His expression is impossibly, wondrously soft in that moment when their eyes meet: his mouth a soft line and his emerald eyes endlessly gentle, his flinty mask melted away to reveal something so much more vulnerable than he ever usually allows. His heart thunders like a drum, and though Astarion hasn't made a move to take the blade just yet, Fenris keeps it held out all the same. He'll hold it there for hours if need be.
And it isn't pity that fuels that softness. It isn't the patronizing sympathy that plagues this world, human nobles cooing about how sad it is to see an elven child in threadbare clothing or begging for food. It certainly isn't the condescending attitude of an elder towards a youth, rueful amusement at their expense for the sake of bittersweet memories.
It's so much more than that. A cacophony of emotions twisting within him and boiling in the pit of his stomach, so foreign and strange that he can't possibly identify them. Grief and sorrow, joy and keen-edged pleasure, and yet all he knows is that they're overlaid with the fiercest urge to stay close.
Don't leave me behind.
Like a drowning man finally surfacing for air: he wants to stay near this elf as long as he's able, Fenris realizes. It's such a swelling desire that it takes him by surprise, no matter that he agreed to run away with him not an hour ago. That had been more about leaving Kirkwall than anything, but now . . . Maker, he wants to be near. Not because Astarion needs protecting (though oh, he feels that urge too, baring his teeth in a snarl at the entire world for what it might wrought). Not because Astarion cannot handle things on his own, newly freed and stumbling into this world on coltish legs.
It's because he wants to.
The past few days have been a misery for more reasons than one. Lonely thing, he's grown so used to isolation that he'd forgotten what it was to want someone. And there's a connection here. A spark, a thread that ties them together, and it makes no sense. For the life of him, he couldn't articulate it if he tried, but it's there all the same. Something that makes Astarion different from others he's freed before, the pale elf distinguishing himself in Fenris' eyes by way of vulnerability and independence both. He plans to cross countries and trek it to another country by way of celebrating his freedom, and yet he looks up at Fenris as though he's the world, and Fenris—
Maker, he wants to be that. He wants to be everything to Astarion in this moment.]
It's yours.
[He doesn't know how long he took before he replied. Hours, maybe, or mere seconds; it's so hard to tell.]
I . . . the gloves were practical. But this . . .
[This is something more, and they both know it. His tongue feels thick and clumsy; what had Hawke said to him all those years ago? He can't remember. He doesn't know what to say nor how to say it, and in the end, he manages:]
[His smile hurts when he flexes it on instinct. Aches in ways that defy articulation, and perhaps always will. It's no grand thing. His cheeks don't hurt or even dimple; they couldn't when the corners of his mouth barely flex at all aside from an angled thinning on one side, mostly at the edge. His brows pinch in completely palpable contrast, pulling so hard and so high that the creases in the middle of his forehead leave sharp lines and an even sharper sense of pressure. It digs, in essence, and where it doesn't, it burns hot and sharp and slick. Tucks in behind the borders of his blinking eyes.
Breath in, resolute, and time begins to tick again. The noise of the city comes back, invited to remember all its cues, and the act of reaching out to take that blade becomes the simple act of taking a blade.
Weighing it.
Slipping a gloved thumb across its glinting mark.]
Welcomed with a weapon that implies an inherent sense of rampant danger?
The first step from cowering slave to freed man. The first choice that will linger and echo days and months and years from now, no matter what Astarion does or where he goes. And it doesn't matter whether or not he's fought before, for Fenris himself was made to be a war dog— but there's such a difference between the blade pushed into your palm by your master and one you take up yourself.
It's more than just a weapon. It's a way to defend. It's a way to declare that you won't be helpless anymore, cowering beneath the yoke of laws and commands and the whimsical cruelty of the wealthy. I can take care of myself, this blade whispers, and Fenris wishes he knew how to say all that. He wishes he knew how to express the pride that wells up fiercely within him without sounding as though he's patronizing the pale elf.
But that fixed smile says so much. The way he drawls an offhand remark rather than linger in the sentiment of the moment says so much. And while Fenris doesn't know what he's thinking or where it comes from, he can well guess that this might be overwhelming— and that Astarion can't bear to linger.]
Welcomed with a weapon that implies you are the danger.
[An easy correction, his tone matching Astarion's own. And though Fenris wants very much wants to say more, he bites those words back. Instead, more easily:]
Come. I mean to get us both drunk tonight.
[Give Kirkwall this: it's ridiculously easy to find a good dive bar. Not the Hanged Man, for he cannot return there just yet, but something smaller: a hole in the wall that seems relatively clean. Astarion finds them a private table in the back while Fenris orders— Maker, far too much alcohol. Whiskey and rum, vodka and beer— all of it far too expensive and such a clash of liquors, but to hell with it. If this is Astarion's first night out, he wants it to be memorable.
(And if they're both dreadfully hung over tomorrow, well, that's part of it too).
Two drinks before the world begins to blur and soften; another two before he rises to get them water, nearly trips over his own feet, and realizes that he's properly drunk. Drunk as he hasn't been in a long, long time, his eyes soft and his grin reckless, amused and happy just to be here. It's a sharp difference from all the wine-drenched bitterness of before, and he's grateful for it.]
Savor all this.
[He drawls it out, his tongue loose over the syllables and his accent thick.]
All they do is drink wine in Antiva, from what I hear. Nothing but wine. Though I do hear it's good . . .
[Maker, they're going to Antiva in a few days. It's almost unreal, and yet he likes the thought the more he lingers on it. Antiva, and oh, it will be so nice to be in a place with a warm climate again . . . frankly, it will be nice just to be out of Kirkwall, for this is a miserable city. But oh: he doesn't want to get too lost in his thoughts, not when his companion is far more interesting. With a little grin, Fenris lifts his glass.]
To nearly a week in freedom. And to you.
Tell me what still puzzles you, hm? I saw those books . . . you must have picked up a great deal by now. What surprises you here?
[For he's still so curious about the concept of another world.]
[The dagger sits against his breast, tucked in close beneath loose cloth and a slanted sense of awareness; something that grows increasingly lopsided the more he drinks from that gleaming assortment of poured paint-thinners that all taste like—
Oh, like ambrosia, really.
He'd drink it out of a boot if it meant tasting more than ash and congealed misery whilst imbibing. And the best part is— like the figure hunched around mottled wood barely an arms' length away (and pleasantly blurry)— won't be going anywhere he can't fully follow.]
Oh, I don't know, darling— everthing??
[A puff of air that's both a scoff and a laugh, residually rife with scorching disbelief. Don't mind him as he snares a glass of something amber. And strong. And that absolutely reeks with fumes when it's held up in mutual salute....and downed.
(His swallow doesn't struggle, but it is audible, if one listens close.)]
Religion, history, genocide, slavery, culture, politesse. Your entire continental map looks like a dropped steak and honestly my darling I'm almost positive it's something to do with the fact that you lot had humans at the helm for centuries upon centuries— completely and utterly unchecked. Then there's the Circles, blood magic, abominations, phylacteries, chevaliers, templars, Q– uh. Qun....ah- qunahree. Or whatever. Old gods. Blights.
And now Corypheus? His spies. His dogged hunters. The fact that I can't order a drink without being forced to 'wait my turn'?
Gods and devils both have mercy, I've no idea how you even managed to snag this room.
[He laughs. It's an undignified thing, more akin to a low giggle than anything approaching what a grown elf ought to emit, but he can't help it. He isn't even laughing at Astarion, just as the truth of what he's saying: there's so much that's strange. Even Fenris can see it, from the blight to abominations to the entire concept of phylacteries . . . oh, and don't forget:]
Qunari.
[Sweetly corrected, for he finds the mispronunciation rather cute. But mmph, less so: that reminder of elven prejudice. Fenris scoffs derisively beneath his breath (though he does glance around, but ah, no one is paying two drunken elves any mind).]
It helps if you're intimidating. Most humans know better than to pick a fight with an elf who has a claymore strapped to his back, never mind who has the markings I do.
[He leans his cheek against his palm, in part for the comfort and in part because the room has begun to spin a little, and it's nice to have an anchor.]
As for Corypheus and his hunters— they will never catch you, not so long as you are with me.
[Smug, that, and frankly, not unduly so. But oh, oh, wait, he had a further thing to say about being an elf in Thedas, which was:]
Who, who do you have in charge, then, if not humans? Dwarves? Elves? I would think the humans would simply take over in your world, too . . . they expand so quickly.
[He's never talked to anyone like this. He's never talked about humans like this, distinctly separate and utterly other.]
Though I suppose no faster nor slower than elves, but . . . mmph, still.
[Astarion's expression rises first. Uplifted by the warmer current of Fenris' sly comment, it's why he misses the subtlety of the rest:]
True, they breed like rats, but they die out just as quickly. A handful of decades and then— poof— [a flick of his fingers outwards, imitating the winking of a dying star. Distracted a moment later by the cup resting beside said hand. Hello, beautiful.]
We'll outlive the lot without breaking a seat— [Errh. Hold on. Words. He knows words.]
Sweat.
False gods and assassins included, provided we're together. Your ferocity and my boundless cleverness combined.
[He laughs again, white teeth flashing for the sheer audacity of talking like this. He has never been one to cower from humans, not since freedom, but it's so refreshing to talk to someone else who feels the same. Not even the Dalish can manage it, so lost in their victimization.]
Of course we will.
[Of course they will. Drunk as they are, anything seems possible right now. His voice has gone drunkenly pleased, loose and light and a little silly in a way that it never normally is.]
Anyway, what kind of cleverness? Clever enough to survive, I know that. Clever enough to study up. What other kinds of ways are you clever, hm?
[A beat, and then, a little ruefully:]
I do not suppose light fingers were part of your training . . .
[Look, stealing is wrong, but it does make for a far easier life, and he is too old to care overly much about the morals of it. Steal from the rich to give to the poor, isn't that how the saying goes? And given they themselves have almost nothing between them . . . it's fine.]
[Arguably when escaping one's enslavement with nothing to one's name, stealing is always right. And stealing from the sort that stare and scoff the way that many in this city seem inclined to is therefore very very right.
Not that it matters; Astarion would thieve to his now-beating-heart's content anyway.]
Training? No. Survival?
[Ah, but— wait, they should do this properly, should they not? Turning around where he sits, the pale elf's focus aims itself out through the gap of the open doorway leading to their private room.]
Name your target, my dear enigmatic friend. Any target.
[Oh, and Fenris perks up, glancing around with a grin at that promising challenge. Anyone, hm? And while drunk? This might not be the best idea, but Fenris wants to see this— and anyway, if he gets caught, it's easy enough to flee the scene.]
Hmm . . .
[He reaches for another glass, letting the wine knock around (a little sloppily, truthfully) while he contemplates the bar. It's not so tightly packed he can't see across the room, but most of the trades have let out for the day and there's more than a few looking for a well-earned drink. His eyes flit from one to the other, but finally—]
Him.
[A nervous-looking man who keeps fidgeting at the bar, half-raising his hand only to shy away when someone else inevitably grabs the bartender's attention. His other hand keeps patting at his pocket, some part of him clearly aware that there's a good chance he'll be robbed.]
Try him. You're drunk, you know, [he adds unnecessarily, but it belatedly occurs to him that perhaps setting Astarion on a seemingly-difficult target might not be the best idea.]
You can try her, if you want.
[A far easier mark: a woman half a glass into her wine already, her eyes roaming blatantly around the room like a tiger sizing up prey.]
Phshf. You're drunk. I'm delightfully tipsy. [Insists a creature that once risen nearly falls back flat across the floor. Twice.
But he stills his horizon (mostly), sets his swaying mainsail, and carves said charted languid course towards what he no doubt hopes will prove itself a bet well won.
Halfway to his target, and Astarion yanks the front of his blouse open with one hand, grabs a bottle of port from the counter with another, and deftly—
Oh, pours a glass of wine for the lady pointed out as his secondary option. Something spoken as he wends in with a smile and a few deferential nods— a shake of his head, a more intentive look, and then less than one minute later he's up and peeling away from that corner of the bar, taking what's left of the bottle with him. Not returning yet. Perhaps lost?
Ah— to the first mark again. That nervous, twitching thing (dressed no better than the rest of this bar's flock, but a fair sight cleaner, at the very least. Attentive and yet frail, or attentive because of frailty, which is something worth noting for even those spectating this sly sport). The one that jolts like a startled fawn before Astarion fills his cup and gestures towards the woman at the bar— who's looking at the man Astarion speaks to— who's looking back at her with a smile that can only be described as outright bashful.
Up goes the now distracted banker (merchant? Dockside ledgerkeep?), down goes Astarion into— lopsidedly drinking from that freshly orphaned cup, then up one last time with the bottle well in hand, slinking across a thoroughly distracted tavern and back towards their table.]
As his lordship requested: [begins the show portion of show and tell upon arrival, all laid out before Fenris directly like a hunting dog laying out dead ducks, each carefully retrieved ] one necklace and math- mavtching pair of bangles, one ladies' coin purse, one skinflint's wallet, and one bottle of mostly intact port. To go.
Truly. He watches with a growing awe as Astarion weaves deftly from one mark to the other with all the grace of a dancer, gliding through the crowds as though he's rehearsed this. One after another, he manages to charm and distract without making the amateur's mistake of being so conspicuous that he draws attention— Maker, he even manages to get the bartender inadvertently in on it, an extra bit of cleverness that delights Fenris to no end.
And through it all, he doesn't see him steal once. He doesn't spot a finger out of place, a hand dipping into a pocket or creeping around the woman's throat, and yet— Maker, and Fenris whistles low as he eyes the bounty laid before him.]
Wow.
[Oh, that was a stupid thing to say, his brain belatedly chides him, but seriously: wow, and he blinks as he glances from the bounty to Astarion and back again.]
How did you— sit down— how did you do that? I have known some deft thieves in my time, but few that could steal the jewels off a woman without her noticing. Where did you even put them?
[And then, if this wasn't utterly apparent already:]
Oh. Oh, Astarion goes so red that there's thanks to be given to dim, heinously dark Lowtown lighting. A mercy that he can't do anything but feel as it slithers up the nape of his neck and beds into his cheeks and ears, right up to their tips. It's a wonder that his own personal wonder sees fit to praise him, now. He can't remember the last time he was praised, for that matter. Let alone in all sincerity.]
[And then he flexes a smile that could devour the world.]
Oh, pish posh, sweetheart.
It was nothing, really. [Said whilst demurely flicking his gloved fingertips into the midst of all his curls.] One part feigned servitude so as to render oneself beyond notice, one part 'oh that young lord thinks himself cleverly in disguise again, and yet he can't seem to stop staring at you, darling,' and one part—
Errhm. Mm. Well. Another part just a dash of sleight of hand to top the whole thing off. We're working in thirds today.
[He grins for that bit about thirds, but it's amusement for amusement's sake; he's too drunk to realize it was a slip of the tongue. Too drunk, too, to notice that blush in this lighting; he thinks it mere surprise that delays Astarion's answer, and then promptly forgets in the next moment.]
Well. If I am to teach you of this world, I wish for that to be my payment. Learning how to be more— to perform—
[Maker's breath, what's the word? He struggles for a few moments, then waves his hand dismissively as he shortens it to:]
Slight of hand. I wish to learn it while we're on our way to Antiva. The charm I can do without, but it would be fascinating to learn the other bits. How long did it take you to learn?
[Years, surely, but now he's interested: his eyes gleaming (if not a little overbright thanks to the alcohol), his ears flicking with interest and his chin set firmly in his palm as he watches Astarion.]
Was it to, to steal— mmph, no, you don't . . . survival, you said. Survival of what? Why learn it in the first place?
[It's such a treat to be able to show off. More so to serve as a thrill for anything but the way he uses his mouth or angles his prick; they're countless drinks in by now, and yet he'd be lying if he didn't admit that the nauseous palpitations fluttering in his throat at the sight of Fenris' adorable little ear twitches (downturned, he thinks to himself in wonder,) are his addiction now. His willing weakness— hook, line, and sinker. Chin smushed against his palm and a grin etched deep in place when he sucks in more than air.]
My master's desired prey wasn't easy to catch....
Some [he starts, trying to illustrate something with his gesticulating reach that he's already forgotten.] fought back. And in my own way, I made sure I always eon. One. Wone.
[Close enough.]
My handsome rescuer, I'd teach you more than just how to work your wrist if you but asked.
[It's a hint to a grim tale, and one that, if he were sober, Fenris would pay more mind to. But then again: it isn't as if his hands are any cleaner. You do what you need to in order to survive, and while the notion of luring prey in is objectively awful, well. Fenris won't ever be the one to call Astarion to task for it. Especially not now.
Blame the alcohol, too, on the way he isn't sure if that innuendo means what he thinks it means. Or blame Thedas, maybe, for the notion of a man flirting with another to be something unusual. Either way: he grins at Astarion, his smile just a touch uncertain as he tries to decide if that's flirtatious.
(But Astarion wouldn't want to— but maybe he would? But then again, they're about to set off on a long journey, and they barely know if they're compatible as friends, never mind as— and Maker, he just emerged into freedom, Fenris oughtn't assume—)]
I— oh?
[Smooth. He cocks his head curiously, that same smile still on his lips, and asks:]
[The adjectives are piling up. Striking, stunning, enviable, selfless— and yet not, somehow, for there is a line that's been ridden between that defined word (once-loathed) and outright martyrdom. The next on that list, Astarion discovers, is cute.
Adorable when he's fumbling and soused, and yet not opting despite all that halting fluster not to balk at its unchaste source.
Perhaps because they're (....friends?) close already, and he's possessed of no desire to sully what's only just begun between them. Perhaps because he chases orchids instead of vipers, so to speak. Perhaps because—
Well, no matter what it is, Astarion's too pleasantly drunk and bathed in present adulation to care. And with a doubly-taken glance to the side that nearly slumps him flat against the table, he can skirt past this failed attempt at roughhousing. For now.]
How to make a daring exit when you've robbed half an establishment blind and its owners have only just begun to notice.
[Don't mind him, darling. He's just gathering everything laid out and one— no, two— no, three more of their still full glasses.]
[He laughs softly, at first in drunken instinct, and then again as the realization of what Astarion is saying sets in. Swiftly he rises up from his seat, his grin widening into something recklessly conspiratorial.]
Easy, easy— take your loot, I will handle the bottles—
[Clumsily, stupidly, drunkenly— liquor trickling coldly against his fingers as he snatches a glass from Astarion's hand, swigging it swiftly and shuddering as it stings his throat. He grabs bottles by their necks and tucks them beneath one arm, laughing as he hasn't in years as he throws some money on the table and they slip out swiftly (and not half so subtly as they seem to think, but no one thinks them anything more than two drunken fools).
The night air is cool and refreshing, and the two moons shine brightly down on them as they emerge into the evening. And for the first time since he entered Kirkwall, Fenris doesn't think about how miserable he is, or the ghosts that eternally haunt him in this city. He's too busy grinning over at Astarion, drunkenly delighted and still more than a little awed by his deft fingers.]
Come. Before they follow—
[Up to Hightown, where his mansion lies. He doesn't think about the broken glass scattered over the floors, nor the layers of dust and debris that have settled over the past decade and a half; he isn't thinking of anything save Astarion, and how much lighter his own heart feels in this moment.]
Now you're getting in the spirit of Kirkwall. Keep those trinkets close, though— there is a not insubstantial chance we'll be jumped before we reach home.
[He sways faintly as he walks, the world spinning in the best way.]
Then again, you can handle yourself . . . and I would not pass up the opportunity to watch you work again, in one way if not another.
[Thief is a hissed accusation that can only watch on as Fenris downs the drink plucked from Astarion's hands (never mind that he needed that arm free, or that he laughs not even a full second later— ) and the wholly alien sensation of leaving through an establishment's shoddy back door with lightness in his chest and a smile on his lips even has the decency to stay, treading along beside them in the dust. Those winding byways where it's a miracle Astarion miraculously manages to avoid ploughing into anything headfirst when he's splitting doused attention between the two massive moons slung ominously overhead.
The glasses that he carries clinking when they aren't threatening to spill.]
....how in the hells do you suppose they stay up there like that....?
[Is a distracted change in subject no one but his tuned-out fascination asked for. Oh yes, he's so deft. So fearsome and capable. ]
[It's not his fault that the hardworking employees of the Blooming Rose are roaming this time of night— nor that they're, ah, aggressively advertising their services. Fenris blinks as he tears his gaze away from one particular woman and focuses on where Astarion's gaze rests.]
Er . . . I do not know.
[How do they stay up there, anyway? How does the sun stay up there? Or the stars? He's never bothered to wonder. Fenris squints up at them both, then shrugs one shoulder as he glances over at Astarion.]
Because we would not be able to wander around at night if we did not have their light to go by, and that would make for a dull life.
[A beat and then, his mind swimming in alcohol and forgetting that Astarion has, one, almost certainly been out at night before and two, has lived here for five days now, adds in an attempt at a gentle tone:]
The smaller one is called Satina. The other is just the moon. Have you ever seen a moon before ...?
[It comes out more than a little patronizing, but like, he's trying, okay. Drunkenly, soppily, stupidly trying.]
[Twin moons meet twin moons, apparently; Astarion hardly notices the Blooming Rose's calls for comfort— there's a sudden drop in the way he swivels to take in the sight of something else graced withy silver-blue light. Something that sounds pretty enough that neither tone nor intent slips through the barrier of soft-throated infatuation.
There's a lot going over his head right now. Figuratively. Literally.]
Not a pair of them before— [he pauses, muttering between languid strides] fuck, how many days ago was it....? Four— three— ....five.... [hm.] coming here.
[And then:]
Feels a bit toshy to only name one. Would hate to be the poor wretch saddled with just the moon when your sister's named Satina.
Yes, but she's the smaller one. She had to have something to make her stand out. Besides, I believe she was classified as a star first . . . A-star-i-on . . .
[He mumbles that last bit out, which is for the best. And is that fact right? Maybe. Or maybe Satina was a dwarf moon first, is that a thing? He doesn't know, and he certainly doesn't know while drunk out of his mind. Fenris grins over at Astarion, attention thoroughly refocused.]
So you have seen a moon, just not before you came here.
[Almost, but not really. More importantly:]
Toshy? I speak three languages and that is a word in none of them.
You're drunk. [Is the cry of a man too amused and too tilted to even considering arguing that he has seen a respectably singular moon arched high within its cosmic perch before coming here, his own grin easily met when Fenris' stare turns his way, looking sharper than cut glass.]
Toshy means—
[Feom a forearms' length away, Astarion shifts his bounty of stolen cups to gesture slackly with one hand— fingertips less loose than the wrist attached to them, but they all sway rapidly back and forth in the open air, trying to muddle his thoughts like someone extracting pulp from hardened fruit.]
Garbage. Crude. Errh....lower cl [something clicks there belatedly, knocking the wheels out from under his expression, and making the very last part of his prior explanation just:] ass....
What do you mean you speak three langusges.
[According to that last word Astsrion is struggling with one.]
[Oh, he heard that, and the look he gives Astarion is pointed: not offended, but also, don't think you got away with that, sir.]
If that is the definition of toshy, [stop saying it like that] you and I are that. You cannot be more lower class than an ex-slave.
[And yet somehow, it's not an insult the way he says it. But languages are a far more interesting topic, and Fenris waves a hand back at his companion, echoing that gesture.]
I speak three languages— Common is not my first tongue, Tevene is. And I can speak Qunlat . . . not Orlesian, though, which is only half the reason we are not going there. Though I do not speak Antivan either . . . but it is more pleasing to the ear than Orlesian.
I will teach you, if you do not know. I will— ah—
[Quick as anything he grabs Astarion's arm, yanking him to the side in one sharp gesture. A little grimace colors his expression, more terse than fearful. Rip to those stolen glasses, hopefully Astarion had a tight grip on them; either way, Fenris hisses:]
Hush.
We are not alone . . .
[No, they certainly aren't. There are as many gangs in Kirkwall as there are rats, and more and more of them have been preying lately. He can see at least one or two up ahead, lurking in the shadows of doorways and waiting patiently for two idiot elves to drunkenly stumble forward. And it's not that he couldn't take them in a fight, understand, but Maker, Fenris doesn't want to, not tonight. With this much liquor burning in his belly he's just as likely to vomit on them as he is stab them, and who wants to deal with that?]
How well can you climb? We might take the rooftops to Hightown . . .
[A tight grip: yes. Enough balance to accomodate that sidelong yank out of eyeshot....
One splash is all it takes for Astarion to watch on as the contents of his drinks become intimately acquainted with the ground rather than the inside of his own parched throat. Mournful glance locked low across the carnage before Fenris' inquiry finds footing of any shade— and then pale lips purse. Red eyes dart higher. Dizziness a slurring afterthought beyond the way Astarion opens his mouth to speak— and closes it. Opens it again. Closes it.
(Fenris said to hush.)
Ergo: a sort of nod that tilts back and forth is what he offers, emoting with sharp features as best he can. Trying to emphasize yes, but it's the caveats that make that message far more vexingly unreadable.]
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His expression is impossibly, wondrously soft in that moment when their eyes meet: his mouth a soft line and his emerald eyes endlessly gentle, his flinty mask melted away to reveal something so much more vulnerable than he ever usually allows. His heart thunders like a drum, and though Astarion hasn't made a move to take the blade just yet, Fenris keeps it held out all the same. He'll hold it there for hours if need be.
And it isn't pity that fuels that softness. It isn't the patronizing sympathy that plagues this world, human nobles cooing about how sad it is to see an elven child in threadbare clothing or begging for food. It certainly isn't the condescending attitude of an elder towards a youth, rueful amusement at their expense for the sake of bittersweet memories.
It's so much more than that. A cacophony of emotions twisting within him and boiling in the pit of his stomach, so foreign and strange that he can't possibly identify them. Grief and sorrow, joy and keen-edged pleasure, and yet all he knows is that they're overlaid with the fiercest urge to stay close.
Don't leave me behind.
Like a drowning man finally surfacing for air: he wants to stay near this elf as long as he's able, Fenris realizes. It's such a swelling desire that it takes him by surprise, no matter that he agreed to run away with him not an hour ago. That had been more about leaving Kirkwall than anything, but now . . . Maker, he wants to be near. Not because Astarion needs protecting (though oh, he feels that urge too, baring his teeth in a snarl at the entire world for what it might wrought). Not because Astarion cannot handle things on his own, newly freed and stumbling into this world on coltish legs.
It's because he wants to.
The past few days have been a misery for more reasons than one. Lonely thing, he's grown so used to isolation that he'd forgotten what it was to want someone. And there's a connection here. A spark, a thread that ties them together, and it makes no sense. For the life of him, he couldn't articulate it if he tried, but it's there all the same. Something that makes Astarion different from others he's freed before, the pale elf distinguishing himself in Fenris' eyes by way of vulnerability and independence both. He plans to cross countries and trek it to another country by way of celebrating his freedom, and yet he looks up at Fenris as though he's the world, and Fenris—
Maker, he wants to be that. He wants to be everything to Astarion in this moment.]
It's yours.
[He doesn't know how long he took before he replied. Hours, maybe, or mere seconds; it's so hard to tell.]
I . . . the gloves were practical. But this . . .
[This is something more, and they both know it. His tongue feels thick and clumsy; what had Hawke said to him all those years ago? He can't remember. He doesn't know what to say nor how to say it, and in the end, he manages:]
Welcome to your new life.
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Breath in, resolute, and time begins to tick again. The noise of the city comes back, invited to remember all its cues, and the act of reaching out to take that blade becomes the simple act of taking a blade.
Weighing it.
Slipping a gloved thumb across its glinting mark.]
Welcomed with a weapon that implies an inherent sense of rampant danger?
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The first step from cowering slave to freed man. The first choice that will linger and echo days and months and years from now, no matter what Astarion does or where he goes. And it doesn't matter whether or not he's fought before, for Fenris himself was made to be a war dog— but there's such a difference between the blade pushed into your palm by your master and one you take up yourself.
It's more than just a weapon. It's a way to defend. It's a way to declare that you won't be helpless anymore, cowering beneath the yoke of laws and commands and the whimsical cruelty of the wealthy. I can take care of myself, this blade whispers, and Fenris wishes he knew how to say all that. He wishes he knew how to express the pride that wells up fiercely within him without sounding as though he's patronizing the pale elf.
But that fixed smile says so much. The way he drawls an offhand remark rather than linger in the sentiment of the moment says so much. And while Fenris doesn't know what he's thinking or where it comes from, he can well guess that this might be overwhelming— and that Astarion can't bear to linger.]
Welcomed with a weapon that implies you are the danger.
[An easy correction, his tone matching Astarion's own. And though Fenris wants very much wants to say more, he bites those words back. Instead, more easily:]
Come. I mean to get us both drunk tonight.
[Give Kirkwall this: it's ridiculously easy to find a good dive bar. Not the Hanged Man, for he cannot return there just yet, but something smaller: a hole in the wall that seems relatively clean. Astarion finds them a private table in the back while Fenris orders— Maker, far too much alcohol. Whiskey and rum, vodka and beer— all of it far too expensive and such a clash of liquors, but to hell with it. If this is Astarion's first night out, he wants it to be memorable.
(And if they're both dreadfully hung over tomorrow, well, that's part of it too).
Two drinks before the world begins to blur and soften; another two before he rises to get them water, nearly trips over his own feet, and realizes that he's properly drunk. Drunk as he hasn't been in a long, long time, his eyes soft and his grin reckless, amused and happy just to be here. It's a sharp difference from all the wine-drenched bitterness of before, and he's grateful for it.]
Savor all this.
[He drawls it out, his tongue loose over the syllables and his accent thick.]
All they do is drink wine in Antiva, from what I hear. Nothing but wine. Though I do hear it's good . . .
[Maker, they're going to Antiva in a few days. It's almost unreal, and yet he likes the thought the more he lingers on it. Antiva, and oh, it will be so nice to be in a place with a warm climate again . . . frankly, it will be nice just to be out of Kirkwall, for this is a miserable city. But oh: he doesn't want to get too lost in his thoughts, not when his companion is far more interesting. With a little grin, Fenris lifts his glass.]
To nearly a week in freedom. And to you.
Tell me what still puzzles you, hm? I saw those books . . . you must have picked up a great deal by now. What surprises you here?
[For he's still so curious about the concept of another world.]
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Oh, like ambrosia, really.
He'd drink it out of a boot if it meant tasting more than ash and congealed misery whilst imbibing. And the best part is— like the figure hunched around mottled wood barely an arms' length away (and pleasantly blurry)— won't be going anywhere he can't fully follow.]
Oh, I don't know, darling— everthing??
[A puff of air that's both a scoff and a laugh, residually rife with scorching disbelief. Don't mind him as he snares a glass of something amber. And strong. And that absolutely reeks with fumes when it's held up in mutual salute....and downed.
(His swallow doesn't struggle, but it is audible, if one listens close.)]
Religion, history, genocide, slavery, culture, politesse. Your entire continental map looks like a dropped steak and honestly my darling I'm almost positive it's something to do with the fact that you lot had humans at the helm for centuries upon centuries— completely and utterly unchecked. Then there's the Circles, blood magic, abominations, phylacteries, chevaliers, templars, Q– uh. Qun....ah- qunahree. Or whatever. Old gods. Blights.
And now Corypheus? His spies. His dogged hunters. The fact that I can't order a drink without being forced to 'wait my turn'?
Gods and devils both have mercy, I've no idea how you even managed to snag this room.
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Qunari.
[Sweetly corrected, for he finds the mispronunciation rather cute. But mmph, less so: that reminder of elven prejudice. Fenris scoffs derisively beneath his breath (though he does glance around, but ah, no one is paying two drunken elves any mind).]
It helps if you're intimidating. Most humans know better than to pick a fight with an elf who has a claymore strapped to his back, never mind who has the markings I do.
[He leans his cheek against his palm, in part for the comfort and in part because the room has begun to spin a little, and it's nice to have an anchor.]
As for Corypheus and his hunters— they will never catch you, not so long as you are with me.
[Smug, that, and frankly, not unduly so. But oh, oh, wait, he had a further thing to say about being an elf in Thedas, which was:]
Who, who do you have in charge, then, if not humans? Dwarves? Elves? I would think the humans would simply take over in your world, too . . . they expand so quickly.
[He's never talked to anyone like this. He's never talked about humans like this, distinctly separate and utterly other.]
Though I suppose no faster nor slower than elves, but . . . mmph, still.
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True, they breed like rats, but they die out just as quickly. A handful of decades and then— poof— [a flick of his fingers outwards, imitating the winking of a dying star. Distracted a moment later by the cup resting beside said hand. Hello, beautiful.]
We'll outlive the lot without breaking a seat— [Errh. Hold on. Words. He knows words.]
Sweat.
False gods and assassins included, provided we're together. Your ferocity and my boundless cleverness combined.
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Of course we will.
[Of course they will. Drunk as they are, anything seems possible right now. His voice has gone drunkenly pleased, loose and light and a little silly in a way that it never normally is.]
Anyway, what kind of cleverness? Clever enough to survive, I know that. Clever enough to study up. What other kinds of ways are you clever, hm?
[A beat, and then, a little ruefully:]
I do not suppose light fingers were part of your training . . .
[Look, stealing is wrong, but it does make for a far easier life, and he is too old to care overly much about the morals of it. Steal from the rich to give to the poor, isn't that how the saying goes? And given they themselves have almost nothing between them . . . it's fine.]
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Not that it matters; Astarion would thieve to his now-beating-heart's content anyway.]
Training? No. Survival?
[Ah, but— wait, they should do this properly, should they not? Turning around where he sits, the pale elf's focus aims itself out through the gap of the open doorway leading to their private room.]
Name your target, my dear enigmatic friend. Any target.
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Hmm . . .
[He reaches for another glass, letting the wine knock around (a little sloppily, truthfully) while he contemplates the bar. It's not so tightly packed he can't see across the room, but most of the trades have let out for the day and there's more than a few looking for a well-earned drink. His eyes flit from one to the other, but finally—]
Him.
[A nervous-looking man who keeps fidgeting at the bar, half-raising his hand only to shy away when someone else inevitably grabs the bartender's attention. His other hand keeps patting at his pocket, some part of him clearly aware that there's a good chance he'll be robbed.]
Try him. You're drunk, you know, [he adds unnecessarily, but it belatedly occurs to him that perhaps setting Astarion on a seemingly-difficult target might not be the best idea.]
You can try her, if you want.
[A far easier mark: a woman half a glass into her wine already, her eyes roaming blatantly around the room like a tiger sizing up prey.]
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But he stills his horizon (mostly), sets his swaying mainsail, and carves said charted languid course towards what he no doubt hopes will prove itself a bet well won.
Halfway to his target, and Astarion yanks the front of his blouse open with one hand, grabs a bottle of port from the counter with another, and deftly—
Oh, pours a glass of wine for the lady pointed out as his secondary option. Something spoken as he wends in with a smile and a few deferential nods— a shake of his head, a more intentive look, and then less than one minute later he's up and peeling away from that corner of the bar, taking what's left of the bottle with him. Not returning yet. Perhaps lost?
Ah— to the first mark again. That nervous, twitching thing (dressed no better than the rest of this bar's flock, but a fair sight cleaner, at the very least. Attentive and yet frail, or attentive because of frailty, which is something worth noting for even those spectating this sly sport). The one that jolts like a startled fawn before Astarion fills his cup and gestures towards the woman at the bar— who's looking at the man Astarion speaks to— who's looking back at her with a smile that can only be described as outright bashful.
Up goes the now distracted banker (merchant? Dockside ledgerkeep?), down goes Astarion into— lopsidedly drinking from that freshly orphaned cup, then up one last time with the bottle well in hand, slinking across a thoroughly distracted tavern and back towards their table.]
As his lordship requested: [begins the show portion of show and tell upon arrival, all laid out before Fenris directly like a hunting dog laying out dead ducks, each carefully retrieved ] one necklace and math- mavtching pair of bangles, one ladies' coin purse, one skinflint's wallet, and one bottle of mostly intact port. To go.
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Truly. He watches with a growing awe as Astarion weaves deftly from one mark to the other with all the grace of a dancer, gliding through the crowds as though he's rehearsed this. One after another, he manages to charm and distract without making the amateur's mistake of being so conspicuous that he draws attention— Maker, he even manages to get the bartender inadvertently in on it, an extra bit of cleverness that delights Fenris to no end.
And through it all, he doesn't see him steal once. He doesn't spot a finger out of place, a hand dipping into a pocket or creeping around the woman's throat, and yet— Maker, and Fenris whistles low as he eyes the bounty laid before him.]
Wow.
[Oh, that was a stupid thing to say, his brain belatedly chides him, but seriously: wow, and he blinks as he glances from the bounty to Astarion and back again.]
How did you— sit down— how did you do that? I have known some deft thieves in my time, but few that could steal the jewels off a woman without her noticing. Where did you even put them?
[And then, if this wasn't utterly apparent already:]
That was incredible, Astarion.
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Oh. Oh, Astarion goes so red that there's thanks to be given to dim, heinously dark Lowtown lighting. A mercy that he can't do anything but feel as it slithers up the nape of his neck and beds into his cheeks and ears, right up to their tips. It's a wonder that his own personal wonder sees fit to praise him, now. He can't remember the last time he was praised, for that matter. Let alone in all sincerity.]
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Oh, pish posh, sweetheart.
It was nothing, really. [Said whilst demurely flicking his gloved fingertips into the midst of all his curls.] One part feigned servitude so as to render oneself beyond notice, one part 'oh that young lord thinks himself cleverly in disguise again, and yet he can't seem to stop staring at you, darling,' and one part—
Errhm. Mm. Well. Another part just a dash of sleight of hand to top the whole thing off. We're working in thirds today.
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Well. If I am to teach you of this world, I wish for that to be my payment. Learning how to be more— to perform—
[Maker's breath, what's the word? He struggles for a few moments, then waves his hand dismissively as he shortens it to:]
Slight of hand. I wish to learn it while we're on our way to Antiva. The charm I can do without, but it would be fascinating to learn the other bits. How long did it take you to learn?
[Years, surely, but now he's interested: his eyes gleaming (if not a little overbright thanks to the alcohol), his ears flicking with interest and his chin set firmly in his palm as he watches Astarion.]
Was it to, to steal— mmph, no, you don't . . . survival, you said. Survival of what? Why learn it in the first place?
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My master's desired prey wasn't easy to catch....
Some [he starts, trying to illustrate something with his gesticulating reach that he's already forgotten.] fought back. And in my own way, I made sure I always eon. One. Wone.
[Close enough.]
My handsome rescuer, I'd teach you more than just how to work your wrist if you but asked.
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Blame the alcohol, too, on the way he isn't sure if that innuendo means what he thinks it means. Or blame Thedas, maybe, for the notion of a man flirting with another to be something unusual. Either way: he grins at Astarion, his smile just a touch uncertain as he tries to decide if that's flirtatious.
(But Astarion wouldn't want to— but maybe he would? But then again, they're about to set off on a long journey, and they barely know if they're compatible as friends, never mind as— and Maker, he just emerged into freedom, Fenris oughtn't assume—)]
I— oh?
[Smooth. He cocks his head curiously, that same smile still on his lips, and asks:]
What did you have in mind?
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Adorable when he's fumbling and soused, and yet not opting despite all that halting fluster not to balk at its unchaste source.
Perhaps because they're (....friends?) close already, and he's possessed of no desire to sully what's only just begun between them. Perhaps because he chases orchids instead of vipers, so to speak. Perhaps because—
Well, no matter what it is, Astarion's too pleasantly drunk and bathed in present adulation to care. And with a doubly-taken glance to the side that nearly slumps him flat against the table, he can skirt past this failed attempt at roughhousing. For now.]
How to make a daring exit when you've robbed half an establishment blind and its owners have only just begun to notice.
[Don't mind him, darling. He's just gathering everything laid out and one— no, two— no, three more of their still full glasses.]
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Easy, easy— take your loot, I will handle the bottles—
[Clumsily, stupidly, drunkenly— liquor trickling coldly against his fingers as he snatches a glass from Astarion's hand, swigging it swiftly and shuddering as it stings his throat. He grabs bottles by their necks and tucks them beneath one arm, laughing as he hasn't in years as he throws some money on the table and they slip out swiftly (and not half so subtly as they seem to think, but no one thinks them anything more than two drunken fools).
The night air is cool and refreshing, and the two moons shine brightly down on them as they emerge into the evening. And for the first time since he entered Kirkwall, Fenris doesn't think about how miserable he is, or the ghosts that eternally haunt him in this city. He's too busy grinning over at Astarion, drunkenly delighted and still more than a little awed by his deft fingers.]
Come. Before they follow—
[Up to Hightown, where his mansion lies. He doesn't think about the broken glass scattered over the floors, nor the layers of dust and debris that have settled over the past decade and a half; he isn't thinking of anything save Astarion, and how much lighter his own heart feels in this moment.]
Now you're getting in the spirit of Kirkwall. Keep those trinkets close, though— there is a not insubstantial chance we'll be jumped before we reach home.
[He sways faintly as he walks, the world spinning in the best way.]
Then again, you can handle yourself . . . and I would not pass up the opportunity to watch you work again, in one way if not another.
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The glasses that he carries clinking when they aren't threatening to spill.]
....how in the hells do you suppose they stay up there like that....?
[Is a distracted change in subject no one but his tuned-out fascination asked for. Oh yes, he's so deft. So fearsome and capable. ]
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[It's not his fault that the hardworking employees of the Blooming Rose are roaming this time of night— nor that they're, ah, aggressively advertising their services. Fenris blinks as he tears his gaze away from one particular woman and focuses on where Astarion's gaze rests.]
Er . . . I do not know.
[How do they stay up there, anyway? How does the sun stay up there? Or the stars? He's never bothered to wonder. Fenris squints up at them both, then shrugs one shoulder as he glances over at Astarion.]
Because we would not be able to wander around at night if we did not have their light to go by, and that would make for a dull life.
[A beat and then, his mind swimming in alcohol and forgetting that Astarion has, one, almost certainly been out at night before and two, has lived here for five days now, adds in an attempt at a gentle tone:]
The smaller one is called Satina. The other is just the moon. Have you ever seen a moon before ...?
[It comes out more than a little patronizing, but like, he's trying, okay. Drunkenly, soppily, stupidly trying.]
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There's a lot going over his head right now. Figuratively. Literally.]
Not a pair of them before— [he pauses, muttering between languid strides] fuck, how many days ago was it....? Four— three— ....five.... [hm.] coming here.
[And then:]
Feels a bit toshy to only name one. Would hate to be the poor wretch saddled with just the moon when your sister's named Satina.
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[He mumbles that last bit out, which is for the best. And is that fact right? Maybe. Or maybe Satina was a dwarf moon first, is that a thing? He doesn't know, and he certainly doesn't know while drunk out of his mind. Fenris grins over at Astarion, attention thoroughly refocused.]
So you have seen a moon, just not before you came here.
[Almost, but not really. More importantly:]
Toshy? I speak three languages and that is a word in none of them.
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Toshy means—
[Feom a forearms' length away, Astarion shifts his bounty of stolen cups to gesture slackly with one hand— fingertips less loose than the wrist attached to them, but they all sway rapidly back and forth in the open air, trying to muddle his thoughts like someone extracting pulp from hardened fruit.]
Garbage. Crude. Errh....lower cl [something clicks there belatedly, knocking the wheels out from under his expression, and making the very last part of his prior explanation just:] ass....
What do you mean you speak three langusges.
[According to that last word Astsrion is struggling with one.]
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If that is the definition of toshy, [stop saying it like that] you and I are that. You cannot be more lower class than an ex-slave.
[And yet somehow, it's not an insult the way he says it. But languages are a far more interesting topic, and Fenris waves a hand back at his companion, echoing that gesture.]
I speak three languages— Common is not my first tongue, Tevene is. And I can speak Qunlat . . . not Orlesian, though, which is only half the reason we are not going there. Though I do not speak Antivan either . . . but it is more pleasing to the ear than Orlesian.
I will teach you, if you do not know. I will— ah—
[Quick as anything he grabs Astarion's arm, yanking him to the side in one sharp gesture. A little grimace colors his expression, more terse than fearful. Rip to those stolen glasses, hopefully Astarion had a tight grip on them; either way, Fenris hisses:]
Hush.
We are not alone . . .
[No, they certainly aren't. There are as many gangs in Kirkwall as there are rats, and more and more of them have been preying lately. He can see at least one or two up ahead, lurking in the shadows of doorways and waiting patiently for two idiot elves to drunkenly stumble forward. And it's not that he couldn't take them in a fight, understand, but Maker, Fenris doesn't want to, not tonight. With this much liquor burning in his belly he's just as likely to vomit on them as he is stab them, and who wants to deal with that?]
How well can you climb? We might take the rooftops to Hightown . . .
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One splash is all it takes for Astarion to watch on as the contents of his drinks become intimately acquainted with the ground rather than the inside of his own parched throat. Mournful glance locked low across the carnage before Fenris' inquiry finds footing of any shade— and then pale lips purse. Red eyes dart higher. Dizziness a slurring afterthought beyond the way Astarion opens his mouth to speak— and closes it. Opens it again. Closes it.
(Fenris said to hush.)
Ergo: a sort of nod that tilts back and forth is what he offers, emoting with sharp features as best he can. Trying to emphasize yes, but it's the caveats that make that message far more vexingly unreadable.]
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