever it is they ate in life, but frankly, he's never gone back to find out.]
But one has little connection to the other. Our dishes tend to be mostly made of meats and breads, though less . . . hearty than they are here. And, [he adds, unaware of the slight smile gracing his lips,] before you ask: rampant orgies that are decadent dens of blood and vice are about as common as they are here, which is to say it happens mostly among the younger nobles who have little time on their hands. [A quick squeeze to one supple curve, a tease that goes unacknowledged as he smoothly continues:] But it is mostly humans there, with other species implicitly discouragee taking positions of power. I have seen elves as magisters, but it is still a rare enough thing.
[A beat, and then, with a little grin:]
We also sometimes will have roasted crickets dipped in chocolate as a snack. You might like those.
[They're actually quite good; that is assuredly not why he suggests it.]
[No dragon gods, no blood orgies, no snakes— except for in the leanest places, just like everywhere else. Boiled down to its bare bones, it should be the most soft-mouthed tug when dealing with the sun elf perched across Fenris' lap: no, we're not that monstrous, no, we're not that wicked, no, we're not that profane— comparatively, anyway.
But instead of taking that gentle correction, Astarion launches even deeper into its grip instead: wondering if there's a Tevene version of Petras out there, for some reason. (Mostly because it was Petras who went on about the snakes, actually, and the lesson stuck.) A Dalyira. A Violet. An Astarion. All of them a little keener— more ruthless. Some mixture of Fenris' sharp wits combined with rumors about mercenary wickedness, despite what he's just been told.
Nothing moderate; everything incensed. Amusement glittering as it sparks and sparks and sparks. Bright as the ear that twitches for Fenris' patient gust of an exhale. If he could wrangle his own imagination, maybe he'd be a little closer to that avidly conceptualized self.
And from there, that scolding grip along his thigh, his ass—
And from there, laughing— ]
You liar!
[Disgust mingled with fascination, inseparable as he shoves Fenris back against the covers just as playfully— both palms flat— braid forgotten.
Gods, he can't remembered the last time anyone's talked with him like this. Joked with him like this.]
[Gods, he can't remember the last time anyone's talked with him like this, joked with him like this— playful as pups and achingly casual, with no thought of rank or power. He laughs as he's pushed down, his hands squeezing Astarion's hips as he smirks up at him.]
I am not. I'll procure some for you, if you wish. And we can see how good you really are at swallowing something down—
[There's another flurry of movement, another playful scrap that starts with Astarion shrieking in disgust and ends with Fenris dragging him in close, tugging at that sleepshirt until he's sprawled atop him once more, their faces only a few inches apart. Settle here, be near me, as Fenris' face softens by degrees with blatant amusement.]
Your food is just as strange to me. Far, far heavier than I was ever used to in Tevinter— and I do not understand your aversions to spice. You are aware it exists, hm?
[Old bastard, he hisses hotly around the corners of his grinning eyeteeth, voice already lost in roughness of their scuffling segue— a flurry of shoves and snapping limbs— paved over and buried just thereafter; his heartbeat's still thrumming, but his eyes are locked on shadowed glints of green and gold, and with them pulling in the same shared inches of air (back and forth, back and forth— one inhale before the next) only to feel it pour against the other's lips, he can't stay that wild, or repulsed, or distracted, as it were.
A few stands of pale braidwork already hanging loose, scratching at his cheek for closeness.
(Somewhere nearby, Talindra sighs to herself as she treads past the sound of muffled laughter through a shuttered door.
Somewhere, not so long after, the other servants don't even question having the rest of the day off).]
You're think it's weird we don't want to spend all day groaning in agony because even our food wants to kill us? [Asked while the upwards angling of his chin slides the bridges of their noses together. A curious sort of crowding.
At odds with the tension in their hips.]
No wonder you're all such prickly bastards. Can't even eat without hurting yourselves.
Spoken like a true Baldurian who cannot handle the least bit of flavor. But you will learn. I will start you on the spices we use for children and go from there.
[Their noses and foreheads bump together over and over in something a little rougher than a nuzzle. It's a soothing motion, assuring for reasons that Fenris cannot quite place; he tips his head forward, chasing after Astarion each time, delighted by the heat of the pale elf's breath against his lips.
It's a different sort of delight to feel Astarion's hips rock sedately against his own. It isn't deliberate so much as the natural result of pressing together, but oh, he can't help but notice it. And yet— mmph, and though he doesn't go stiff with discomfort, still, he doesn't rock back just yet. Forty-five still lingers in the forefront of his mind, appalling and scandalous, not helped by his own teasing jokes about age. And it's not that it's a dealbreaker— clearly it's not, for he sets a heavy hand against the small of Astarion's back in implicit encouragement. But gods, it does linger. And he's going to have to figure out a way to make his peace with it.
His other hand slips between them, catching Astarion's chin. Gently:]
You're forty-five.
[Not a shocked statement, but a soft emphasis now that the revelation has had time to settle in.]
Are you certain you wish to— to do anything with someone so much older?
[And he doesn't just mean sex. Anything, and slot in whatever word you like, romance, companionship, partner . . . there is a difference between them, and it will do no good to ignore it.]
[Astarion agrees, and leaning into that pressure comes as easily as breathing, his body and mind already attuned to what they want over everything else. Bare skin burning pleasantly to feel the rougher scrape of cloth pushed high and hard into the softest places between his legs, caressing at him on command if those branded hands still won't— chin sat heavy in that palm like a monument to profane mergers paved in iron lust.
He knows the path they're on. The way they're settled.
He knows he's smiling as he keeps his own hands squared across that chest, gripping linen at the centerline. His posture shifting. Rocking. Dragging high across the borders of a cock he hasn't taken yet— not really. Not the way he's dreamed of well before last night, making Violet and the others right (though fuck if he'll admit it when they inevitably hear the truth about all this).
If Fenris won't make that last, final leap into pitch-perfect disaster, Astarion gladly will.]
And I want you.
[Pushing past the angle of that grip around his jaw to kiss him fully— more chaste than what the rest of him implies. Tinged with lilac. Leather oil. Heat.]
[But, the word lingering on the tip of his tongue in those breathless moments before Astarion kisses him. But, but, but, and the sentence can end a thousand different ways. But what if you tire of me; but what if I am too old and wearied for you? But your family still owns me; but what if they never let you inherit? But what if I become too distracted; but what if you become bored of me—
Their mouths meet. Warm lips press plushly against his own, and Fenris' eyes flutter shut as his hands redirect once more, settling on Astarion's hips. A wave of soothing relief washes over Fenris' heart, and it does not extinguish all his worries, no, but it does help to hush them. Astarion knows what he's choosing. And perhaps it will end badly; perhaps they will find they are not suited to each other— but this is not the overeager rush of youth hungry for temporary satisfaction. Whatever they become, they both of them are entering into it with open eyes.
Their lips part, Astarion offering that tease. And despite himself, Fenris responds with a little smirk.]
You're forty-five, [he murmurs in echo, and flips them both over, a rapidfire motion that ends with Astarion on his back and Fenris neatly slotted between his legs. His hips roll down, his trapped cock throbbing for the unclothed, supple cheeks that rub temptingly against his trousers.]
My young charge . . . I have much to teach you about the world. Spices, [and he darts down, stealing a swift kiss,] and all.
[It's not a week later that they see Astarion's friends.
Not at a party, to Fenris' mild surprise, but an informal social gathering. A picnic that Dalyria is hosting, or so Fenris is told; it's not really a picnic if you have a bunch of servants help you drag everything out onto your massive front lawn, but no one actually asks him what he thinks about it. Besides: it works out in their favor. Once all the servants head back to the manor, there's no prying ears left to overhear, and that's as it should be. Bad enough they risk Violet or Petras wagging their tongues; no need to worry that some servant might find themselves susceptible to a well-placed bribe months down the line.
'Besides,' Violet says airily in response to Aurelia's complaints, 'we have Astarion's bodyguard to fetch us things if need be. Isn't that right?' She looks at him expectantly, a glint in her eye. It's a test, albeit an easy one, and he knows how he ought to respond . . . but ah, not today. Not anymore.]
No.
[He says it neutrally, not that it matters. Petras laughs anyway, amused by Fenris' utter unwillingness to defer to them. Violet rolls her eyes, but it's too nice a day to kick up a fuss. The conversation drifts, touching on petty gossip and minor arguments about fashion, but sooner or later, it ebbs.
'Weren't you going to tell us something?' Dal asks, her voice soft as she glances over at Astarion.
'You hinted at it enough,' Leon adds, scoffing fondly as he reaches for the wine. '"Wait and see"— well, we've waited, see? What is it you wanted to show us?'
[Astarion answers with a splay of his hands where he sits over a spread blanket that's kept almost entirely to himself, plate of half-eaten figs balanced over one knee (the one kept horizontal to the earth, that is), while his other tilts skywards, ankles crossed.
And the others— wait.
Think.
Stare, trying to discern what it is about him or their surroundings that's changed in either the last few minutes or over the last few weeks, when all he looks— as far as anyone can tell— is the same. The same pale white hair, the same pearl-colored skin, the same gilded jewelry, the same loose shirt and decadent clasps, the same breeches and dark riding leathers— all of it, everything exactly what they've seen before.
'I don't see anything different.' Yousen hums out precatively. The first to break the silence if only because his hawkish eyes are usually the ones eternally relied on by the rest of the pack for even the most well-hidden of secrets.]
Don't you?
[His own sly question posed as Astarion reaches beside his perch for more wine, grasp incidentally crossing over in front of Fenris' own nearby silhouette. Nothing. Nothing at all of note.]
[It takes all of Fenris' self-control not to roll his eyes.
Well— not really. He's not actually annoyed with Astarion for his little game, nor the sly way he's clearly enjoying himself. Nor does he particularly mind this group not instantly leaping to the most sordid conclusion (that part's rather nice, actually). It's just that his stomach is a pit of nerves leaping around, gnawing frantically on themselves as they multiply: what if this goes badly, what if someone overhears, what if it blows up in our faces, what if, what if, what if, and he wants it all to start so he can at least begin to perform damage control.
(Bitter thing that he is, he does not account for anything but the slimmest chance it might all go right).
Astarion reaches over him, his fingers ghosting against the curve of Fenris' hip as he reaches for the bottle— and it's not the reaction but lack thereof that finally makes the penny drop. Yousen first, observant thing that he is; his little oh of surprise alerts the others, and then it's like dominoes falling, one after the other. Surprise more than shock and glee more than than surprise, their eyes gleaming as they realize.
'You wretched little liar— did rut him, then!' Violet exclaims, and Fenris bites back his groan. Six sets of eyes swivel towards him, studying him intently; to his great surprise, it's an effort not to snap at them. He's only been with Astarion a few months now, but it's done more for him than he realized; time was he was effortless at suppressing his emotions, and he cannot decide if this is a good development or not. Something to ponder on later, perhaps.]
It is not rutting—
[Oh, but they're too eager to care. 'Of course it is,' Petras drawls, grinning around his cigarette. 'What else would it be?'
'When did this begin?' Dal asks, her eyes flicking from Astarion and Fenris and back again, a little frown furrowing her brow. 'And what exactly is this, anyway? If it isn't rutting . . .'
And oh, that does make them pay attention. Astarion's known for burning through his hired help, but it's new that he's decided to tell them all with the help present. Rarer still that the help is allowed to sprawl next to him, as casual and informal as if he too belongs there.
And the thing is: Fenris doesn't know. He doesn't know how he wants to define it; he knows even less what a good answer would be, given this pack. He glances over at Astarion, a silent prompt: you tell them.]
[What owlish creatures they've all become, their eyes wide and their appetites wider— save for Dal, of course, who has enough sense in her head to see the larger picture rather than the waves of pure shock still roiling as they bounce back and forth between the others, some of whom seem to have forgotten how to blink.
A trait that only grows in the next few beats when Astarion proudly acquiesces to Fenris' demand, speaking between sips of dark red wine that smells like Chantry spaces:]
Courtship.
[Courtship.
Courtship.
Ohhh if that doesn't send them into an uproar all its own out on that field of a terrace lawn, three— no, four— voices chattering at once: little barking exclamations and a thousand questions rising in a chorus before Petras all but shouts (volume control was never his forte, amongst other things) '—you can't!'
His tone's more childish than usual, it's the kind of you can't that smacks of a toddler's objection, rather than objection itself.
'No one would let you court a damned servant, Astarion, what do you think we are? Stupid??']
Not 'we', no.
[He purrs offhandedly as Petras outright lunges for him— stopped by Leon's stronger, very much older forearm. It spills an entire half-bottle of wine out over a tray of petit fours (the picnic's theme intended to be all those ancient centuries from well before either their parents or their parent's parents ever existed— hence the sort-of-if-you-squint period appropriate clothes— because you can't have a picnic without a theme), and you can't have Petras bickering without ruining something every fucking time, according to Violet's bitter interjection.
Now she'll need a new batch made to replace the ruined ones, and the only servant in earshot is the one that said he won't be playing packmule for anyone.
Which in hindsight makes infinitely more sense, now.]
Edited (autocorrect like every L is a Leto now) 2024-01-09 22:50 (UTC)
[Courtship, and in the ensuing scuffle, there's only one set of clever eyes that notice the way Fenris flushes. It's faint, to be fair. Just a darkening of his ears, his gaze flicking down and away before settling back into the steady, neutral expression he so often adopts around this group. Dalyria studies him for a long few seconds, but doesn't say anything; that isn't her way. Better to ask Astarion afterwards, when he's less inclined to puff and strut for the sake of saving face.
Besides: things are settling down now. Petras is still seething quietly, but there's something more interesting than mere bickering right now. Even Violet feels it: bitter interjections aside, this is still too juicy a piece of gossip to allow it to lie.
'You really can't court a servant,' Aurelia points out. Her voice is a little arrogant, but there's more confusion there than anything. As if Astarion had proposed he might court a dog; it makes no sense. 'Your father won't allow it. No one will allow it, you know what happens when people—'
'— act out too harshly,' Petras interjects, scowling. 'It's one thing to bed your servants; it's another to act as if you're going to romance them. What are you playing at?']
He is not playing at anything.
[Fenris' rumble startles them all; six set of eyes flick towards him, mildly surprised he's speaking at all. He cannot blame them; he's surprised he spoke up, but now he has to continue, doesn't he?]
It is happening, for better or worse.
[They look doubtful, and once again, Fenris cannot blame them. What felt so sure in the safety of Astarion's bedroom feels paltry and pale in the afternoon light, especially under their scrutiny. And he has never been good at this kind of thing, not really; he goes stiff and and cold, shutting down in favor of showing any kind of weakness.
'So you expect us to believe Astarion's become one of those soppy idiots that dream of throwing it all away in favor of something like love?' Petras retorts, and Fenris' mouth thins. 'Please. Idiot though he is, sentimentality was never one of his faults.'
'It's a joke,' Violet declares with a sniff. 'And a poor one.']
Go fix your pastries. [Astarion's heel stretches out far enough to kick at the tray of thoroughly drowned petit fours, threatening to spill wine on the blanket underneath.
And while Violet's eyes flare hot enough to burn inside their sockets, miraculously enough, he isn't bitten for it.
Like handling a pack of wild animals, apparently focused provocation— despite logically being the much worse and much, much more disastrous route— somehow has the opposite effect: Petras might've lunged, but he's moved past the point of no return and circled round to talking; Violet (fanged and shrewd Violet, who enjoys tormenting anyone she can), is more inclined to turn her prowess on Pale Petras than either Astarion or Fenris in the moment— and the association likely means that'll stay true for a while longer.
He's starting up a circus inside the borders of three blankets, and it's working well enough.]
Anyway, I made my choice. Fenris is right: I'm not playing at anything. [He might be courting a dog in the eyes of his family and peers, but the confidence in that warmth of tone insists: at least he's courting someone he enjoys.]
Look at him. You can't tell me you'd find the willpower to love a creature like that and then leave it.
[Which— like clockwork— yet again sparks a very heated session in which whether or not they could becomes the topic of the day for that pack of now-distracted sighthounds. Topic quickly drifting from Fenris to anyone, wherein Leon admits he considered fleeing once to try proposing to an elven duchess, and Petras spends four minutes bringing up a servant with the most piercing blue eyes anyone has ever seen.
It's not really relevant, but then again, seeing as how he still hasn't forgotten her, whoever she was, might tangentially be on point regardless.
And when the chattering's gone down and the food and drink dispersed alongside nearly everyone else—
Astarion exhales, slumping back flat against the earth. It's the first sign of weakness (relief) to triumph over cockiness all day, and it's no mistake it only shows up in front of Dal and Fenris, no one else.]
Oh go on. Say it.
[It's muttered to the sky.
He's speaking to Dalyria.]
'You meant what you told them today, didn't you?'
[Her inflection's there, distinct as anything— though he's too lazy to bother lifting his voice to finish off his imitation, thumbing loosely at the edge of Fenris' knee now that the storm has passed. Hello. Hi.]
[That is, in fact, exactly what she was going to say— but rather than take the easy bait of scolding him for that imitation, Dalyria simply cocks her head, watching the little interplay laid out before her. Astarion thumbing idly at his servant— ah, no. At his lover, though the word still tastes strange to her highbred tongue. Fenris turns into it, his features softening as he runs his knuckles against the back of Astarion's hand. Hello, the tension gradually (but not fully) leaving his frame. Hello, you.
It's an oddly intimate gesture, and strange to see. Not bad, but . . . she has known Astarion for two decades now, and never has she watched him treat anyone like this. Soft and intimate, and yes, it's only a little gesture, but still. Sometimes it's the smallest observations that herald the greatest changes.]
And give you the satisfaction of being right? You already won against Petras today. You don't need two victories.
[It's the most gentle of teases, her voice soft.]
Besides: I know you meant it.
I have never once heard you wanting to court someone before— not seriously, at any rate.
[She stresses the word just a little, and watches with mild satisfaction as Fenris responds again: his ears flicking down involuntarily and his hand stilling for half a second. So this was new for him too, hm . . .?]
You played it well. Petras in particular was flattered.
[Another little pause, and then, gently:]
Tell me.
[How it started. Where they intend to go with it. If Astarion is terrified by the looming threat of his father or if he's still caught in the bliss of adoration and love . . . tell me, for sometimes all it takes is a little nudge.]
There's really not that much to tell. [Benign and mild and amused if not a little tired now from wrangling the others, tilting his body and his head just so that he can (literally) worm his way onto his side: cheek shoved to Fenris' knee until it's soundly smushed once he's finally close enough, his silver eyes set on Dalyria at an angle. Not dividing his attention— all right, not exactly— he's just making certain both parties have the glory of his presence in the lull between wild chatter and slow (comparitive) silence.
And besides, it's not often that he Fenris are this calm beside each other.
Might as well make it count.]
In a lot of ways it was your typical love story: boy meets bodyguard— boy resents bodyguard and tries to get him fired— bodyguard resents him, warring and bickering and starting fight after fight after fight with one another until suddenly they were in deep.
[A scoff, innocuously threaded through his teeth:]
Hells, Dal, I don't know, what do you want me to say? That I've changed? That just by waltzing into my life my whole world's been shaken?
[A beat.
A beat because it has. The one thing he leaves stitched inside the margins of his slackening expression as a somber sort of segue.]
He looked after me. He cared. [And he can't bring himself to admit something so distinctly destructible as the words like no one ever has even in Dal's cherished company (though with enough time, well— true enough, he might), though as for now he lets his guard drop along with his tone of voice.] Mostly—
[He loves her enough to admit that. And maybe for the sake of trust and acclimation like everything else thus far while all the others are away, he finds he has to ask:]
The rest all had plenty to admit about their own hungry hearts, come to think of it— but not you. [Oh no, not his clever, clever Dal.] So either you're smart enough to know to keep quiet about whatever longing you've got locked away inside that skull of yours, or my decision to risk my neck and livelihood over this has to seem like the craziest thing in the world to you.
[Oh, her clever, clever Astarion, and of course he'd noticed what the others never do. They're all such loud creatures, always eager to voice their opinions or fight with the others . . . and you know, that's not to say they don't pay attention. Leon and Yousen in particular are clever creatures when they're on the prowl, but that's just the thing: they so rarely are when it comes to her, for she purposely never makes herself interesting enough to be a target.
But Astarion is different. She has never minded his observations, nor his questions, if it comes to that, for he has never wielded that wickedly sharp tongue against her.]
Can it not be both?
[A small smile first, there and gone, her pale purple eyes flicking away— and then a sharp shrug, dismissive of her own sentiment. Soft sentiment hiding a steely practicality: such is her way.]
It seems madness— if you look at it purely logically, anyway. Risking your position and your fortune for the sake of someone you've known only a handful of months, and all on the notion of love . . . of course it sounds like madness. And I’m sure Violet and Petras will tell you as much, over and over, just so they can be smugly satisfied if it doesn't work out.
But, [she says, her voice warming,] it seems the exact kind of madness you have needed for a long time now.
[Oh, yes. Oh, yes, and she has known him long enough to be certain of that. His cold, sharp heart has longed for a friend, and she has done what she could, yes, but he needed more than she could offer. Warmth and adoration, care and kindness . . . she does not know Fenris, not really, but she doesn't need to; the way Astarion melts against him is proof enough.
He cared. Most of all when he didn't have to, and even as her heart melts to hear it, so too does Fenris': his eyes soften as he cards his fingers through Astarion's hair, roughened callouses gone gentle as he tends to his charge. There's such adoration in the movement, a small smile on his lips.]
Whatever risk comes with it is secondary.
[She does truly believe that. But aha, the second part of his question . . . again Dal shrugs sharply, not dismissive so much as discomfited.]
There was a girl, once. An assistant when I attended medical school. She was . . . I can't say kind, but kind to me, at any rate. She . . .
[She hesitates, and then, carefully:]
She listened at a time when it felt as though I could scream and no one would hear. She paid attention, and helped me when it felt as though no one would bother.
[But things change. Circumstances develop. And perhaps she does not want to linger on her own sore heart, for she adds:]
Tell me if you need something. A cover story for a date, or what space I can provide in my home.
[She is not an orphan, but she might as well be: her parents are gone for most of the year, preferring to spend their days (and coin) in Waterdeep.]
[It surprises him to hear that. It shouldn't— one look at his own life already proves how hard it is for them to exist in any way that has weight when they're held captive by harsh expectation— screaming out their lungs merits nothing, less than nothing. But to be seen by someone else....faults especially included....
For a half-second his profile slides higher under the belly of that bright sky overhead. The noise of the city loose and light in the hour before dinner when everything is paradoxically busy despite seeming so much calmer overall, lit streetlights nothing but sedate compared to morning traffic, but still.
It provides the perfect focus.
A way to shut his mind rather than his eyes and peer up towards a map of striking features, tanned contours split into sections by a steady haze of tempered blue. And all the while he listens, thinking of stupidity through fonder lenses like the sound of Dal's sweet voice: the idea of being reckless enough to follow their hearts into the dark doesn't seem so damning. The notion of a timeline in which things might change, yes, and change again but for the better not quite so out of reach.
And then he's puffing again— as usual. Sort of humming through his nose in the haughtiest kind of exhale that's all rounded at its seams, content to be content for once. Melting centimeter by mulled centimeter into the scraping rhythm of strong hands, where this time, even his perpetually roaming stare finally drifts shut.
And his smile drifts that much higher.]
If you wanted company, you only had to ask, little sister.
[Teasing— teasing so so so gently by his standards and it means thank you in their language.]
If I wanted company, I would ask for your bodyguard to visit alone, so we might actually get to speak for once.
[It's a whipcrack swift response, just as toothless and fond as Astarion's own statement. Thank you, he says without saying, his eyes fluttering closed and his voice fond, and she replies: for you, always.
Not just because she has a soft heart beneath her resolve of steel. She does, which is why she so often plays mediator, but her fondness of him has nothing to do with that. Always for Astarion for a thousand other reasons: because he can, despite what Petras might say, retract his claws when need be. Because he shows his love so subtly, but so earnestly.
There was a party once, a long time ago (as she says to Fenris far later, when Astarion has wandered off to find the bathroom and they're left picking at leftovers). She hadn't known Astarion long— half a year, maybe, if that. But she'd finally earned enough of a place in their group to be invited to a party: something Aurelia threw for Highharvestide, an ironic spectacle full of deliberately bad fashion and overpriced alcohol as they'd celebrated—
'The fact that none of you were farmers and didn't have to worry about next year's crop?' Fenris drawls, and she laughs softly as she nods.
She had ended up buying a garishly pink, rumpled halter dress: something so outrageously expensive that it came around and looked ironically cheap. It wasn't her style at all, nor her color if it came to that, but it would have served the intended purpose.
Astarion was the one who picked her up that night. He'd climbed out of his car and took one look at her before forcing her back inside. They were late by about two hours (as she kept reminding him) and Astarion couldn't care less, for, he said, he wasn't about to walk into that party with someone looking so distressingly bad. And the entire time he'd clucked about bad taste and poor impressions, sighing heavily over the state of her closet and digging without a care for propriety through her jewelry, until at last he'd proclaimed her improved. 'There's a difference between being badly dressed and ironically so, my dear,' he'd said on the drive there, his voice light and airy as it always is when he's being snobbish.
And it wasn't until she arrived that Dalyria realized the intended joke. Most of the guests were dressed so finely, sporting silks and furs; it was only a chosen few targets who'd been given the wrong information. And of course no one would care if they said they'd been tricked; all anyone would remember was the fact they looked so hideously underdressed that it was funny.
And poor Leon had suffered that night, as had a chosen few others. But not her. And though Astarion had swiftly flitted off to socialize among this person and that, it mattered that he'd saved her. That he'd known the joke and steered her clear from being the victim, and oh, it didn't matter and it mattered so very much all at once.]
That's why.
[She says it simply.]
Because he is kinder and sweeter than he ever wants to admit— and when he receives it, he returns it. That party was just one example, but there's been other times . . . little things, hm? Little favors or idle tips that he'll bluster are nothing, but aren't.
[The topic drops as Astarion reappears in the distance, and it's only much, much later— when Dalyria has gone back into that dark, empty house and they've come back home, heading into Astarion's rooms for no other reason than privacy— that Fenris brings it up again.]
I see why you like them.
[A pause, and then:]
Well. I see why you like Dalyria. And I can understand the appeal of the others.
[Sort of. Another pause, and then, because he is a bluntly honest thing:]
Not Violet. She seems a vicious thing, and she reminds me too much of someone I once knew and loathed. But most of the others.
Gods [he left you two alone for five minutes— don't think he didn't see the look you both had on your faces when he came back from his washroom stint.] what did she say to you.
[Halfway through tugging off his shirt, elaborate jewelry jingling in the second before he lifts his hair, hoisting it high above the nape of his neck (it doesn't matter that they're still in the middle of bickering warfare over what Fenris' duties are or aren't in regards to undressing Astarion after a long day; the sun elf still commits to expectantly waiting to see if and when his bodyguard will act as nursemaid and dourly-irate-lady-in-waiting both), just for fun. Still catching the edge of Fenris' attention through the corner of his mirror, just like that first night.
He's captivated, as today's gone and proved.
That doesn't make him well-behaved.]
Dalyria, I mean. [Violet at least is predictable as taxes. And just as mean.
As for the rest— mysterious reminder included— he'll circle back once he's assessed the damage to his carefully manicured reputation.]
[Coy little brat. Darling little charge that delights in pushing the envelope no matter the context . . . dark eyebrows raise as their gazes catch in the mirror's reflective surface, his expression plainly saying: I know what you're doing. Of course he does. The name of the game was never duplicity; simply how far he can toe the line (any line) on any given day. And though ordinarily Fenris would not give in to those implicit demands . . .
Tonight he rises, crossing the room in two swift strides so that he might come to stand behind Astarion. And unlike that first night, there's no cold indifference in his eyes as he stares down at his charge. He isn't equal parts defensive and indignant, ready to bat this errant cub down for the crime of being so impudent; he doesn't impudently demand to know what his master wants of him, or protest that it isn't his job (though it isn't).
He simply smiles as he peers down at the slender line of a pale neck bared. Then, in one smooth motion, he ducks down, pressing his lips to the nape warmly. Hello, little sun elf. Hello, little brat, his broad hands warm as they slide slowly down the span of a tapered waist.]
That you were sweet.
[His voice a rumble as he kisses him again and again, his lips aimless in their goal. Hello, hello, laying an invisible claim at the crook of his shoulder, along the side of his neck, nosing against his hairline as he keeps up his adoring work. His hands slide forward, arms wrapping sturdily around Astarion's slender frame.]
That you were, mph, doting—
[A grin in his voice, though he does not stop his kisses.]
Adoring— kind and soft and the sort to give all your money away to the destitute—
[And now the (docile) trap is sprung, for his arms tighten their grip, ensuring Astarion can't possibly wriggle away as Fenris teases.]
[Oh stars and Selûne both, he melts into that first kiss with an unexpected (for so many reasons) smile, dark lashes sinking heavily across his eyes just to chase the rise of listless bliss after a long day— ]
Tch— !!
[Before they're snapped open again, prompting a harsh flick of his ears. An irritated snort. A fussy, wriggling push that turns into a flood of rolling aftershocks, all mirrored: dragging, flopping, outright writhing to the tune of his own jewelry in the most undignified fit imaginable— indignant cries of no! no, quit it— quit it, I hate you I loathe you I'll— I'll order you hanged, I will! losing all their spark for the fact that he's grinning (sneering?) like a lunatic, pale fingers latched onto equally pale hair when he reaches back to yank at the only bit of Fenris he's managed to take hold of, barely containing his own ire, let alone amusement.
He isn't even allowed to play with his own brother like this.]
[He was never allowed to play with Varania like this.
Nor any of the other elves, if it came to that. No master wants to see the slave brats squabbling in the dirt like pups; it's distasteful and undignified, and no matter that Tevinter believes elves can't help themselves from such savagery, still. It oughtn't happen in a magister's household. What playmates Fenris had (so long ago he cannot recall their names or their faces, just fleeting impressions of laughter and spite) contented themselves with quieter means of play, scrapping behind wine casks or sharpening their tongues on one another.
He isn't thinking of Danarius now. He isn't thinking of his past and all the horrors contained therein; he isn't thinking of the pain that wracks his body with every breath. He does not think about dignity nor propriety, class or rank; he doesn't think about what might happen if someone were to walk in, or all the ways in which his life would be miserable. For the first time in a long time, Fenris thinks only of the here and now— and the wriggling little beast caught in his arms.
Tevene bursts from his lips as fingers knot in his hair; giddy laughter fills the air as they writhe together, Fenris refusing to release him and Astarion doing his damnedest to get away, until (inevitably) they overbalance and end up tumbling on the carpeted floor with a loud thump. From there it's limbs and hand and tussling, the two of them rolling around on the floor like pups, nipping as they scrabble for purchase, Fenris half-inclined to give Astarion his way just to keep the fight going longer— hands in his hair, hands on his wrists, until at last—
At last, training triumphs over sheer force of will: Astarion pinned on his back, his hands pinned above his hand and Fenris straddling his hips.]
Now, what was that? You'll order me hanged . . .?
[A reckless sort of grin as he arches his back, hips pushing down hard against Astarion's lithe frame. He'll spare them both the obvious joke of being hung, but trust that it flashes through both their minds, for he catches Astarion's eye in silent, amused acknowledgement.]
Little magistrate-in-training, I would love to see you try.
[He would. He really, really would. A breeze drifts through the open window, wafting the curtains gently as he smirks down at him.]
Perhaps it's manners I need to focus on next when it comes to you, hm? How to say please and thank you instead of simply—
Nothing an ordinary person might notice, anyway. Nothing that echoes through the room or makes itself known— and yet still all at once Fenris is on his feet, amusement dissipating as wariness takes its place.]
Stay down.
[He hisses it. His gun has already appeared like magic in his hand, his body angled tight as he inches towards the open window. Not directly at it, no, he's no fool, but from the side, so that he might see whomever waits in the darkness before they see him.]
Do the maids normally keep your windows open?
[Because neither he nor Astarion had left them that way. Fenris waits for a long few moments— and then, quite carefully, reaches for a nearby hand mirror. His foot kicks at the longer mirror at the same time, nudging it this way and that; it takes a tricky few seconds, but soon enough his lyrium glints and glows in the shared reflection. For a moment nothing happens—
— and then all at once glass shatters as two bullets rip through the middle of it, embedding themselves in the far wall. His reflection is scattered among a million pieces of discarded glass; there's a shout from downstairs, a cry of shock—]
Come on—
[No time to fret. No time to focus on others. No time to do anything except roughly grab Astarion and haul him forward, all but slinging him out the door as Fenris rushes behind, expecting to feel pain blossoming between his shoulderblades the entire time— and indeed, there's another noiseless feeling of pressure before a bullet shatters Astarion's perfume bottles; another embeds itself in the oaken door as Fenris slams it shut behind them.
Beneath them, the household is in an uproar: voices are rising in shouts and cries, lights turning on as the noise of gunfire rouses even the most languid of the household. There's shouts for the police; the front door slams open and shut as some of the estate guards rush out, but they won't find anything.]
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albinomilksnake2023-07-11 12:43 am
no subject
No.
[Well—]
They revere dragons, but they do not worship them like gods. And you will not see snake meat served on any magister's plate, though it isn't the most uncommon thing down in the poorer districts. I have eaten it before. It was . . . fish-like.
[Someone once told him that snakes taste of whatever it is they ate in life, but frankly, he's never gone back to find out.]
But one has little connection to the other. Our dishes tend to be mostly made of meats and breads, though less . . . hearty than they are here. And, [he adds, unaware of the slight smile gracing his lips,] before you ask: rampant orgies that are decadent dens of blood and vice are about as common as they are here, which is to say it happens mostly among the younger nobles who have little time on their hands. [A quick squeeze to one supple curve, a tease that goes unacknowledged as he smoothly continues:] But it is mostly humans there, with other species implicitly discouragee taking positions of power. I have seen elves as magisters, but it is still a rare enough thing.
[A beat, and then, with a little grin:]
We also sometimes will have roasted crickets dipped in chocolate as a snack. You might like those.
[They're actually quite good; that is assuredly not why he suggests it.]
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But instead of taking that gentle correction, Astarion launches even deeper into its grip instead: wondering if there's a Tevene version of Petras out there, for some reason. (Mostly because it was Petras who went on about the snakes, actually, and the lesson stuck.) A Dalyira. A Violet. An Astarion. All of them a little keener— more ruthless. Some mixture of Fenris' sharp wits combined with rumors about mercenary wickedness, despite what he's just been told.
Nothing moderate; everything incensed. Amusement glittering as it sparks and sparks and sparks. Bright as the ear that twitches for Fenris' patient gust of an exhale. If he could wrangle his own imagination, maybe he'd be a little closer to that avidly conceptualized self.
And from there, that scolding grip along his thigh, his ass—
And from there, laughing— ]
You liar!
[Disgust mingled with fascination, inseparable as he shoves Fenris back against the covers just as playfully— both palms flat— braid forgotten.
Gods, he can't remembered the last time anyone's talked with him like this. Joked with him like this.]
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I am not. I'll procure some for you, if you wish. And we can see how good you really are at swallowing something down—
[There's another flurry of movement, another playful scrap that starts with Astarion shrieking in disgust and ends with Fenris dragging him in close, tugging at that sleepshirt until he's sprawled atop him once more, their faces only a few inches apart. Settle here, be near me, as Fenris' face softens by degrees with blatant amusement.]
Your food is just as strange to me. Far, far heavier than I was ever used to in Tevinter— and I do not understand your aversions to spice. You are aware it exists, hm?
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A few stands of pale braidwork already hanging loose, scratching at his cheek for closeness.
(Somewhere nearby, Talindra sighs to herself as she treads past the sound of muffled laughter through a shuttered door.
Somewhere, not so long after, the other servants don't even question having the rest of the day off).]
You're think it's weird we don't want to spend all day groaning in agony because even our food wants to kill us? [Asked while the upwards angling of his chin slides the bridges of their noses together. A curious sort of crowding.
At odds with the tension in their hips.]
No wonder you're all such prickly bastards. Can't even eat without hurting yourselves.
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[Their noses and foreheads bump together over and over in something a little rougher than a nuzzle. It's a soothing motion, assuring for reasons that Fenris cannot quite place; he tips his head forward, chasing after Astarion each time, delighted by the heat of the pale elf's breath against his lips.
It's a different sort of delight to feel Astarion's hips rock sedately against his own. It isn't deliberate so much as the natural result of pressing together, but oh, he can't help but notice it. And yet— mmph, and though he doesn't go stiff with discomfort, still, he doesn't rock back just yet. Forty-five still lingers in the forefront of his mind, appalling and scandalous, not helped by his own teasing jokes about age. And it's not that it's a dealbreaker— clearly it's not, for he sets a heavy hand against the small of Astarion's back in implicit encouragement. But gods, it does linger. And he's going to have to figure out a way to make his peace with it.
His other hand slips between them, catching Astarion's chin. Gently:]
You're forty-five.
[Not a shocked statement, but a soft emphasis now that the revelation has had time to settle in.]
Are you certain you wish to— to do anything with someone so much older?
[And he doesn't just mean sex. Anything, and slot in whatever word you like, romance, companionship, partner . . . there is a difference between them, and it will do no good to ignore it.]
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[Astarion agrees, and leaning into that pressure comes as easily as breathing, his body and mind already attuned to what they want over everything else. Bare skin burning pleasantly to feel the rougher scrape of cloth pushed high and hard into the softest places between his legs, caressing at him on command if those branded hands still won't— chin sat heavy in that palm like a monument to profane mergers paved in iron lust.
He knows the path they're on. The way they're settled.
He knows he's smiling as he keeps his own hands squared across that chest, gripping linen at the centerline. His posture shifting. Rocking. Dragging high across the borders of a cock he hasn't taken yet— not really. Not the way he's dreamed of well before last night, making Violet and the others right (though fuck if he'll admit it when they inevitably hear the truth about all this).
If Fenris won't make that last, final leap into pitch-perfect disaster, Astarion gladly will.]
And I want you.
[Pushing past the angle of that grip around his jaw to kiss him fully— more chaste than what the rest of him implies. Tinged with lilac. Leather oil. Heat.]
Revolting spices and all.
1/2
Their mouths meet. Warm lips press plushly against his own, and Fenris' eyes flutter shut as his hands redirect once more, settling on Astarion's hips. A wave of soothing relief washes over Fenris' heart, and it does not extinguish all his worries, no, but it does help to hush them. Astarion knows what he's choosing. And perhaps it will end badly; perhaps they will find they are not suited to each other— but this is not the overeager rush of youth hungry for temporary satisfaction. Whatever they become, they both of them are entering into it with open eyes.
Their lips part, Astarion offering that tease. And despite himself, Fenris responds with a little smirk.]
You're forty-five, [he murmurs in echo, and flips them both over, a rapidfire motion that ends with Astarion on his back and Fenris neatly slotted between his legs. His hips roll down, his trapped cock throbbing for the unclothed, supple cheeks that rub temptingly against his trousers.]
My young charge . . . I have much to teach you about the world. Spices, [and he darts down, stealing a swift kiss,] and all.
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Not at a party, to Fenris' mild surprise, but an informal social gathering. A picnic that Dalyria is hosting, or so Fenris is told; it's not really a picnic if you have a bunch of servants help you drag everything out onto your massive front lawn, but no one actually asks him what he thinks about it. Besides: it works out in their favor. Once all the servants head back to the manor, there's no prying ears left to overhear, and that's as it should be. Bad enough they risk Violet or Petras wagging their tongues; no need to worry that some servant might find themselves susceptible to a well-placed bribe months down the line.
'Besides,' Violet says airily in response to Aurelia's complaints, 'we have Astarion's bodyguard to fetch us things if need be. Isn't that right?' She looks at him expectantly, a glint in her eye. It's a test, albeit an easy one, and he knows how he ought to respond . . . but ah, not today. Not anymore.]
No.
[He says it neutrally, not that it matters. Petras laughs anyway, amused by Fenris' utter unwillingness to defer to them. Violet rolls her eyes, but it's too nice a day to kick up a fuss. The conversation drifts, touching on petty gossip and minor arguments about fashion, but sooner or later, it ebbs.
'Weren't you going to tell us something?' Dal asks, her voice soft as she glances over at Astarion.
'You hinted at it enough,' Leon adds, scoffing fondly as he reaches for the wine. '"Wait and see"— well, we've waited, see? What is it you wanted to show us?'
Ah . . .]
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[Astarion answers with a splay of his hands where he sits over a spread blanket that's kept almost entirely to himself, plate of half-eaten figs balanced over one knee (the one kept horizontal to the earth, that is), while his other tilts skywards, ankles crossed.
And the others— wait.
Think.
Stare, trying to discern what it is about him or their surroundings that's changed in either the last few minutes or over the last few weeks, when all he looks— as far as anyone can tell— is the same. The same pale white hair, the same pearl-colored skin, the same gilded jewelry, the same loose shirt and decadent clasps, the same breeches and dark riding leathers— all of it, everything exactly what they've seen before.
'I don't see anything different.' Yousen hums out precatively. The first to break the silence if only because his hawkish eyes are usually the ones eternally relied on by the rest of the pack for even the most well-hidden of secrets.]
Don't you?
[His own sly question posed as Astarion reaches beside his perch for more wine, grasp incidentally crossing over in front of Fenris' own nearby silhouette. Nothing. Nothing at all of note.]
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Well— not really. He's not actually annoyed with Astarion for his little game, nor the sly way he's clearly enjoying himself. Nor does he particularly mind this group not instantly leaping to the most sordid conclusion (that part's rather nice, actually). It's just that his stomach is a pit of nerves leaping around, gnawing frantically on themselves as they multiply: what if this goes badly, what if someone overhears, what if it blows up in our faces, what if, what if, what if, and he wants it all to start so he can at least begin to perform damage control.
(Bitter thing that he is, he does not account for anything but the slimmest chance it might all go right).
Astarion reaches over him, his fingers ghosting against the curve of Fenris' hip as he reaches for the bottle— and it's not the reaction but lack thereof that finally makes the penny drop. Yousen first, observant thing that he is; his little oh of surprise alerts the others, and then it's like dominoes falling, one after the other. Surprise more than shock and glee more than than surprise, their eyes gleaming as they realize.
'You wretched little liar— did rut him, then!' Violet exclaims, and Fenris bites back his groan. Six sets of eyes swivel towards him, studying him intently; to his great surprise, it's an effort not to snap at them. He's only been with Astarion a few months now, but it's done more for him than he realized; time was he was effortless at suppressing his emotions, and he cannot decide if this is a good development or not. Something to ponder on later, perhaps.]
It is not rutting—
[Oh, but they're too eager to care. 'Of course it is,' Petras drawls, grinning around his cigarette. 'What else would it be?'
'When did this begin?' Dal asks, her eyes flicking from Astarion and Fenris and back again, a little frown furrowing her brow. 'And what exactly is this, anyway? If it isn't rutting . . .'
And oh, that does make them pay attention. Astarion's known for burning through his hired help, but it's new that he's decided to tell them all with the help present. Rarer still that the help is allowed to sprawl next to him, as casual and informal as if he too belongs there.
And the thing is: Fenris doesn't know. He doesn't know how he wants to define it; he knows even less what a good answer would be, given this pack. He glances over at Astarion, a silent prompt: you tell them.]
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A trait that only grows in the next few beats when Astarion proudly acquiesces to Fenris' demand, speaking between sips of dark red wine that smells like Chantry spaces:]
Courtship.
[Courtship.
Courtship.
Ohhh if that doesn't send them into an uproar all its own out on that field of a terrace lawn, three— no, four— voices chattering at once: little barking exclamations and a thousand questions rising in a chorus before Petras all but shouts (volume control was never his forte, amongst other things) '—you can't!'
His tone's more childish than usual, it's the kind of you can't that smacks of a toddler's objection, rather than objection itself.
'No one would let you court a damned servant, Astarion, what do you think we are? Stupid??']
Not 'we', no.
[He purrs offhandedly as Petras outright lunges for him— stopped by Leon's stronger, very much older forearm. It spills an entire half-bottle of wine out over a tray of petit fours (the picnic's theme intended to be all those ancient centuries from well before either their parents or their parent's parents ever existed— hence the sort-of-if-you-squint period appropriate clothes— because you can't have a picnic without a theme), and you can't have Petras bickering without ruining something every fucking time, according to Violet's bitter interjection.
Now she'll need a new batch made to replace the ruined ones, and the only servant in earshot is the one that said he won't be playing packmule for anyone.
Which in hindsight makes infinitely more sense, now.]
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Besides: things are settling down now. Petras is still seething quietly, but there's something more interesting than mere bickering right now. Even Violet feels it: bitter interjections aside, this is still too juicy a piece of gossip to allow it to lie.
'You really can't court a servant,' Aurelia points out. Her voice is a little arrogant, but there's more confusion there than anything. As if Astarion had proposed he might court a dog; it makes no sense. 'Your father won't allow it. No one will allow it, you know what happens when people—'
'— act out too harshly,' Petras interjects, scowling. 'It's one thing to bed your servants; it's another to act as if you're going to romance them. What are you playing at?']
He is not playing at anything.
[Fenris' rumble startles them all; six set of eyes flick towards him, mildly surprised he's speaking at all. He cannot blame them; he's surprised he spoke up, but now he has to continue, doesn't he?]
It is happening, for better or worse.
[They look doubtful, and once again, Fenris cannot blame them. What felt so sure in the safety of Astarion's bedroom feels paltry and pale in the afternoon light, especially under their scrutiny. And he has never been good at this kind of thing, not really; he goes stiff and and cold, shutting down in favor of showing any kind of weakness.
'So you expect us to believe Astarion's become one of those soppy idiots that dream of throwing it all away in favor of something like love?' Petras retorts, and Fenris' mouth thins. 'Please. Idiot though he is, sentimentality was never one of his faults.'
'It's a joke,' Violet declares with a sniff. 'And a poor one.']
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And while Violet's eyes flare hot enough to burn inside their sockets, miraculously enough, he isn't bitten for it.
Like handling a pack of wild animals, apparently focused provocation— despite logically being the much worse and much, much more disastrous route— somehow has the opposite effect: Petras might've lunged, but he's moved past the point of no return and circled round to talking; Violet (fanged and shrewd Violet, who enjoys tormenting anyone she can), is more inclined to turn her prowess on Pale Petras than either Astarion or Fenris in the moment— and the association likely means that'll stay true for a while longer.
He's starting up a circus inside the borders of three blankets, and it's working well enough.]
Anyway, I made my choice. Fenris is right: I'm not playing at anything. [He might be courting a dog in the eyes of his family and peers, but the confidence in that warmth of tone insists: at least he's courting someone he enjoys.]
Look at him. You can't tell me you'd find the willpower to love a creature like that and then leave it.
[Which— like clockwork— yet again sparks a very heated session in which whether or not they could becomes the topic of the day for that pack of now-distracted sighthounds. Topic quickly drifting from Fenris to anyone, wherein Leon admits he considered fleeing once to try proposing to an elven duchess, and Petras spends four minutes bringing up a servant with the most piercing blue eyes anyone has ever seen.
It's not really relevant, but then again, seeing as how he still hasn't forgotten her, whoever she was, might tangentially be on point regardless.
And when the chattering's gone down and the food and drink dispersed alongside nearly everyone else—
Astarion exhales, slumping back flat against the earth. It's the first sign of weakness (relief) to triumph over cockiness all day, and it's no mistake it only shows up in front of Dal and Fenris, no one else.]
Oh go on. Say it.
[It's muttered to the sky.
He's speaking to Dalyria.]
'You meant what you told them today, didn't you?'
[Her inflection's there, distinct as anything— though he's too lazy to bother lifting his voice to finish off his imitation, thumbing loosely at the edge of Fenris' knee now that the storm has passed. Hello. Hi.]
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It's an oddly intimate gesture, and strange to see. Not bad, but . . . she has known Astarion for two decades now, and never has she watched him treat anyone like this. Soft and intimate, and yes, it's only a little gesture, but still. Sometimes it's the smallest observations that herald the greatest changes.]
And give you the satisfaction of being right? You already won against Petras today. You don't need two victories.
[It's the most gentle of teases, her voice soft.]
Besides: I know you meant it.
I have never once heard you wanting to court someone before— not seriously, at any rate.
[She stresses the word just a little, and watches with mild satisfaction as Fenris responds again: his ears flicking down involuntarily and his hand stilling for half a second. So this was new for him too, hm . . .?]
You played it well. Petras in particular was flattered.
[Another little pause, and then, gently:]
Tell me.
[How it started. Where they intend to go with it. If Astarion is terrified by the looming threat of his father or if he's still caught in the bliss of adoration and love . . . tell me, for sometimes all it takes is a little nudge.]
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And besides, it's not often that he Fenris are this calm beside each other.
Might as well make it count.]
In a lot of ways it was your typical love story: boy meets bodyguard— boy resents bodyguard and tries to get him fired— bodyguard resents him, warring and bickering and starting fight after fight after fight with one another until suddenly they were in deep.
[A scoff, innocuously threaded through his teeth:]
Hells, Dal, I don't know, what do you want me to say? That I've changed? That just by waltzing into my life my whole world's been shaken?
[A beat.
A beat because it has. The one thing he leaves stitched inside the margins of his slackening expression as a somber sort of segue.]
He looked after me. He cared. [And he can't bring himself to admit something so distinctly destructible as the words like no one ever has even in Dal's cherished company (though with enough time, well— true enough, he might), though as for now he lets his guard drop along with his tone of voice.] Mostly—
[No, try again.]
Most of all when he didn't have to.
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The rest all had plenty to admit about their own hungry hearts, come to think of it— but not you. [Oh no, not his clever, clever Dal.] So either you're smart enough to know to keep quiet about whatever longing you've got locked away inside that skull of yours, or my decision to risk my neck and livelihood over this has to seem like the craziest thing in the world to you.
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But Astarion is different. She has never minded his observations, nor his questions, if it comes to that, for he has never wielded that wickedly sharp tongue against her.]
Can it not be both?
[A small smile first, there and gone, her pale purple eyes flicking away— and then a sharp shrug, dismissive of her own sentiment. Soft sentiment hiding a steely practicality: such is her way.]
It seems madness— if you look at it purely logically, anyway. Risking your position and your fortune for the sake of someone you've known only a handful of months, and all on the notion of love . . . of course it sounds like madness. And I’m sure Violet and Petras will tell you as much, over and over, just so they can be smugly satisfied if it doesn't work out.
But, [she says, her voice warming,] it seems the exact kind of madness you have needed for a long time now.
[Oh, yes. Oh, yes, and she has known him long enough to be certain of that. His cold, sharp heart has longed for a friend, and she has done what she could, yes, but he needed more than she could offer. Warmth and adoration, care and kindness . . . she does not know Fenris, not really, but she doesn't need to; the way Astarion melts against him is proof enough.
He cared. Most of all when he didn't have to, and even as her heart melts to hear it, so too does Fenris': his eyes soften as he cards his fingers through Astarion's hair, roughened callouses gone gentle as he tends to his charge. There's such adoration in the movement, a small smile on his lips.]
Whatever risk comes with it is secondary.
[She does truly believe that. But aha, the second part of his question . . . again Dal shrugs sharply, not dismissive so much as discomfited.]
There was a girl, once. An assistant when I attended medical school. She was . . . I can't say kind, but kind to me, at any rate. She . . .
[She hesitates, and then, carefully:]
She listened at a time when it felt as though I could scream and no one would hear. She paid attention, and helped me when it felt as though no one would bother.
[But things change. Circumstances develop. And perhaps she does not want to linger on her own sore heart, for she adds:]
Tell me if you need something. A cover story for a date, or what space I can provide in my home.
[She is not an orphan, but she might as well be: her parents are gone for most of the year, preferring to spend their days (and coin) in Waterdeep.]
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For a half-second his profile slides higher under the belly of that bright sky overhead. The noise of the city loose and light in the hour before dinner when everything is paradoxically busy despite seeming so much calmer overall, lit streetlights nothing but sedate compared to morning traffic, but still.
It provides the perfect focus.
A way to shut his mind rather than his eyes and peer up towards a map of striking features, tanned contours split into sections by a steady haze of tempered blue. And all the while he listens, thinking of stupidity through fonder lenses like the sound of Dal's sweet voice: the idea of being reckless enough to follow their hearts into the dark doesn't seem so damning. The notion of a timeline in which things might change, yes, and change again but for the better not quite so out of reach.
And then he's puffing again— as usual. Sort of humming through his nose in the haughtiest kind of exhale that's all rounded at its seams, content to be content for once. Melting centimeter by mulled centimeter into the scraping rhythm of strong hands, where this time, even his perpetually roaming stare finally drifts shut.
And his smile drifts that much higher.]
If you wanted company, you only had to ask, little sister.
[Teasing— teasing so so so gently by his standards and it means thank you in their language.]
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[It's a whipcrack swift response, just as toothless and fond as Astarion's own statement. Thank you, he says without saying, his eyes fluttering closed and his voice fond, and she replies: for you, always.
Not just because she has a soft heart beneath her resolve of steel. She does, which is why she so often plays mediator, but her fondness of him has nothing to do with that. Always for Astarion for a thousand other reasons: because he can, despite what Petras might say, retract his claws when need be. Because he shows his love so subtly, but so earnestly.
There was a party once, a long time ago (as she says to Fenris far later, when Astarion has wandered off to find the bathroom and they're left picking at leftovers). She hadn't known Astarion long— half a year, maybe, if that. But she'd finally earned enough of a place in their group to be invited to a party: something Aurelia threw for Highharvestide, an ironic spectacle full of deliberately bad fashion and overpriced alcohol as they'd celebrated—
'The fact that none of you were farmers and didn't have to worry about next year's crop?' Fenris drawls, and she laughs softly as she nods.
She had ended up buying a garishly pink, rumpled halter dress: something so outrageously expensive that it came around and looked ironically cheap. It wasn't her style at all, nor her color if it came to that, but it would have served the intended purpose.
Astarion was the one who picked her up that night. He'd climbed out of his car and took one look at her before forcing her back inside. They were late by about two hours (as she kept reminding him) and Astarion couldn't care less, for, he said, he wasn't about to walk into that party with someone looking so distressingly bad. And the entire time he'd clucked about bad taste and poor impressions, sighing heavily over the state of her closet and digging without a care for propriety through her jewelry, until at last he'd proclaimed her improved. 'There's a difference between being badly dressed and ironically so, my dear,' he'd said on the drive there, his voice light and airy as it always is when he's being snobbish.
And it wasn't until she arrived that Dalyria realized the intended joke. Most of the guests were dressed so finely, sporting silks and furs; it was only a chosen few targets who'd been given the wrong information. And of course no one would care if they said they'd been tricked; all anyone would remember was the fact they looked so hideously underdressed that it was funny.
And poor Leon had suffered that night, as had a chosen few others. But not her. And though Astarion had swiftly flitted off to socialize among this person and that, it mattered that he'd saved her. That he'd known the joke and steered her clear from being the victim, and oh, it didn't matter and it mattered so very much all at once.]
That's why.
[She says it simply.]
Because he is kinder and sweeter than he ever wants to admit— and when he receives it, he returns it. That party was just one example, but there's been other times . . . little things, hm? Little favors or idle tips that he'll bluster are nothing, but aren't.
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I see why you like them.
[A pause, and then:]
Well. I see why you like Dalyria. And I can understand the appeal of the others.
[Sort of. Another pause, and then, because he is a bluntly honest thing:]
Not Violet. She seems a vicious thing, and she reminds me too much of someone I once knew and loathed. But most of the others.
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[Halfway through tugging off his shirt, elaborate jewelry jingling in the second before he lifts his hair, hoisting it high above the nape of his neck (it doesn't matter that they're still in the middle of bickering warfare over what Fenris' duties are or aren't in regards to undressing Astarion after a long day; the sun elf still commits to expectantly waiting to see if and when his bodyguard will act as nursemaid and dourly-irate-lady-in-waiting both), just for fun. Still catching the edge of Fenris' attention through the corner of his mirror, just like that first night.
He's captivated, as today's gone and proved.
That doesn't make him well-behaved.]
Dalyria, I mean. [Violet at least is predictable as taxes. And just as mean.
As for the rest— mysterious reminder included— he'll circle back once he's assessed the damage to his carefully manicured reputation.]
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Tonight he rises, crossing the room in two swift strides so that he might come to stand behind Astarion. And unlike that first night, there's no cold indifference in his eyes as he stares down at his charge. He isn't equal parts defensive and indignant, ready to bat this errant cub down for the crime of being so impudent; he doesn't impudently demand to know what his master wants of him, or protest that it isn't his job (though it isn't).
He simply smiles as he peers down at the slender line of a pale neck bared. Then, in one smooth motion, he ducks down, pressing his lips to the nape warmly. Hello, little sun elf. Hello, little brat, his broad hands warm as they slide slowly down the span of a tapered waist.]
That you were sweet.
[His voice a rumble as he kisses him again and again, his lips aimless in their goal. Hello, hello, laying an invisible claim at the crook of his shoulder, along the side of his neck, nosing against his hairline as he keeps up his adoring work. His hands slide forward, arms wrapping sturdily around Astarion's slender frame.]
That you were, mph, doting—
[A grin in his voice, though he does not stop his kisses.]
Adoring— kind and soft and the sort to give all your money away to the destitute—
[And now the (docile) trap is sprung, for his arms tighten their grip, ensuring Astarion can't possibly wriggle away as Fenris teases.]
Such a caring older brother—
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Tch— !!
[Before they're snapped open again, prompting a harsh flick of his ears. An irritated snort. A fussy, wriggling push that turns into a flood of rolling aftershocks, all mirrored: dragging, flopping, outright writhing to the tune of his own jewelry in the most undignified fit imaginable— indignant cries of no! no, quit it— quit it, I hate you I loathe you I'll— I'll order you hanged, I will! losing all their spark for the fact that he's grinning (sneering?) like a lunatic, pale fingers latched onto equally pale hair when he reaches back to yank at the only bit of Fenris he's managed to take hold of, barely containing his own ire, let alone amusement.
He isn't even allowed to play with his own brother like this.]
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Nor any of the other elves, if it came to that. No master wants to see the slave brats squabbling in the dirt like pups; it's distasteful and undignified, and no matter that Tevinter believes elves can't help themselves from such savagery, still. It oughtn't happen in a magister's household. What playmates Fenris had (so long ago he cannot recall their names or their faces, just fleeting impressions of laughter and spite) contented themselves with quieter means of play, scrapping behind wine casks or sharpening their tongues on one another.
He isn't thinking of Danarius now. He isn't thinking of his past and all the horrors contained therein; he isn't thinking of the pain that wracks his body with every breath. He does not think about dignity nor propriety, class or rank; he doesn't think about what might happen if someone were to walk in, or all the ways in which his life would be miserable. For the first time in a long time, Fenris thinks only of the here and now— and the wriggling little beast caught in his arms.
Tevene bursts from his lips as fingers knot in his hair; giddy laughter fills the air as they writhe together, Fenris refusing to release him and Astarion doing his damnedest to get away, until (inevitably) they overbalance and end up tumbling on the carpeted floor with a loud thump. From there it's limbs and hand and tussling, the two of them rolling around on the floor like pups, nipping as they scrabble for purchase, Fenris half-inclined to give Astarion his way just to keep the fight going longer— hands in his hair, hands on his wrists, until at last—
At last, training triumphs over sheer force of will: Astarion pinned on his back, his hands pinned above his hand and Fenris straddling his hips.]
Now, what was that? You'll order me hanged . . .?
[A reckless sort of grin as he arches his back, hips pushing down hard against Astarion's lithe frame. He'll spare them both the obvious joke of being hung, but trust that it flashes through both their minds, for he catches Astarion's eye in silent, amused acknowledgement.]
Little magistrate-in-training, I would love to see you try.
[He would. He really, really would. A breeze drifts through the open window, wafting the curtains gently as he smirks down at him.]
Perhaps it's manners I need to focus on next when it comes to you, hm? How to say please and thank you instead of simply—
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[And it's nothing.
Nothing an ordinary person might notice, anyway. Nothing that echoes through the room or makes itself known— and yet still all at once Fenris is on his feet, amusement dissipating as wariness takes its place.]
Stay down.
[He hisses it. His gun has already appeared like magic in his hand, his body angled tight as he inches towards the open window. Not directly at it, no, he's no fool, but from the side, so that he might see whomever waits in the darkness before they see him.]
Do the maids normally keep your windows open?
[Because neither he nor Astarion had left them that way. Fenris waits for a long few moments— and then, quite carefully, reaches for a nearby hand mirror. His foot kicks at the longer mirror at the same time, nudging it this way and that; it takes a tricky few seconds, but soon enough his lyrium glints and glows in the shared reflection. For a moment nothing happens—
— and then all at once glass shatters as two bullets rip through the middle of it, embedding themselves in the far wall. His reflection is scattered among a million pieces of discarded glass; there's a shout from downstairs, a cry of shock—]
Come on—
[No time to fret. No time to focus on others. No time to do anything except roughly grab Astarion and haul him forward, all but slinging him out the door as Fenris rushes behind, expecting to feel pain blossoming between his shoulderblades the entire time— and indeed, there's another noiseless feeling of pressure before a bullet shatters Astarion's perfume bottles; another embeds itself in the oaken door as Fenris slams it shut behind them.
Beneath them, the household is in an uproar: voices are rising in shouts and cries, lights turning on as the noise of gunfire rouses even the most languid of the household. There's shouts for the police; the front door slams open and shut as some of the estate guards rush out, but they won't find anything.]
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