[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:]
[Does he assume that he's being lumped in with the whores? He does, and it's not a displeasing prospect, frankly. Not if he and Astarion are in it together.]
I look forward to it.
[Learning all his favorites, he means. Or maybe he means the travel itself, and all the weeks and years that might span out before them; that, too, is a thrilling thought, and one he freely allows himself now that they're drunk. It's been so long since he's looked forward to anything, but gods, he's excited for this journey. For the chance to do something that feels good, rather than a dull, deadened sense of going through the motions.
He glances over at his companion, cocking his head for that question.]
Mm . . . no. Not here here, anyway, in the south. Free Marchers are very . . .
[How to say this? Fenris' expression screws up, his mouth twisting as he tries to find the right words.]
Sterile— no. Stifled. . .?
[Hmm— oh, no, he knows, and the word bursts out of him a little louder than he intends:]
Gruff.
[It's not a complaint, mind you, just an observation. It's one of the reasons he enjoys Kirkwall so much; nobody pretends to actually like one another, which is a nice change after all the falseness of Tevinter.]
They do not like to be affectionate, especially the elite, and look upon any kind of petname with suspicion. Charm them too much and they'll call you a thief faster than they'll melt for you— which you are, but . . .
[Wait, what was the question? Hm. Better have another sip of wine, just in case.]
Simply . . . be careful what names slide off your tongue when talking to people around here. Antivans, from what I know of them, are more eager to melt into affection, whether it is real or false. They enjoy playing games and wagging their tongues. It's the heat, I think . . . it's too cold in the south for most people here to want to spare more words than they must.
[Maybe? Or maybe that has nothing to do with it. Who knows? Fenris offers his companion the bottle, sour and half-gone already.]
What else is there, beyond sweetheart or darling?
[He can think of plenty, but he wants to hear Astarion say it, and never mind why.]
Hm. [Cool stone feels good between his shoulderblades when he leans back, the short lip of it that lines the edge of the rooftop such an easy place to lean more fully. Fix his stare on that strange, strange pair of moons.
He doesn't dare watch longer. Not with two fingers wrapped around the lacing of his own damp blouse and heat a brightburn buzz within his chest. There's too much danger in letting his stare wander where it wants to. Letting his mind wander where it wants to.
But there's no helping the way their little fingers touch just for a moment when he takes that offered bottle.]
Handsome. Beautiful. [A toothy flash of white shown off before he takes a swig.] Gorgeous.
My dear. Little dove. Precious thing. Pup. Treasure. Sweet treat. Prince— ess.
It's a momentary hesitation, his grin wide and yet uncertain, his eyes flicking away for a precious few seconds as he struggles to come up with words. Eventually (the milliseconds ticking away like minutes), he chuckles, his chin tucked low, and it's genuinely meant. It is.
It's just that it's been so long since he's spoken companionably to another person. Long enough that his laugh is rough with disuse; long enough that he feels his ears flick anxiously, his heart wobbling as alcohol's false bravado leaves him as swiftly as it came. Of the two instinctive responses he does have (if it were Anders or Varric, he'd scoff and insult; if it were Hawke or Isabela, he'd flirt), neither seem wholly appropriate.
So he chuckles and he glances away, and hopes his awkwardness isn't misconstrued as discomfort.]
No, no. It is a temptation, make no mistake, for you have a larger vocabulary for petnames than I suspect most in this city do— but we need some entertainment on the road, and I would not dare exhaust you just yet.
[That's probably what a normal, well adjusted person would say, right? Ugh . . . he rubs the back of his neck, thanking the Maker for the cover of darkness and an ill-timed flush.]
Tell me your favorite of them instead, if you have such a thing. Or your most tired one, so that I know never to allow another to call you that.
[Gravity has Astarion leaning closer than he should be by the time Leto starts to turn away. An involuntary pull through the nothingness of vacant space that's short enough to yank across his senses like a tether, tempting with its tautness. Making him long for slack. Making him wonder what the other man might scent of beneath the pervasive kiss of split ozone.
—strewth.
He's too bloody drunk, isn't he? His mind out here running senseless loops in search of warmth; not quite caring where he finds it save that he finds it before morning, and in his altered state even Astarion can't tell whether that's a matter of old habits dying hard once more, or....
He lifts the bottle to his lips. Pulls. Relaxes in its backwashed heat, feeling every drop of tightness slip away. Tilts his head towards the stars and lets one ankle stretch out long and loose across the rooftop where he sits, smirking idly to himself.]
You couldn't exhaust me if you tried.
[Is a lie. But a charming one, at least.]
Mm. [Slides his thumb across the label, dry paper aiding in his search for recent memory via feeling, letting oscillating movement tap deeper than the surface.] But do you know— two hundred years, and I can't remember a single person using them in earnest. Being called sweetheart by stumbling riffraff with too much cognac in their voice never inspired enough affection or ire, and my master's favorite— boy— was his and his alone.
[ Ah, but he's strangling the mood in its cradle, isn't he? Taking a sweet gesture and mangling it in the way that any creature possessed of claws inevitably must, not knowing how to handle something delicate with care. To his credit, he's aware of it. Quick to correct it, lifting his thumb before he drinks once more.]
A pity. I'd like to see you safeguard my gentle dignity from the odd, aspiring Antivan.
[Not a lie. And charm hardly matters in the shadow of its borders.]
[Perhaps the mood darkens with that admission, but it's that which causes Fenris to forget his awkwardness and turn towards Astarion once more. Boy, and it is no rare title among slaves, especially favorites, but still: what an odd thing to hear from another's lips. He wonders how old Astarion's master is; he wonders what it must feel like to be two hundred and still patronized and belittled, reduced to nothing more than a child in your master's eyes . . .
He wonders what it feels like to be two centuries old. Fenris, well into his forties now, scoffs at the antics of those braying bucks who fill the taverns and brag of overexaggerated deeds; what must it feel like to have hundreds of years on another person? Does he look at Fenris now and think him young and foolish?
No. No, he doesn't, Fenris thinks in the next moment. Whatever their difference in age and relative experience might be, they even out, he suspects.]
I will, if it suits you. I am, among other things, particularly good at being rude and blunt, driving others away within a single sentence.
[He lingers a little too long on those S's, but who's listening for slurred words right now? He grins and reaches over, stealing that bottle the moment it's free from Astarion's lips. Quick as anything he sets it to his own, only vaguely registering the sweetness lingering there before wine smothers it.]
Though you may regret it. You have seen me at my best; I have heard, not unfairly, that my worst is deeply unpleasant.
[Another sip, the bottle's mouth lingering against his lips before he passes it back to Astarion and adds abruptly:]
[The scuff of rooftop dust perks Astarion's sharp ears; shifting milliseconds before the bottle's been snatched by sturdy hands with a flash of curled lips, leaving him with nothing save that view.
He's beautiful.
It's unfair.]
Darling, I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm a fucking bitch. Telling me you can somehow manage getting meaner is akin to swearing to a stray you have catnip in your pocket.
[Yet it's Astarion's turn to sink lower in the aftermath. Palpable as the minute sag in present mood, let alone a flickering expression. It's no mistake when his grip falls more on Fenris' hand than the bottle itself in passing segue.
Passing proving the key descriptor there, as by the time he's finished taking a long sip that turns their bottle belly-up towards the sky, he's already snorting wryly.]
Not much for creativity is it? Boy.
Might was well be going absolutely literal with everything— [a short trip upright in his seat, straightening his back and reigning up his chin, the bottle tucked against his breast in cheap imitation of a scepter, while his opposite arm unfurls long before him, snapping and pointing at nothing whatsoever.] come here, person. Oh it's so good to see you again, woman. No, man, I said I wanted man here right this instant, in what way have I been unclear?
[He laughs— first for the abruptness of Astarion calling himself a bitch, and then for that mocking display. He laughs too hard and inelegantly, a snorting snicker that's as much about how Astarion teases as it is spitefully thumbing at the past.]
And yet Maker forbid if you do not read their mind. The number of times Danarius would ask for that girl or that boy— as if he did not have a staff of hundreds. Then again, [he adds with a scoff,] humans are particularly blind when it comes to distinguishing elves, or so it seems. They refuse to remember anything beyond a set of ears and a strong nose.
[But no, no, he won't veer into bitterness. There's a difference between that and spite, and one is easier to bear than the other.]
Forget our masters. Tell me what else you have dreamed of. I've gotten you drunk, and I will again, if it suits . . . but what else do you wish to do or see? We have a long trip ahead of us, and I see no reason, armies aside, we cannot indulge as we see fit.
[It still befuddles him. Cazador was an elf, and the notion of caring little for common features is so adherent to commonality that—
Forget our masters. And there, just as swiftly as it's delivered, Astarion bends to it like a command despite knowing full well that it isn't: mind all too quick to jump its tracks and wend towards familiar, figurative lights.]
What I've dreamed of?
[His cheek slips into his palm, elbow hitched across a rooftop edge to let him lounge in the sort of sprawl fit for the brothels they'd passed earlier. It takes up space. Frames overlong teeth when they grin.]
Bereft of the only friend I've ever had for a near fortnight, you don't want to know what it is I've been dreaming of, fretful thing.
[His eyes flick up and down Astarion's frame, drinking in all of it. The other elf commands his attention right now, thrilling and intriguing as no one else has ever been, but it's more than that. It's the way he's spread out, his tapered waist on display and long legs stretched out before him, his grin so devilishly inviting that it's hard not to want to lean in. To close the distance between them by inches in subtle encouragement, eager to see where this might lead—
Nowhere good, some cold part of his mind hisses.
And just like that, his heart drops.
He's being stupid. Foolish. An idiot who whimpers for his burns and then sticks his hand right back in the fire— and it's not Astarion's fault that Fenris' eyes go shuttered and dark. It's not his fault that the warmth fled Fenris' expression so swiftly that it's akin to a door being slammed shut, cold and impersonal— and all that before he glances away, focusing on the distant roar of the sea.
It's not Astarion's fault. And it's not fair, not one bit— which is why Fenris tries to rally in the next moment. Not falsely, he will not put on a smile he doesn't mean, but . . .. this isn't Anders, he thinks sharply to himself. This isn't Shirallas, and yet still his scarred heart sings out in warning.]
Perhaps I do.
[Oh, the tone is all wrong. It isn't the drawling response he would have answered with a few minutes ago; it's flat and deadened, three words pushed past numb lips. Fenris rubs one hand over his mouth, silently cursing himself, before he glances back over.
He looks so tired.]
I am your first friend, you say, and I will not pretend to be surprised at that. [He realizes how that sound a moment later, scowls at himself, and clarifies:] Slaves don't have friends.
But my being your first comes with its own trials, for it has been a long time since I, myself, have had anyone beyond the company of my horse.
[What is he trying to say? Alcohol makes his thoughts fuzzy and his tongue loose, and so what he finally comes up with is:]
I . . . there will be times when I react poorly. Do not take it as a personal slight, for it is my own fault, not yours. In ways, I am as new to this as you.
[What lingers there is— oh, brittle isn't the right word. Fragile might be, albeit trite in its mundanity from rampant overuse. Like an alarm rung and subsequently silenced, there's a ringing persistence to Fenris' shift back into conversation, and for a creature stitched together from the very core essences of comfort, Astarion finds it easy not to balk.
They are new to this. Friendship and proximity alike, and perhaps—
Mm. Perhaps nothing.
There's liquor swimming between pale ears and it'd be folly by any measure to try and reach up for the sake of pinning oily logic down; the better option is obvious, and when it slips in like the knife that he tugs free of the innermost confines of his blouse, it's only with a quirk along the border of his lips. High, and sharp, and confident.
It gleams in twinned moonlight.]
Is that so? You should’ve told me it was your first time too.
I’d have been gentler.
[Acts as a smooth deflection (and acknowledgement in one: yes, I heard you. Yes, I understand, and more importantly— ) I don't mind. Turns the knife over in his fingertips a few times, crimson eyes never leaving Fenris' own.]
But if you prefer admonishment for your slights, I could hold something else against you instead. [And no, that's not an innuendo, before you take his intonation as intent— lifting the dagger from its sheathe, solely to admire its crafted seal:] A knife, perhaps?
[He exhales in something not quite a laugh, his tension ebbing as a swell of gratitude rises to take its place. Though, he realizes in the next moment, he would not have minded a few probing questions, not from Astarion. In some strange way, he's already earned the right.]
Is that a threat or a promise?
[But before Astarion can answer, Fenris lifts himself up off the ledge and rises to his feet with a loose-limbed sort of grace. He cocks his head, a little smirk slanting over his lips.]
Come. That blade looks good in your hands, but it would look all the better for being used.
[He spreads his arms open invitingly (and swaying only slightly from the headrush that rising so swiftly just brought him).]
Show me you are more than just a braggart. Manage to nick me and I will break out a bottle of Celestine red for you.
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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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I look forward to it.
[Learning all his favorites, he means. Or maybe he means the travel itself, and all the weeks and years that might span out before them; that, too, is a thrilling thought, and one he freely allows himself now that they're drunk. It's been so long since he's looked forward to anything, but gods, he's excited for this journey. For the chance to do something that feels good, rather than a dull, deadened sense of going through the motions.
He glances over at his companion, cocking his head for that question.]
Mm . . . no. Not here here, anyway, in the south. Free Marchers are very . . .
[How to say this? Fenris' expression screws up, his mouth twisting as he tries to find the right words.]
Sterile— no. Stifled. . .?
[Hmm— oh, no, he knows, and the word bursts out of him a little louder than he intends:]
Gruff.
[It's not a complaint, mind you, just an observation. It's one of the reasons he enjoys Kirkwall so much; nobody pretends to actually like one another, which is a nice change after all the falseness of Tevinter.]
They do not like to be affectionate, especially the elite, and look upon any kind of petname with suspicion. Charm them too much and they'll call you a thief faster than they'll melt for you— which you are, but . . .
[Wait, what was the question? Hm. Better have another sip of wine, just in case.]
Simply . . . be careful what names slide off your tongue when talking to people around here. Antivans, from what I know of them, are more eager to melt into affection, whether it is real or false. They enjoy playing games and wagging their tongues. It's the heat, I think . . . it's too cold in the south for most people here to want to spare more words than they must.
[Maybe? Or maybe that has nothing to do with it. Who knows? Fenris offers his companion the bottle, sour and half-gone already.]
What else is there, beyond sweetheart or darling?
[He can think of plenty, but he wants to hear Astarion say it, and never mind why.]
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He doesn't dare watch longer. Not with two fingers wrapped around the lacing of his own damp blouse and heat a brightburn buzz within his chest. There's too much danger in letting his stare wander where it wants to. Letting his mind wander where it wants to.
But there's no helping the way their little fingers touch just for a moment when he takes that offered bottle.]
Handsome. Beautiful. [A toothy flash of white shown off before he takes a swig.] Gorgeous.
My dear. Little dove. Precious thing. Pup. Treasure. Sweet treat. Prince— ess.
Shall I go on?
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It's a momentary hesitation, his grin wide and yet uncertain, his eyes flicking away for a precious few seconds as he struggles to come up with words. Eventually (the milliseconds ticking away like minutes), he chuckles, his chin tucked low, and it's genuinely meant. It is.
It's just that it's been so long since he's spoken companionably to another person. Long enough that his laugh is rough with disuse; long enough that he feels his ears flick anxiously, his heart wobbling as alcohol's false bravado leaves him as swiftly as it came. Of the two instinctive responses he does have (if it were Anders or Varric, he'd scoff and insult; if it were Hawke or Isabela, he'd flirt), neither seem wholly appropriate.
So he chuckles and he glances away, and hopes his awkwardness isn't misconstrued as discomfort.]
No, no. It is a temptation, make no mistake, for you have a larger vocabulary for petnames than I suspect most in this city do— but we need some entertainment on the road, and I would not dare exhaust you just yet.
[That's probably what a normal, well adjusted person would say, right? Ugh . . . he rubs the back of his neck, thanking the Maker for the cover of darkness and an ill-timed flush.]
Tell me your favorite of them instead, if you have such a thing. Or your most tired one, so that I know never to allow another to call you that.
[Nailed it.]
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—strewth.
He's too bloody drunk, isn't he? His mind out here running senseless loops in search of warmth; not quite caring where he finds it save that he finds it before morning, and in his altered state even Astarion can't tell whether that's a matter of old habits dying hard once more, or....
He lifts the bottle to his lips. Pulls. Relaxes in its backwashed heat, feeling every drop of tightness slip away. Tilts his head towards the stars and lets one ankle stretch out long and loose across the rooftop where he sits, smirking idly to himself.]
You couldn't exhaust me if you tried.
[Is a lie. But a charming one, at least.]
Mm. [Slides his thumb across the label, dry paper aiding in his search for recent memory via feeling, letting oscillating movement tap deeper than the surface.] But do you know— two hundred years, and I can't remember a single person using them in earnest. Being called sweetheart by stumbling riffraff with too much cognac in their voice never inspired enough affection or ire, and my master's favorite— boy— was his and his alone.
[ Ah, but he's strangling the mood in its cradle, isn't he? Taking a sweet gesture and mangling it in the way that any creature possessed of claws inevitably must, not knowing how to handle something delicate with care. To his credit, he's aware of it. Quick to correct it, lifting his thumb before he drinks once more.]
A pity. I'd like to see you safeguard my gentle dignity from the odd, aspiring Antivan.
[Not a lie. And charm hardly matters in the shadow of its borders.]
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He wonders what it feels like to be two centuries old. Fenris, well into his forties now, scoffs at the antics of those braying bucks who fill the taverns and brag of overexaggerated deeds; what must it feel like to have hundreds of years on another person? Does he look at Fenris now and think him young and foolish?
No. No, he doesn't, Fenris thinks in the next moment. Whatever their difference in age and relative experience might be, they even out, he suspects.]
I will, if it suits you. I am, among other things, particularly good at being rude and blunt, driving others away within a single sentence.
[He lingers a little too long on those S's, but who's listening for slurred words right now? He grins and reaches over, stealing that bottle the moment it's free from Astarion's lips. Quick as anything he sets it to his own, only vaguely registering the sweetness lingering there before wine smothers it.]
Though you may regret it. You have seen me at my best; I have heard, not unfairly, that my worst is deeply unpleasant.
[Another sip, the bottle's mouth lingering against his lips before he passes it back to Astarion and adds abruptly:]
My own master used to call me that. Boy.
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He's beautiful.
It's unfair.]
Darling, I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm a fucking bitch. Telling me you can somehow manage getting meaner is akin to swearing to a stray you have catnip in your pocket.
[Yet it's Astarion's turn to sink lower in the aftermath. Palpable as the minute sag in present mood, let alone a flickering expression. It's no mistake when his grip falls more on Fenris' hand than the bottle itself in passing segue.
Passing proving the key descriptor there, as by the time he's finished taking a long sip that turns their bottle belly-up towards the sky, he's already snorting wryly.]
Not much for creativity is it? Boy.
Might was well be going absolutely literal with everything— [a short trip upright in his seat, straightening his back and reigning up his chin, the bottle tucked against his breast in cheap imitation of a scepter, while his opposite arm unfurls long before him, snapping and pointing at nothing whatsoever.] come here, person. Oh it's so good to see you again, woman. No, man, I said I wanted man here right this instant, in what way have I been unclear?
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And yet Maker forbid if you do not read their mind. The number of times Danarius would ask for that girl or that boy— as if he did not have a staff of hundreds. Then again, [he adds with a scoff,] humans are particularly blind when it comes to distinguishing elves, or so it seems. They refuse to remember anything beyond a set of ears and a strong nose.
[But no, no, he won't veer into bitterness. There's a difference between that and spite, and one is easier to bear than the other.]
Forget our masters. Tell me what else you have dreamed of. I've gotten you drunk, and I will again, if it suits . . . but what else do you wish to do or see? We have a long trip ahead of us, and I see no reason, armies aside, we cannot indulge as we see fit.
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Forget our masters. And there, just as swiftly as it's delivered, Astarion bends to it like a command despite knowing full well that it isn't: mind all too quick to jump its tracks and wend towards familiar, figurative lights.]
What I've dreamed of?
[His cheek slips into his palm, elbow hitched across a rooftop edge to let him lounge in the sort of sprawl fit for the brothels they'd passed earlier. It takes up space. Frames overlong teeth when they grin.]
Bereft of the only friend I've ever had for a near fortnight, you don't want to know what it is I've been dreaming of, fretful thing.
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Nowhere good, some cold part of his mind hisses.
And just like that, his heart drops.
He's being stupid. Foolish. An idiot who whimpers for his burns and then sticks his hand right back in the fire— and it's not Astarion's fault that Fenris' eyes go shuttered and dark. It's not his fault that the warmth fled Fenris' expression so swiftly that it's akin to a door being slammed shut, cold and impersonal— and all that before he glances away, focusing on the distant roar of the sea.
It's not Astarion's fault. And it's not fair, not one bit— which is why Fenris tries to rally in the next moment. Not falsely, he will not put on a smile he doesn't mean, but . . .. this isn't Anders, he thinks sharply to himself. This isn't Shirallas, and yet still his scarred heart sings out in warning.]
Perhaps I do.
[Oh, the tone is all wrong. It isn't the drawling response he would have answered with a few minutes ago; it's flat and deadened, three words pushed past numb lips. Fenris rubs one hand over his mouth, silently cursing himself, before he glances back over.
He looks so tired.]
I am your first friend, you say, and I will not pretend to be surprised at that. [He realizes how that sound a moment later, scowls at himself, and clarifies:] Slaves don't have friends.
But my being your first comes with its own trials, for it has been a long time since I, myself, have had anyone beyond the company of my horse.
[What is he trying to say? Alcohol makes his thoughts fuzzy and his tongue loose, and so what he finally comes up with is:]
I . . . there will be times when I react poorly. Do not take it as a personal slight, for it is my own fault, not yours. In ways, I am as new to this as you.
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They are new to this. Friendship and proximity alike, and perhaps—
Mm. Perhaps nothing.
There's liquor swimming between pale ears and it'd be folly by any measure to try and reach up for the sake of pinning oily logic down; the better option is obvious, and when it slips in like the knife that he tugs free of the innermost confines of his blouse, it's only with a quirk along the border of his lips. High, and sharp, and confident.
It gleams in twinned moonlight.]
Is that so? You should’ve told me it was your first time too.
I’d have been gentler.
[Acts as a smooth deflection (and acknowledgement in one: yes, I heard you. Yes, I understand, and more importantly— ) I don't mind. Turns the knife over in his fingertips a few times, crimson eyes never leaving Fenris' own.]
But if you prefer admonishment for your slights, I could hold something else against you instead. [And no, that's not an innuendo, before you take his intonation as intent— lifting the dagger from its sheathe, solely to admire its crafted seal:] A knife, perhaps?
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Is that a threat or a promise?
[But before Astarion can answer, Fenris lifts himself up off the ledge and rises to his feet with a loose-limbed sort of grace. He cocks his head, a little smirk slanting over his lips.]
Come. That blade looks good in your hands, but it would look all the better for being used.
[He spreads his arms open invitingly (and swaying only slightly from the headrush that rising so swiftly just brought him).]
Show me you are more than just a braggart. Manage to nick me and I will break out a bottle of Celestine red for you.
[You won't, his cocksure grin says.]
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