[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.]
[Yes, that's what that must mean. Yes-ish, and right now, that will have to be good enough. With one firm nod Fenris glances around, seeking out— ah. He leads Astarion to a nearby stack of crates piled in a forgotten corner. They're stacked just high enough that it wouldn't take much effort for two nimble elves to climb their way from there onto a nearby ledge; iron bars cover all the windows in Lowtown and offer an easy handhold. From there, it's up: scaling abandoned scaffolding and wooden platforms, using pipes as hand- and footholds until they reach the top, where they simply have to leap across and reach the towering rooftops.
[Well, of course it's not as easy that. Drunk and clumsy and, on Fenris' part, still punch-drunk-giddy from all that happened before, he's more than a little shoddy as he clambers his way up. The crates aren't so bad, and even the ledge just a bit of shuffling (if not tall enough to turn his stomach when he glances down). But ah, the scaffolding . . .
It's just not as easy to climb up as Fenris envisioned it, all right? He'd thought to spring from platform to platform like an agile acrobat; instead, the easiest and safest way up is to sort of straddle one beam, shimmy up it like a monkey, and make his way upwards. It's deeply undignified and utterly uncool, and of course he's so far past caring about things like that—
But still. There's a touch of redness in his ears as they finally manage to reach the top and leap lightly down onto the rooftops. Don't @ him.]
There. We will not be bothered. Few thieves bother lingering up here.
[Now empty, there's no purpose in clinging to all that remains of his stolen plunder: with care it's set aside in those first few moments of traversal on Fenris' part, and by the time he's turned himself around—
He sees nothing more than a very handsome elf scrabbling up across sections of beams, bars and girders, and much of the latter obscures the more ungainly moments of his struggles at the very least. Something Astarion's now-dulled senses can't track by way of overheard heartbeats or the fainter hiss of rushing blood, not even once he's plonked down (fallen, more like, in a sprawl of collapsed angles and fangbound panting), grinning at the slouched elf at his side.]
You don't say. [Comes out especially breathy, tugging at the loose front of his shirt— slightly damp from prior spillage— which has the additional effect of wafting the scent of rum and sweetened brandy out into the cool night air.]
[He turns his head as that alluring scent hits: the sharp sting of alcohol with a surprisingly floral undertone that he realizes must be Astarion himself. For a long moment Fenris stares, his eyes darting down to linger momentarily on pale skin and defined muscles; then they snap up again, momentary guilt swiftly smothered and shoved away.
At least being drunk means he can't be embarrassed for long. With no snickering laughter on Astarion's lips, Fenris settles back, resting on his forearms and offering him an echoing grin.]
Undignified idiots— but at least ones who are not about to be robbed.
[He's a touch breathless himself. The night is cool, the moon is bright, and there's a not-unpleasant breeze wafting off the harbor— there's no harm, Fenris thinks, in lingering here for a few moments longer.]
I don't suppose any of the drinks survived that . . .
Dru— [ohp. Oh. That's a crackle in his tone all right. Try again, Astarion.] —drunk? Me?
Darling I'm naught but delightfully tipsy.
[Which isn't true in the slightest, but is true in the sense of fictional affectation: if they two are the only ones present, and they two believe themselves to be competently buzzed in the aftermath of their grand heist— well then, who's to ever disagree? Least of all reality itself, a malleable beast that'll only persist in the retelling. the memories they share.
A luxury, in other words, for two creatures once bound by the gaps within their minds.
Astarion reaches into his damp shirt, drawing out one humid (yet cool to the fingers) bottle of still corked wine. Possibly corked wine, given the jostling climb, but he doubts the man that he's followed thus far to be discerning.]
[Oh, he's delighted by that revelation. Clever thing. Clever, damp thing, and Fenris reaches over without a second thought, scooting in closer as he grabs the bottle by the neck.]
Thank you, [overly enunciated as he bites the cork, pries it free, spits it out Maker-knows-where and sets the bottle to his lips. It is corked and he doesn't care, not when it only sends him higher; he swallows and tips his head back, grinning as the world spins.]
You will fit well in Antiva, the way you use petnames . . . though you might find not every man here will take to them so easily. [An idle comment, and not a personal one, as he adds curiously:] What other ones do you favor? Is that common in your world?
Common amongst the elite [is breathless through the gaps between overlong teeth and their lopsided grin of a smile, more overtly awed than anyone present might realize whilst watching his companion tear into bottled merlot like it was a prey animal entrapped.] —and the whores, like my good self— [a flourish there, gloved fingers artfully splayed in mimicry of genteel genuflection. Hello, Fenris, honorary member of the Patriar for one unseen night.] for all the other echelons, not so much at all.
But be patient, dear vanguard. Stick around long enough and you'll learn all my favorites, I promise you.
[A wistful intake of air that he can relish for the way it melts in living lungs, and then:]
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no subject
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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
1/2
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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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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Easy.]
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[Well, of course it's not as easy that. Drunk and clumsy and, on Fenris' part, still punch-drunk-giddy from all that happened before, he's more than a little shoddy as he clambers his way up. The crates aren't so bad, and even the ledge just a bit of shuffling (if not tall enough to turn his stomach when he glances down). But ah, the scaffolding . . .
It's just not as easy to climb up as Fenris envisioned it, all right? He'd thought to spring from platform to platform like an agile acrobat; instead, the easiest and safest way up is to sort of straddle one beam, shimmy up it like a monkey, and make his way upwards. It's deeply undignified and utterly uncool, and of course he's so far past caring about things like that—
But still. There's a touch of redness in his ears as they finally manage to reach the top and leap lightly down onto the rooftops. Don't @ him.]
There. We will not be bothered. Few thieves bother lingering up here.
[For perhaps increasingly obvious reasons.]
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He sees nothing more than a very handsome elf scrabbling up across sections of beams, bars and girders, and much of the latter obscures the more ungainly moments of his struggles at the very least. Something Astarion's now-dulled senses can't track by way of overheard heartbeats or the fainter hiss of rushing blood, not even once he's plonked down (fallen, more like, in a sprawl of collapsed angles and fangbound panting), grinning at the slouched elf at his side.]
You don't say. [Comes out especially breathy, tugging at the loose front of his shirt— slightly damp from prior spillage— which has the additional effect of wafting the scent of rum and sweetened brandy out into the cool night air.]
What exactly does that make us, then?
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At least being drunk means he can't be embarrassed for long. With no snickering laughter on Astarion's lips, Fenris settles back, resting on his forearms and offering him an echoing grin.]
Undignified idiots— but at least ones who are not about to be robbed.
[He's a touch breathless himself. The night is cool, the moon is bright, and there's a not-unpleasant breeze wafting off the harbor— there's no harm, Fenris thinks, in lingering here for a few moments longer.]
I don't suppose any of the drinks survived that . . .
[And why is that, Fenris?]
How drunk are you now, anyway? Drunk enough to get up here without killing yourself, at least.
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Darling I'm naught but delightfully tipsy.
[Which isn't true in the slightest, but is true in the sense of fictional affectation: if they two are the only ones present, and they two believe themselves to be competently buzzed in the aftermath of their grand heist— well then, who's to ever disagree? Least of all reality itself, a malleable beast that'll only persist in the retelling. the memories they share.
A luxury, in other words, for two creatures once bound by the gaps within their minds.
Astarion reaches into his damp shirt, drawing out one humid (yet cool to the fingers) bottle of still corked wine. Possibly corked wine, given the jostling climb, but he doubts the man that he's followed thus far to be discerning.]
You're welcome.
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[Oh, he's delighted by that revelation. Clever thing. Clever, damp thing, and Fenris reaches over without a second thought, scooting in closer as he grabs the bottle by the neck.]
Thank you, [overly enunciated as he bites the cork, pries it free, spits it out Maker-knows-where and sets the bottle to his lips. It is corked and he doesn't care, not when it only sends him higher; he swallows and tips his head back, grinning as the world spins.]
You will fit well in Antiva, the way you use petnames . . . though you might find not every man here will take to them so easily. [An idle comment, and not a personal one, as he adds curiously:] What other ones do you favor? Is that common in your world?
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But be patient, dear vanguard. Stick around long enough and you'll learn all my favorites, I promise you.
[A wistful intake of air that he can relish for the way it melts in living lungs, and then:]
Is it not the same here?
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