[He laughs, bright and clear, as he darts clumsily out of the way. They're both drunk, they're both far from their best, but Astarion is still a quick thing, and that delights Fenris to no end. There's intention in the way he stabs, a surety that speaks to survival— he doesn't hesitate the way an amateur might, wary of drawing blood or causing harm, oh, no. He fights to win, and it's the most thrilling thing in the world.]
Close— it's an excellent vintage, Astarion, laid down for the likes of nobility—
[Another stab, another dodge— he's playing on borrowed time, he knows, for Astarion will manage to hit him sooner or later. Even sober, there's only so many times that Fenris can reasonably dodge, and though he makes a show of dancing out of the way, teasing and taunting all the while—]
Not bad, but not decent enough—
[—sooner or later, that blade nearly hits home.
It grazes him by a hair, by a breath, steel singing as it soars by his cheek and kisses his skin, and it's only with the greatest of efforts that Fenris manages to spin himself and twist away from it. He follows through in the next moment, fitting himself behind Astarion and grabbing his dominant arm. His fingers wrap around his wrist tight as steel as Fenris' other arm comes up, wrapping tight around Astarion's other arm and chest— locking him in place in a pinning hold, at least for a few breathless moments.]
Close.
[He murmurs it roughly against Astarion's ear, a grin in his voice. The other elf's body is cool against his own, his figure slight and yet rippling with muscles; there's tension in the way they're fit together.
And Fenris lingers for just a few seconds too long.
Then, without any prompting, he releases him, taking a deliberate step back. There's color high in his cheeks, but there's nothing but friendly competition in his expression.]
Take your shoes off. You don't need to wear them, not here, and you'll be all the faster for it.
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Close— it's an excellent vintage, Astarion, laid down for the likes of nobility—
[Another stab, another dodge— he's playing on borrowed time, he knows, for Astarion will manage to hit him sooner or later. Even sober, there's only so many times that Fenris can reasonably dodge, and though he makes a show of dancing out of the way, teasing and taunting all the while—]
Not bad, but not decent enough—
[—sooner or later, that blade nearly hits home.
It grazes him by a hair, by a breath, steel singing as it soars by his cheek and kisses his skin, and it's only with the greatest of efforts that Fenris manages to spin himself and twist away from it. He follows through in the next moment, fitting himself behind Astarion and grabbing his dominant arm. His fingers wrap around his wrist tight as steel as Fenris' other arm comes up, wrapping tight around Astarion's other arm and chest— locking him in place in a pinning hold, at least for a few breathless moments.]
Close.
[He murmurs it roughly against Astarion's ear, a grin in his voice. The other elf's body is cool against his own, his figure slight and yet rippling with muscles; there's tension in the way they're fit together.
And Fenris lingers for just a few seconds too long.
Then, without any prompting, he releases him, taking a deliberate step back. There's color high in his cheeks, but there's nothing but friendly competition in his expression.]
Take your shoes off. You don't need to wear them, not here, and you'll be all the faster for it.