[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.
I'm going to assume that's an exceptional vintage.
[Something shines in that expression when Fenris rises. And right there, slung against baked-chalk walls at risk of crumbling faster than resolve, fixed in the full measure of its conspicuity, Astarion rapidly finds out just how susceptible he is to its call— a prickling rush of heat across his neck (real, not imagined, as it had to be when surviving as a lowly spawn), splitting the reckless corners of his own grin.
He forgets he's a lover by involuntary trade, not a fighter; forgets his limbs are saturated with a sluggish night's worth of drink— that his reflexes in this form already felt misaligned to begin with, foreign as a newborn babe taking its first few fumbling strides.
Does it matter?
Oh, not for a gods damned second.
He nearly topples sidelong in his own ascension, bootheels scuffing over dustcaked stone, expression only grown more vivid in the prelude to bloodlust— or what's adjacent to it, tethered as he is to this strange, new form of fondness. Scoffing before his dagger's fully palmed. Grinning before his posture sinks.
[He laughs, bright and clear, as he darts clumsily out of the way. They're both drunk, they're both far from their best, but Astarion is still a quick thing, and that delights Fenris to no end. There's intention in the way he stabs, a surety that speaks to survival— he doesn't hesitate the way an amateur might, wary of drawing blood or causing harm, oh, no. He fights to win, and it's the most thrilling thing in the world.]
Close— it's an excellent vintage, Astarion, laid down for the likes of nobility—
[Another stab, another dodge— he's playing on borrowed time, he knows, for Astarion will manage to hit him sooner or later. Even sober, there's only so many times that Fenris can reasonably dodge, and though he makes a show of dancing out of the way, teasing and taunting all the while—]
Not bad, but not decent enough—
[—sooner or later, that blade nearly hits home.
It grazes him by a hair, by a breath, steel singing as it soars by his cheek and kisses his skin, and it's only with the greatest of efforts that Fenris manages to spin himself and twist away from it. He follows through in the next moment, fitting himself behind Astarion and grabbing his dominant arm. His fingers wrap around his wrist tight as steel as Fenris' other arm comes up, wrapping tight around Astarion's other arm and chest— locking him in place in a pinning hold, at least for a few breathless moments.]
Close.
[He murmurs it roughly against Astarion's ear, a grin in his voice. The other elf's body is cool against his own, his figure slight and yet rippling with muscles; there's tension in the way they're fit together.
And Fenris lingers for just a few seconds too long.
Then, without any prompting, he releases him, taking a deliberate step back. There's color high in his cheeks, but there's nothing but friendly competition in his expression.]
Take your shoes off. You don't need to wear them, not here, and you'll be all the faster for it.
Dizziness is one word for it, yes, but it's a threadbare one. As far-reaching only as Astarion's own wild swipes had ultimately proved: too shallow to do more than graze their intended mark— and even then, succeeding solely by relative chance, for even a mangled clock is right twice a day as the saying so oft goes.
Punctuated when that glancing nick found its way to Fenris' skin, invoking a harsher influx of returned momentum. Left reeling in the aftermath (reeling, that's the word)— barely able to breathe whilst strong arms seize him like the scruffed cub that he is in this new form. Forgetting what he needs is air— let alone common sense— let alone awareness. Such a luxury. Such an overtaking, overriding thrill, drenched through in adrenaline rather than wine.
It's not a crime to think that— with Fenris' liquored breath puffing hard across his temple, chest palpable against the sharp bow of his back in every rise and measured fall— he could stay here like this. His own head tipped back around a narrow shoulder, sucking in the most guttery of his desires. Holding them fast between sharp canines, like that might somehow count as substitute for atrophied restraint made thinner now. Made mortal, just like him.
And you know, at least when all is said and done, he isn't a poor sport. Content to swallow down his loss with grace, and bend to its assertion before it's tugged away, and—]
[Comes with a sharp glance down towards his feet— or more true to the gesture: the hewn stonework underneath it, chalky white and dusted with years of exposed erosion. Bits of ash and soot and powdered sediment, a few pebbles here and there. Likely glass or grit, too, if he had to hazard a guess, and it feels like a damning prank to look over and note Fenris' own dress at the tail end of his observations. Common for the elves of the city from what Astarion's seen thus far; noted on their first night together, yes, but—
[No, seriously, what? The thought is so out of pocket to him that for a long moment Fenris just stares in bafflement, wondering if he's missed a step somewhere. And while he's at it: is that a thing? Are feet a fetish thing that people have? He wouldn't know, not really. He has more than a passing understanding of sex and the very basics of kink, but it's akin to dipping a toe in the water when there's a whole vast ocean of understanding out there. How can bare feet be— that is to say, what exactly is the appeal behind—
And then he realizes he's been standing there silently for far too long, caught up in trying to understand the concept of a foot fetish.]
Your soles are thick enough to support you without shoes.
[This must be another difference between worlds, he realizes. A little awkwardly (and somewhat miraculously, given his current drunken state) he lifts one foot, flexing it so that Astarion might see the bottom.]
I would not advise it everywhere, but within city limits? You need not bother with them. And you will be quicker and more nimble without them, I promise you.
[He's more curious than anything else, but it still comes out a little rudely as he adds:]
Do you truly wear shoes all the time in your world?
[Wobbling slightly for lack of sober balance, Astarion lifts one foot to peer downwards, evaluating his boot-covered feet with renewed aplomb— as if somehow he might see right through thick leather and find something never before known.]
....are they....?
[Muttered to himself. Solely for a moment, and then— testament to how deeply he's imprinted onto Fenris— sits down in tangible reluctance to begin tugging off his boots.
As far as answers go, it might not be direct, but it is telling. ]
—not all the time. There's bathing, sleeping, moments like that, anyway. We're no second class citizens. [Well shit. Fantastic, Astarion. Insult the very creature you admire by inescapable proxy, that will endear him to you. Never mind that it's too late to take back now.
Perhaps the best amends he could make is a redoubled effort to yank off his shoes— which he does.]
[Dark eyebrows raise for that remark, but though Fenris doesn't necessarily look impressed by it, nor will he take an enormous amount of offense. He approaches, squatting down to be on Astarion's level, watching with curiosity to see if his feet look as elven feet ought to.]
Is the implication meant to be that all your second-class citizens wear their shoes no matter what? It seems far more unhygienic than our way.
[It's not a real inquiry so much as a retort, but there's no need to linger overlong.]
Come. On your feet. And tell me if it feels differently than what you are used to.
[He'd state his rebuff loud and clear if not for the immediate overtake of all his senses from the very moment his foot is planted on the ground— left first— feeling the dry whip of the open wind buffeting his arch whilst his sole makes peace with flaky shale pushed snug between his toes.
Suddenly he's not dressed in a poet's shirt and slacks and night-dark gloves; suddenly he's wearing only the expressive reflection of sensory dismay, apparent from the cattish drooping of his ears right down to the slouch along his spine.]
It's so....
[Then the other foot, and it feels no better in the climb towards upright status: deepening the image of a child tasting something new, unsure of what the make of it might be(— aside from wishing for a return to being back in his boots, caught against Fenris' lithe front). Behind red eyes, gears turn for a long, long while.
[Adorable— and this time Fenris does allow himself that thought. It's patronizing and belittling and he wouldn't dare say it aloud, but that's the word that slips through his mind as Astarion stares up at him so dolefully. His ears low and his eyes so wide, looking like a pup miserable in the rain: his expression woefully miserable but not disobedient.
(And what a thing it is, some quiet part of him murmurs, to be so free that dusty feet are Astarion's biggest worry. A minor inconvenience, discomfiting but not painful. That, too, he will not point out aloud, but his heart beats a little faster to know that Astarion is experiencing the wonder of such mundane inconveniences now).]
It is the ground.
[Is he laughing? Sort of. One hand rubs at his mouth, halfheartedly hiding an irrepressible grin that he only barely tries to bite back.]
There are elves who wear shoes if you truly loathe the experience. But at least see if you can move a little more quickly before that.
[He comes over, curious despite himself. It is dusty, he notices. He barely registers the ground beneath his feet anymore, too used to the softness of dirt roads or the grit of the rooftops, but Astarion isn't wrong.]
Does it feel differently than you are used to? Let me see—
[He braces one leg forward, tapping at his thigh to indicate Astarion ought to hoist his foot up. Curiosity wins over dignity when he's drunk— though his expression twists as a thought crosses his mind. His eyes dart up and back, debating on whether to say anything, but surely speaking will make it worse.
It's just that this isn't a fetish thing, and yet the surest way to ensure it becomes weird is to specifically deny that it's a fetish thing. Only people who have fetishes do that, probably. Almost assuredly. And now he's thinking about this again, Maker damn it all.]
[Astarion wasn't Cazador's only spawn; he knows what a grin looks like (and the quirk of what lies beneath Fenris' hand implies enough that) there's a momentary narrowing of crimson eyes, peppered with toothless irritation— the tepid flicking of a cats tail once-startled, not inclined to swiftly wend back to even those it loves, now supecting them of being the perpetrator of its woes.
....but like rarely resents like. Beasts of mischief least of all.
If this is a game at his expense, he only has himself to blame for falling for it without a second, bare-soled thought: shifting over on tender obeisance (again, his movements run slow and finicky), graceless from the pads of his feet on outwards save for the agility nearly lost underneath it. The slack, steady traction of his joints, present despite any wobbling from bracing with his other foot.
Somehow, perhaps in penance for prior sin, he manages not to ask once more if this truly isn't a fetish Fenris might silently be nursing along— ]
Of course it feels different: I'm not wearing shoes outdoors in a city that seems designed to be a breeding ground for rust, old nails, broken bottles and raw smut.
[(The aged definition. Not the newer one.)]
—it'd be fine if it was a kink of yours, you know. I wouldn't judge.
[At the risk of making it sound like a fetish thing: Astarion's feet are so soft. It's not strange in the sense of being odd, but it reminds Fenris of nothing so much as the delicate hands of noble ladies. Not a callous or a cut in sight, their skin always kept safe by kid gloves and the dutiful fussing of a maidservant. He stares in curiosity for a few moments, his head cocked and his eyes soft—
[And then Astarion says that and his expression goes scrunched.]
It is not a fetish thing!
[Oh, he said that far too loudly. Loud enough that a dog nearby starts barking excitedly; loud enough that there's no way people on the street didn't hear. He didn't mean to, but alcohol doesn't do well with volume moderation.]
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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.]
no subject
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?
no subject
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.]
no subject
—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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[Something shines in that expression when Fenris rises. And right there, slung against baked-chalk walls at risk of crumbling faster than resolve, fixed in the full measure of its conspicuity, Astarion rapidly finds out just how susceptible he is to its call— a prickling rush of heat across his neck (real, not imagined, as it had to be when surviving as a lowly spawn), splitting the reckless corners of his own grin.
He forgets he's a lover by involuntary trade, not a fighter; forgets his limbs are saturated with a sluggish night's worth of drink— that his reflexes in this form already felt misaligned to begin with, foreign as a newborn babe taking its first few fumbling strides.
Does it matter?
Oh, not for a gods damned second.
He nearly topples sidelong in his own ascension, bootheels scuffing over dustcaked stone, expression only grown more vivid in the prelude to bloodlust— or what's adjacent to it, tethered as he is to this strange, new form of fondness. Scoffing before his dagger's fully palmed. Grinning before his posture sinks.
And lunges.]
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Close— it's an excellent vintage, Astarion, laid down for the likes of nobility—
[Another stab, another dodge— he's playing on borrowed time, he knows, for Astarion will manage to hit him sooner or later. Even sober, there's only so many times that Fenris can reasonably dodge, and though he makes a show of dancing out of the way, teasing and taunting all the while—]
Not bad, but not decent enough—
[—sooner or later, that blade nearly hits home.
It grazes him by a hair, by a breath, steel singing as it soars by his cheek and kisses his skin, and it's only with the greatest of efforts that Fenris manages to spin himself and twist away from it. He follows through in the next moment, fitting himself behind Astarion and grabbing his dominant arm. His fingers wrap around his wrist tight as steel as Fenris' other arm comes up, wrapping tight around Astarion's other arm and chest— locking him in place in a pinning hold, at least for a few breathless moments.]
Close.
[He murmurs it roughly against Astarion's ear, a grin in his voice. The other elf's body is cool against his own, his figure slight and yet rippling with muscles; there's tension in the way they're fit together.
And Fenris lingers for just a few seconds too long.
Then, without any prompting, he releases him, taking a deliberate step back. There's color high in his cheeks, but there's nothing but friendly competition in his expression.]
Take your shoes off. You don't need to wear them, not here, and you'll be all the faster for it.
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Dizziness is one word for it, yes, but it's a threadbare one. As far-reaching only as Astarion's own wild swipes had ultimately proved: too shallow to do more than graze their intended mark— and even then, succeeding solely by relative chance, for even a mangled clock is right twice a day as the saying so oft goes.
Punctuated when that glancing nick found its way to Fenris' skin, invoking a harsher influx of returned momentum. Left reeling in the aftermath (reeling, that's the word)— barely able to breathe whilst strong arms seize him like the scruffed cub that he is in this new form. Forgetting what he needs is air— let alone common sense— let alone awareness. Such a luxury. Such an overtaking, overriding thrill, drenched through in adrenaline rather than wine.
It's not a crime to think that— with Fenris' liquored breath puffing hard across his temple, chest palpable against the sharp bow of his back in every rise and measured fall— he could stay here like this. His own head tipped back around a narrow shoulder, sucking in the most guttery of his desires. Holding them fast between sharp canines, like that might somehow count as substitute for atrophied restraint made thinner now. Made mortal, just like him.
And you know, at least when all is said and done, he isn't a poor sport. Content to swallow down his loss with grace, and bend to its assertion before it's tugged away, and—]
—my shoes....?
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On this rooftop?
[Comes with a sharp glance down towards his feet— or more true to the gesture: the hewn stonework underneath it, chalky white and dusted with years of exposed erosion. Bits of ash and soot and powdered sediment, a few pebbles here and there. Likely glass or grit, too, if he had to hazard a guess, and it feels like a damning prank to look over and note Fenris' own dress at the tail end of his observations. Common for the elves of the city from what Astarion's seen thus far; noted on their first night together, yes, but—
He gestures with an index finger, stalling.]
....is this a fetish thing?
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And then he realizes he's been standing there silently for far too long, caught up in trying to understand the concept of a foot fetish.]
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No. I— no.
Your soles are thick enough to support you without shoes.
[This must be another difference between worlds, he realizes. A little awkwardly (and somewhat miraculously, given his current drunken state) he lifts one foot, flexing it so that Astarion might see the bottom.]
I would not advise it everywhere, but within city limits? You need not bother with them. And you will be quicker and more nimble without them, I promise you.
[He's more curious than anything else, but it still comes out a little rudely as he adds:]
Do you truly wear shoes all the time in your world?
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....are they....?
[Muttered to himself. Solely for a moment, and then— testament to how deeply he's imprinted onto Fenris— sits down in tangible reluctance to begin tugging off his boots.
As far as answers go, it might not be direct, but it is telling. ]
—not all the time. There's bathing, sleeping, moments like that, anyway. We're no second class citizens. [Well shit. Fantastic, Astarion. Insult the very creature you admire by inescapable proxy, that will endear him to you. Never mind that it's too late to take back now.
Perhaps the best amends he could make is a redoubled effort to yank off his shoes— which he does.]
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Is the implication meant to be that all your second-class citizens wear their shoes no matter what? It seems far more unhygienic than our way.
[It's not a real inquiry so much as a retort, but there's no need to linger overlong.]
Come. On your feet. And tell me if it feels differently than what you are used to.
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Suddenly he's not dressed in a poet's shirt and slacks and night-dark gloves; suddenly he's wearing only the expressive reflection of sensory dismay, apparent from the cattish drooping of his ears right down to the slouch along his spine.]
It's so....
[Then the other foot, and it feels no better in the climb towards upright status: deepening the image of a child tasting something new, unsure of what the make of it might be(— aside from wishing for a return to being back in his boots, caught against Fenris' lithe front). Behind red eyes, gears turn for a long, long while.
Longer still, before:]
....dusty.
[:( ]
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(And what a thing it is, some quiet part of him murmurs, to be so free that dusty feet are Astarion's biggest worry. A minor inconvenience, discomfiting but not painful. That, too, he will not point out aloud, but his heart beats a little faster to know that Astarion is experiencing the wonder of such mundane inconveniences now).]
It is the ground.
[Is he laughing? Sort of. One hand rubs at his mouth, halfheartedly hiding an irrepressible grin that he only barely tries to bite back.]
There are elves who wear shoes if you truly loathe the experience. But at least see if you can move a little more quickly before that.
[He comes over, curious despite himself. It is dusty, he notices. He barely registers the ground beneath his feet anymore, too used to the softness of dirt roads or the grit of the rooftops, but Astarion isn't wrong.]
Does it feel differently than you are used to? Let me see—
[He braces one leg forward, tapping at his thigh to indicate Astarion ought to hoist his foot up. Curiosity wins over dignity when he's drunk— though his expression twists as a thought crosses his mind. His eyes dart up and back, debating on whether to say anything, but surely speaking will make it worse.
It's just that this isn't a fetish thing, and yet the surest way to ensure it becomes weird is to specifically deny that it's a fetish thing. Only people who have fetishes do that, probably. Almost assuredly. And now he's thinking about this again, Maker damn it all.]
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....but like rarely resents like. Beasts of mischief least of all.
If this is a game at his expense, he only has himself to blame for falling for it without a second, bare-soled thought: shifting over on tender obeisance (again, his movements run slow and finicky), graceless from the pads of his feet on outwards save for the agility nearly lost underneath it. The slack, steady traction of his joints, present despite any wobbling from bracing with his other foot.
Somehow, perhaps in penance for prior sin, he manages not to ask once more if this truly isn't a fetish Fenris might silently be nursing along— ]
Of course it feels different: I'm not wearing shoes outdoors in a city that seems designed to be a breeding ground for rust, old nails, broken bottles and raw smut.
[(The aged definition. Not the newer one.)]
—it'd be fine if it was a kink of yours, you know. I wouldn't judge.
[Oh. Nope. There it is.]
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It is not a fetish thing!
[Oh, he said that far too loudly. Loud enough that a dog nearby starts barking excitedly; loud enough that there's no way people on the street didn't hear. He didn't mean to, but alcohol doesn't do well with volume moderation.]
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