[Thank the gods for that bark. Fenris', not the dog's— otherwise they'd be wading dangerously close to the end result of what a dry mouth and a palpitating heart might bring. As things are, he can already feel his pulse down thrumming deep down in his belly.
It doesn't need to go any lower.
So he can't help it that he laughs just as loudly— all teeth— slipping back into his own space wreathed in a flourish of renewed vigor: alert as only adrenaline could leave him, and trickling his blade between his fingers like a busker with a coin.]
Win, and I'll tell you what I'm into, if you'd like.
[Is such a smooth bit of subterfuge it'd likely do half his dirty work for him, provided he didn't immediately wince at the feeling of stepping on a pebble, squirming (readjusting). Rolling his ankle first and his balance second in a lurching launch forwards that carries one long, sweeping swipe from the tip of his dagger.
[Oh, he wants to know. Why he can't say, not just yet, for it's a split-second realization, a sudden lightning that he doesn't have time to explore before Astarion darts forward. He's sluggish in lurching back, his mind torn between lingering on the implications of that statement and the present, and yet—
Mmph. A slow reaction meets a lopsided rush forward: they're evenly matched in the most embarrassing way. The tip of the dagger nearly catches at his chest; he leaps back with a grin, his eyes flicking down to watch Astarion's feet. And yes, poor thing: they are delicate, aren't they? Wincing from a mere pebble and flinching from the grit of the roof, oh, no wonder he's struggling. But practice is the only way forward, and those callouses will build soon enough.]
And what do you get if you win, hm?
[But it's no fun just to play keepaway forever. He reaches back, a knife slipping into his hand: a small thing, plain and worn but still sharp, kept on hand solely for nights when he doesn't feel like lugging around his sword.
Now it's a fight. No longer purely defensive, he circles warily around Astarion, torn between watching his body (sensible, smart, trying to track his next move) and watching his eyes (which keep drawing him back, for he's eager to keep drinking the other elf in).]
Do you wish for a ranking of my favorite positions? An account of all the times I've spread another's legs?
[Is an earnest question. One that twists this way and that, trying to keep track of Fenris' location though the tax on his heels is steep (or perhaps sharp: one stubborn piece of smooth-edged glass keeps jabbing hard into his left footpad, right between his toes)— he can't waste precious seconds readjusting without leaving himself wide open to attack. Ignore the prickle of excitement arching up across his neck. Ignore the rampant rush of chemical allure grown stronger at the sight of that dagger in bright hands. Ignore the memory of one minute ago, or the climb up here, or the way Fenris' smile glittered in pub lights—
No. No, really, ignore that. His heart is underneath his chin and aching from overuse, but when he licks his lips and finds Fenris staring, too, well....
It makes it easy to ignore the sensory nightmare underfoot, and angle instead towards a scattering of advancing strikes. Light through the wrist, testing shallow waters.]
[It's a dance now. A little slower, a little easier: Astarion's strikes the first swaying spin now that they've found their rhythm. Easily spotted and dodged as Fenris does his level best to watch for an opening— but oh, it's so hard when their conversation is so interesting. Thrilling in a way that Fenris does not understand, not yet; he attributes every excitable leap of his heart to the closeness of Astarion's blade and his own near-misses.
But he tires of playing defense. He's seen how well Astarion can attack; now it's time to shake things up. The next time he strikes Fenris darts forward, ducking instead of drawing back, his knife flashing sloppily as his foot strikes out and hooks behind Astarion's own—
— and with any luck, down they both go. Not hard, not when Fenris' other hand catches Astarion's hip, slowing his fall, but still: they're both sprawled on the roof, scrambling and grappling for the chance to come out on top. Until Fenris has him in a sloppy hold; until he's panting above him, grinning as he pins his wrist to the roof (and yet not done, not yet, not when he's leaving so many deliberate openings for Astarion to turn the tides— this is too much fun to end so quickly.)]
[Enslavement was a piss poor damper: there are countless things Astarion's longed for in his long, bleak facsimile of life. Freedom chief amongst them— though the only thing his desires ever had in common was their fondness for driving him to salivating desperation in the absence of all hope.
He's no less outmatched here. Reduced to a set of recklessly soused reflexes aware of scarcely anything between swings, but even they feel the whiff of cold air cut across the edge of his blade, funneling harsh along his knuckles. Motivated swipes coming close solely by luck's slanted mercy, making him fortunate if he can manage to stay on his feet, let alone catch a glancing nick or two along the way.
And yet he's convinced he's never wanted anything more.
After all, he's already free now, isn't he? What's left but the odd new rush that starts with a sudden pitch towards the ground— punctuates itself with iron fingers laced over his hip, his wrist— and ends with the words I'll let you have both. The hands he hated never felt like this; the rote innuendos scarcely earned his anorexic focus. What he didn't loathe, he felt nothing for. What beckoned him, he hated.
He doesn't hate this.
There's a daggering flash of teeth when his back hits stone, and the feeling of the fine bones of his wrist aching in warning as adrenaline cedes to raw sensation. The air is thick with foundry smoke and soot— but he wants to win. He wants to win. (How? How, when he's too new to this body, this form, these frail synapses? How, when his opponent might be drunk, but is a hardier thing with ingrained talent? All Astarion has is his ability to perform. To lie, and cheat, and beckon with sheer falsehoods— ) ]
It takes no less than a flicker of a heartbeat for Astarion to yelp out the most pitiful rasping cry: twisting through his shoulder and angling away from his pinned wrist— as if the impact might've shattered something. Damaged something in his fragile, ill-prepared state. Bare toes scuffling in dry dust as a byproduct of the way half-trapped legs struggle underneath his companion, battling for room at all to breathe.]
In an instant he's leapt back, his expression startled as his mind whirs— he must have been too harsh. Drunk and overeager as he is, it isn't such a shock that he's played too hard, nipped too roughly: not irreversible damage, no, but still, it isn't a good look. And what an awful thing for Astarion, on his very first real night out, to suffer through a broken wrist at the hands of the elf he plans to journey with— Maker's breath, and Fenris curses himself silently as he watches Astarion writhe.
He doesn't dare approach, not when those legs had kicked and struggled so fiercely. Instead, he leans forward in a half-kneel: cautiously present without crowding, his hands held out a little helplessly as he peers at Astarion.]
What is it? Your wrist?
[Let me see, he bites back, for he would not blame Astarion for not wanting to show it to him— and anyway, what the hell does he know about treating a broken wrist?]
[Like a wounded dog, it's the sad, wet eyes that rise up first from where he's fallen, limply raising the arm that'd been held out of trust alone, no matter the pain he suffers. There, you see? And the offering is pitiful because it is a bid at magnetism— the long draw inwards where the distance between them finally begins to shrink down, concern settled at the forefront—
And the second Fenris is in arms' reach, up comes that dagger from his other hand— 'wounded' one suddenly upsurging to try and catch him by the scruff— so that the sheathed tip of his blade can pin itself against the side of the other man's throat in befanged warning. What would be lethal were this real.
Whether it fails or succeeds, he's grinning like a damned fool.]
[It works perfectly. Fenris' guard is dropped, the deception utterly believed, and it takes him so much longer than it should to realize what's happening. There's a flurry of motion and cool fingers aganist the back of his neck, and by the time his drunken mind manages to catch up—
He's caught.
Astarion's knife no less deadly a threat for being sheathed (and Fenris feels such a giddying little thrill as it digs into his skin, no matter that the tip is blunted and dulled by leather), and not one he can escape from. Not by normal means, anyway.
And if this were a proper fight, he'd use his lyrium. Hell, if they were sparring properly, he'd use his lyrium— but there's a difference between teaching and showing off, and of the two of them, Fenris needs the victory the least. Besides: he's proud of Astarion, he realizes. A grin that matches Astarion's own creeps over his face, his amusement and pride growing as he realizes just how well the other elf had sold his wound.]
Clever.
[Breathed out as he tips his head back, offering his throat in blatant submission. You win.]
You will not fool me like that so easily next time— but I suspect you will manage to fool many like that. Clever, [he says again, because it was.] Far more important in a fight than brute strength is the ability to use what you can, whenever you can.
Now tell me what you wish to hear first, and I will give you your reward.
[He's proud. More than that: euphoric. Granted his body here might not be built for hunting as it was back—
No, not home, is what catches him in the segue of withdrawing that fine knife from Fenris' thrumming pulse. Calling Toril home asserts that Cazador was home. That misery was home. That his folly and failures all were tantamount to where he belongs, and whether or not that's true, for the first time in two long centuries he has a choice.
And what he chooses, offering one last playful nudge to the shadow lurking underneath Fenris' throat with a loosely held pommel (sinking back across his shoulders, and forgetting that his heels feel dry and ragged in the dust; that specks of debris and broken rock bite back into soft muscle right through silk), is that his home is what he sees before him.
Everything else had been a waiting room. Nothing more.]
You say that now, but I should remind you it takes a shocking amount of confidence not to leap to the aid of something pretty and wounded. [Implication clear, it wears a muted flourish of splayed fingertips— a facsimilie of a bow, though it lacks the key component when he's laying down like this— black leather shining in the moonlight.
(Honestly, if he wasn't drunk enough to slack his posture wildly to one side, it might be downright bewitching in effect; sleek lines and rustled hems. Dangerous white fangs jutting from his curling lips, offset by wine-flush, and the far more vivid crimson left scandalously hooded just to spite its focus.
[What was easy to offer in the heat of the moment now becomes . . . hm. Not uncomfortable, for drunk as he is, discomfort is easily pushed away. But his grin falters just a little, his ears darkening as heat creeps over his face for reasons he can't (or won't) understand. It's irritating and silly; since when does he blush over talking about sex? He might not bring it up often, but that doesn't mean it flusters him. It never has before.
So. Positions, then, and his eyes dart over Astarion's expression, drawn to it despite himself (and absurd it may be, but not when he's just as wasted; he'll remember it as alluring and nothing more).]
From behind, if I had to pick a favorite. To have her on all fours or sprawled out over the sheets with her ass in the air . . . though there is something to be said for being ridden. Whether I am raised up or lying back, to get to watch someone bounce atop me is, mm, enjoyable indeed. The view is incomparable.
[Every word makes it easier, though he does prudently cross one leg over the other. It takes more than a few filthy words to rouse him, but still.]
And simple as it is, there's something to be said for being face to face . . . it's intimate, which can be good or bad, but I enjoyed the connection. Or having her on her knees while I sat on the bed . . . though I suspect I'd enjoy that act regardless of position.
[Hmm. He cocks his head, a little smirk on his lips.]
[There's a dilation (and an initial narrowing) of pupils in widened eyes as that lounging victor listens to Fenris' recount— having expected a typical: on hands and knees, or from behind, or just maybe a scoffing confession comprised of 'oral, mostly.' To his own credit, like a well-played game of Wicked Grace, nothing else in his demeanor shows through. Not even when he shifts more onto his elbows than before, defly letting one leg slide over in front of the other; raised eyebrows doing the (in)decent work of conveying an appropriate dose of surprise for any typical conversation between comrades. Compatriots.
Companions that are presently sitting roughly five feet apart.]
And a great deal more, thank you very much. [Exhale squeezed comfortably tight between tongue and grinning teeth. Strewth, little fighter.] Especially from an elf claiming the company of his horse is all he's kept for a good long while.
[In recovery, he gestures towards whatever's left of that bottle they'd been sharing. Come here.] Tempted to pay you in sovereigns for the lovely night's sleep I'll no doubt find tonight.
[He notices the shifting, because of course he does. It's hard not to, aware as he is of Astarion. But much like before, the real meaning passes him by: he thinks Astarion squirms because it's a thrilling thing to imagine a woman like that, and who doesn't get a little excited over the thought? Certainly it isn't anything to do with Fenris, for why would it?]
I won't say no.
[Drawled out as he scoots closer to Astarion and reaches for the bottle, happily accepting his earned prize. It's little more than dregs now, sour and sharp, but he drinks it nonetheless, thrilling in the last little wave of drunkenness as it washes over him.]
What was the other . . . an account of all the times I've spread another's legs. I would argue you've heard it already— or do you need me to be more explicit, and tell you from start to finish each time I laid with Isabela?
[He tips his head and adds shamelessly:]
I would rather hear your favorite positions.
[Despite the fact it was a prize earned. Despite the fact that ordinarily Fenris wouldn't dream of asking for such a thing, worried about the memories it might bring up.]
Substitute your answer with that promised Celestine red and I'll tell you anything you like. [Selfishly tugs the bottle free, dregs sloshing hard against the bottom in their journey from Fenris' lips to Astarion's own. Barely anything left to sip, but the droplets smell faintly of ozone beneath their soured composition— and that's close enough, he thinks, grinning sidelong.]
[Oh, more wine sounds like a fantastic idea, no matter that he doesn't relish having to get up. Not just yet though, Fenris thinks, his gaze resting idly on the line of Astarion's throat as he swallows.]
Home. In Danarius' old wine cellar.
[Mm, but the sooner they get up, the sooner they can drink again . . . with a little groan, Fenris sits up.]
Come. We have only a mile or so to go, but it will be quicker up here than down there.
[Will it? Well, alcohol makes the journey seem fast, anyway, and that will have to be good enough. They jump the gaps between buildings and make their way Uptown, stepping in and out of the shadows of chimneys and water towers, until at last they climb down a balcony and reach the mansion.
And oh: it isn't until Fenris unlocks the door and steps inside does he realize how wretched the mansion must seem. Even more dilapidated than it had been years ago, with dead leaves and dust long since settled on most of the surfaces. There's a small path back to the room he lives in, and it's there he leads Astarion: gesturing to the fireplace (where a set of logs and tinder are neatly stacked) in silent bid to get it started while he disappears to find the wine.]
There were two bottles.
[He announces it as he comes back. Who knows if they'll drink both, but it's a nice assurance to have it on hand.]
Don't tell me you want to tussle for the other. [Hollow passageways swallowing any intonation it might've held almost instantly, and replacing it with the soft hiss of city noise seeped in steadily from outside— the odd crunch of debris caught underneath his (once more) booted heels, though the feeling of dustbound decay persists between his toes thanks to whatever he hadn't been able to wipe clean before descent.
But his head's tilted upwards as they channel through; gloved hand trailed across each wall— aside from where skeletal holes in plaster break that pleasant constant— jumping from flat surface to flat surface until they reach their destination. Until he has to call out to make certain that he's heard, despite withering boards and slanted archways. What nominal barrier they provide.]
I doubt I can enact an encore of tonight's performance without getting you blackout drunk first.
Possibly not even then. [Is that an admission of his battle prowess' limitations?
Perhaps.
But there'll be time to delve into that later once Astarion finishes struggling with the hearth: first fighting to open the flu, then fighting to wedge the level he's just broken clean off back into place before Fenris notices what he's done.
Which is why we will train you soon enough. A ploy like that only works so often.
[Vaguely said as he sets the bottles down on a nearby table. There are glasses around here . . . somewhere, he thinks, and promptly gives up on finding them the moment they don't instantly appear. They'll just drink from the bottle, it's not as if either of them are so worried about propriety . . . mm, yes, and with that decided, Fenris busies himself with finessing the cork out. It's a slow process, hampered mostly by the fact his attention is suddenly shifted upwards.
Call it instinct, maybe: that anytime anyone wants to go unnoticed, there's something about their body language that just shrieks don't look and draws attention all the more.]
Is it giving you trouble?
[Said as he crosses the room, fingers still absently prying at the cork, and only belatedly realizes:]
Do you know how to start a fire?
[Has he noticed the lever? Apparently not just yet, though there's still time.]
[Hastily, body covering the mouth of the fireplace as much as physically possible. Cast iron lever sinking at a laborious tilt every time Astarion finds some way to make it look the way it was. On the upside, the flue is open now— only with the addition of an added gap from where damper's lever tore itself away.
It dangles on next attempt, precariously swaying to the sound of padding footfalls drawn nearer, and then— success— oh it stays. Dangling like a doll's arm held on by a thread, but still it looks secure which is all that truly matters (provided the stare that takes it in isn't fluently versed in architecture of this shade).
And then a thought.]
Actually, no.
[Turns him around at a crouch to glance behind him. Shifting from flat delivery to something sheepish and demure, delayed. Enough delayed, in fact, that like a rubber band it snaps across its throttled tone, only settling after he's done the diligence of clearing his own throat. (And swallowing. And dropping his brows so that hangdog eyes soon lift.)] I was a prostitute, you know. I've never learned this sort of....banality.
[Foolish, Fenris scolds himself without any real ire. He'd spoken without thinking, too drunk to think of the most basic realities of Astarion's life. It's too late to take it back, but on the other hand, it's easy to course correct. His eyes flit over that hangdog stare, soft and doeish, and he wonders for only a moment if it's genuine.
But the truth is that it doesn't matter. If Astarion acts out of old habit (and the more Fenris looks at him, the more he thinks that this is no farce), it's only because he cannot help it. Two hundred years of conditioning aren't so easily undone, no matter how much the world tells you that you ought to move on. No matter how much you tell yourself, he thinks, and crouches down beside his companion.]
Nor did I.
[A little wry.]
I can reliably wield most any weapon, even ones I have never seen before, but I had no idea how to begin to take care of myself when I was freed. But building a fire was one of the first tasks I learned. Watch, now. This will serve you as we come into winter.
Wood takes time to grow hot enough to burn. Start with tinder that lights easily, which in turn causes the kindling to catch fire— so finally the logs can grow hotter at their own pace, and burn for a long time. Here—
[They're going to do this together, it seems, for he offers up flint and steel to Astarion. When better to have a lesson on fire than while drunk? But honestly, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.]
Strike at it sharply— like this. [He mimes the action twice.] It will set off sparks, which will light the tinder and start the process. We need not mind it for too long after that.
[But before Astarion starts, Fenris adds:]
My apologies. I should have realized—
[Which is right when that lever finally gives up the ghost. It held on for as long as it could, but like a thread snapping, it falls with a loud clatter to the bottom of the hearth. Fenris snorts.]
Damned thing.
[. . . and that's it, really. There's no real reaction beyond that, for the mansion is old and crumbling, and it takes far more than that to raise his ire. Indeed: his attention is already focused back on Astarion, expectant (and a little eager, truthfully, in a drunkenly enthusiastic way) on returning to their lesson.]
Rather, it does, but only the world Astarion is glad to watch shrivel up and die— eclipsed by a replacement with more patience than perversion to its name. The overlap shrinking whilst flint bites into his fingers through thick leather, and his hazy stare can't stop gawking at the handsome thing before his eyes.
Not outraged. Not incensed. Soused, perhaps, and close enough to evoke a certain dryness in his throat, but— gods, there's something in that stare he's never seen before. (Again. Again. Someday he'll stop being taken wholly by surprise by Fenris' ability to carve out first after first in the catalogue of never known experiences,) But for a palmful of silent seconds Astarion feels....
Oh, stupid. Dumbstruck, with a literal emphasis on the term dumb, because he ought to be rejecting this disarmament. Waiting for the hammer to fall in any which way it might, finally catching the curtain call that's been beckoning it back to center stage: Astarion is feeling again. Astarion's gone weak. Astarion's fled his lead again, and now—
He blinks before his head tilts down, glancing up once more to be sure it's still all right— then back towards the hearth and its debris. The flint held in his hand. The mess of tinder there to light, scarecrow remembering the gesture when he enacts it: a rough click-clack snap of steel against stone and an ensuing hiss of sparks.
Ultimately lifeless.
It doesn't take.]
Tsk.
[Just his luck.]
It's defective.
[Astarion. Sweetheart. Flint and steel can't be defective.]
[Serenely countered, though the look he offers Astarion is a bit more gentle. His eyes dart about the other elf's face, still trying to pick out what threads are genuine and what are put-on affectations. But this look . . . oh, he knows this look very well, for it was the same look he himself aimed up at the Fog Warriors once. The first time he'd trampled through some fishing lines without meaning to; he'd told them, all of him steeling for the blow that was sure to come—
Only to find nothing. Some exasperated sighs and rolled eyes, and they had set him to repairing them, but there was nothing like the hell he would have caught from Danarius.
But while he does know that feeling, he also knows how damned patronizing it can be to hear something like that laid out starkly. I know why you flinch, I know why you cower, and never mind that he knows through experience— still, it's a humiliating thing to hear directly.]
Try again. And if this fireplace continues to fall apart, as everything in this house is apt to do, there are at least a dozen more we can try.
Positioned this way, shoulders angled forwards and knees dug into the hearth, Astarion has to lift his head again to get the measure of Fenris' expression. And no, there's nothing there he doesn't expect to see once done. Nothing that rattles the moors of all present suspicion a second time, save for the one small detail sought out to begin with.]
By the place where I live falling apart, or your hand in it?
[It's a bit of a wry answer as he catches Astarion's eye deliberately, but he adds:]
If it is the former, no. I cannot say it is ideal, but this was Danarius' manor, and I have spite enough even now to watch it fall apart. And, lever aside, I have carved out a place for myself in here that is comfortable.
[But still, admittedly, dilapidated. A hole in the ceiling does not a skylight make, no matter that Fenris enjoys the view. And while that's a very nice explanation, it falters a little when one looks around and notices all the cracked tiles and dusty shelves . . . what's the difference between letting something rot out of spite and being too miserable to take the time to care for it?]
As for the latter . . . break what you please, so long as it is not my sword or my personal gear. But the mansion itself I care little for.
[Flint and steel. The click of it quick, though not distracting, let alone detracting; he's trying again simply to try again, not to pull himself away.]
I've never known a slave to own anything like this— not even by right of succession, not even freed.
[If there's a note of awe traceable in his voice, there's little there to mind.]
Can't say I know what you're feeling about it going to pieces, but I know that.... [A glance towards that lever. A glance back, mouth twitching wryly (he hadn't spoken it aloud when they came in, and granted, he still isn't— but it's a tip of his hand as much as any). Click. Click.]
[It really is. Not just Astarion's quiet assertion, which is sweet in a way that Fenris hadn't expected, but that awe, too. It's validating, even now.]
But you are not wrong when it comes to slaves and owning things. I was glib before, but . . .
[He settles back on his heels, glancing around as he waits for tinder to finally catch.]
In truth, I think there is a part of me that still refuses to believe it is mine. Danarius has been dead for nearly fifteen years, and his heirs were swift to follow— and yet there is a part of me that wonders even now when the other shoe will drop.
[He takes another sip of wine, and then, a little wryly:]
But you own things now too, you know. How many times since you got your dagger have you checked to be sure it hasn't been stolen or fallen off?
[For he remembers that, too. Treasuring the newfound possessions the Fog Warriors gave him like a dragonling with his first bit of gold, caring for them fastidiously. The bedroll was abandoned long ago, and he has no use for fishing lines . . . but he still has the knife, for he has never broken the habit of running his thumb over a knife's pommel, feeling out blunt Qunlat markings.]
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no subject
It doesn't need to go any lower.
So he can't help it that he laughs just as loudly— all teeth— slipping back into his own space wreathed in a flourish of renewed vigor: alert as only adrenaline could leave him, and trickling his blade between his fingers like a busker with a coin.]
Win, and I'll tell you what I'm into, if you'd like.
[Is such a smooth bit of subterfuge it'd likely do half his dirty work for him, provided he didn't immediately wince at the feeling of stepping on a pebble, squirming (readjusting). Rolling his ankle first and his balance second in a lurching launch forwards that carries one long, sweeping swipe from the tip of his dagger.
It's very lopsided, for the record.]
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Mmph. A slow reaction meets a lopsided rush forward: they're evenly matched in the most embarrassing way. The tip of the dagger nearly catches at his chest; he leaps back with a grin, his eyes flicking down to watch Astarion's feet. And yes, poor thing: they are delicate, aren't they? Wincing from a mere pebble and flinching from the grit of the roof, oh, no wonder he's struggling. But practice is the only way forward, and those callouses will build soon enough.]
And what do you get if you win, hm?
[But it's no fun just to play keepaway forever. He reaches back, a knife slipping into his hand: a small thing, plain and worn but still sharp, kept on hand solely for nights when he doesn't feel like lugging around his sword.
Now it's a fight. No longer purely defensive, he circles warily around Astarion, torn between watching his body (sensible, smart, trying to track his next move) and watching his eyes (which keep drawing him back, for he's eager to keep drinking the other elf in).]
Do you wish for a ranking of my favorite positions? An account of all the times I've spread another's legs?
no subject
[Is an earnest question. One that twists this way and that, trying to keep track of Fenris' location though the tax on his heels is steep (or perhaps sharp: one stubborn piece of smooth-edged glass keeps jabbing hard into his left footpad, right between his toes)— he can't waste precious seconds readjusting without leaving himself wide open to attack. Ignore the prickle of excitement arching up across his neck. Ignore the rampant rush of chemical allure grown stronger at the sight of that dagger in bright hands. Ignore the memory of one minute ago, or the climb up here, or the way Fenris' smile glittered in pub lights—
No. No, really, ignore that. His heart is underneath his chin and aching from overuse, but when he licks his lips and finds Fenris staring, too, well....
It makes it easy to ignore the sensory nightmare underfoot, and angle instead towards a scattering of advancing strikes. Light through the wrist, testing shallow waters.]
no subject
[It's a dance now. A little slower, a little easier: Astarion's strikes the first swaying spin now that they've found their rhythm. Easily spotted and dodged as Fenris does his level best to watch for an opening— but oh, it's so hard when their conversation is so interesting. Thrilling in a way that Fenris does not understand, not yet; he attributes every excitable leap of his heart to the closeness of Astarion's blade and his own near-misses.
But he tires of playing defense. He's seen how well Astarion can attack; now it's time to shake things up. The next time he strikes Fenris darts forward, ducking instead of drawing back, his knife flashing sloppily as his foot strikes out and hooks behind Astarion's own—
— and with any luck, down they both go. Not hard, not when Fenris' other hand catches Astarion's hip, slowing his fall, but still: they're both sprawled on the roof, scrambling and grappling for the chance to come out on top. Until Fenris has him in a sloppy hold; until he's panting above him, grinning as he pins his wrist to the roof (and yet not done, not yet, not when he's leaving so many deliberate openings for Astarion to turn the tides— this is too much fun to end so quickly.)]
If you win, Astarion, I'll let you have both.
1/2
He's no less outmatched here. Reduced to a set of recklessly soused reflexes aware of scarcely anything between swings, but even they feel the whiff of cold air cut across the edge of his blade, funneling harsh along his knuckles. Motivated swipes coming close solely by luck's slanted mercy, making him fortunate if he can manage to stay on his feet, let alone catch a glancing nick or two along the way.
And yet he's convinced he's never wanted anything more.
After all, he's already free now, isn't he? What's left but the odd new rush that starts with a sudden pitch towards the ground— punctuates itself with iron fingers laced over his hip, his wrist— and ends with the words I'll let you have both. The hands he hated never felt like this; the rote innuendos scarcely earned his anorexic focus. What he didn't loathe, he felt nothing for. What beckoned him, he hated.
He doesn't hate this.
There's a daggering flash of teeth when his back hits stone, and the feeling of the fine bones of his wrist aching in warning as adrenaline cedes to raw sensation. The air is thick with foundry smoke and soot— but he wants to win. He wants to win. (How? How, when he's too new to this body, this form, these frail synapses? How, when his opponent might be drunk, but is a hardier thing with ingrained talent? All Astarion has is his ability to perform. To lie, and cheat, and beckon with sheer falsehoods— ) ]
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Right.
It takes no less than a flicker of a heartbeat for Astarion to yelp out the most pitiful rasping cry: twisting through his shoulder and angling away from his pinned wrist— as if the impact might've shattered something. Damaged something in his fragile, ill-prepared state. Bare toes scuffling in dry dust as a byproduct of the way half-trapped legs struggle underneath his companion, battling for room at all to breathe.]
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In an instant he's leapt back, his expression startled as his mind whirs— he must have been too harsh. Drunk and overeager as he is, it isn't such a shock that he's played too hard, nipped too roughly: not irreversible damage, no, but still, it isn't a good look. And what an awful thing for Astarion, on his very first real night out, to suffer through a broken wrist at the hands of the elf he plans to journey with— Maker's breath, and Fenris curses himself silently as he watches Astarion writhe.
He doesn't dare approach, not when those legs had kicked and struggled so fiercely. Instead, he leans forward in a half-kneel: cautiously present without crowding, his hands held out a little helplessly as he peers at Astarion.]
What is it? Your wrist?
[Let me see, he bites back, for he would not blame Astarion for not wanting to show it to him— and anyway, what the hell does he know about treating a broken wrist?]
There are a few healers still open, I think—
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And the second Fenris is in arms' reach, up comes that dagger from his other hand— 'wounded' one suddenly upsurging to try and catch him by the scruff— so that the sheathed tip of his blade can pin itself against the side of the other man's throat in befanged warning. What would be lethal were this real.
Whether it fails or succeeds, he's grinning like a damned fool.]
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He's caught.
Astarion's knife no less deadly a threat for being sheathed (and Fenris feels such a giddying little thrill as it digs into his skin, no matter that the tip is blunted and dulled by leather), and not one he can escape from. Not by normal means, anyway.
And if this were a proper fight, he'd use his lyrium. Hell, if they were sparring properly, he'd use his lyrium— but there's a difference between teaching and showing off, and of the two of them, Fenris needs the victory the least. Besides: he's proud of Astarion, he realizes. A grin that matches Astarion's own creeps over his face, his amusement and pride growing as he realizes just how well the other elf had sold his wound.]
Clever.
[Breathed out as he tips his head back, offering his throat in blatant submission. You win.]
You will not fool me like that so easily next time— but I suspect you will manage to fool many like that. Clever, [he says again, because it was.] Far more important in a fight than brute strength is the ability to use what you can, whenever you can.
Now tell me what you wish to hear first, and I will give you your reward.
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No, not home, is what catches him in the segue of withdrawing that fine knife from Fenris' thrumming pulse. Calling Toril home asserts that Cazador was home. That misery was home. That his folly and failures all were tantamount to where he belongs, and whether or not that's true, for the first time in two long centuries he has a choice.
And what he chooses, offering one last playful nudge to the shadow lurking underneath Fenris' throat with a loosely held pommel (sinking back across his shoulders, and forgetting that his heels feel dry and ragged in the dust; that specks of debris and broken rock bite back into soft muscle right through silk), is that his home is what he sees before him.
Everything else had been a waiting room. Nothing more.]
You say that now, but I should remind you it takes a shocking amount of confidence not to leap to the aid of something pretty and wounded. [Implication clear, it wears a muted flourish of splayed fingertips— a facsimilie of a bow, though it lacks the key component when he's laying down like this— black leather shining in the moonlight.
(Honestly, if he wasn't drunk enough to slack his posture wildly to one side, it might be downright bewitching in effect; sleek lines and rustled hems. Dangerous white fangs jutting from his curling lips, offset by wine-flush, and the far more vivid crimson left scandalously hooded just to spite its focus.
As things are, he just looks a touch absurd.)]
But I'll take my payment starting with positions first.
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So. Positions, then, and his eyes dart over Astarion's expression, drawn to it despite himself (and absurd it may be, but not when he's just as wasted; he'll remember it as alluring and nothing more).]
From behind, if I had to pick a favorite. To have her on all fours or sprawled out over the sheets with her ass in the air . . . though there is something to be said for being ridden. Whether I am raised up or lying back, to get to watch someone bounce atop me is, mm, enjoyable indeed. The view is incomparable.
[Every word makes it easier, though he does prudently cross one leg over the other. It takes more than a few filthy words to rouse him, but still.]
And simple as it is, there's something to be said for being face to face . . . it's intimate, which can be good or bad, but I enjoyed the connection. Or having her on her knees while I sat on the bed . . . though I suspect I'd enjoy that act regardless of position.
[Hmm. He cocks his head, a little smirk on his lips.]
Is that what you had in mind?
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Companions that are presently sitting roughly five feet apart.]
And a great deal more, thank you very much. [Exhale squeezed comfortably tight between tongue and grinning teeth. Strewth, little fighter.] Especially from an elf claiming the company of his horse is all he's kept for a good long while.
[In recovery, he gestures towards whatever's left of that bottle they'd been sharing. Come here.] Tempted to pay you in sovereigns for the lovely night's sleep I'll no doubt find tonight.
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I won't say no.
[Drawled out as he scoots closer to Astarion and reaches for the bottle, happily accepting his earned prize. It's little more than dregs now, sour and sharp, but he drinks it nonetheless, thrilling in the last little wave of drunkenness as it washes over him.]
What was the other . . . an account of all the times I've spread another's legs. I would argue you've heard it already— or do you need me to be more explicit, and tell you from start to finish each time I laid with Isabela?
[He tips his head and adds shamelessly:]
I would rather hear your favorite positions.
[Despite the fact it was a prize earned. Despite the fact that ordinarily Fenris wouldn't dream of asking for such a thing, worried about the memories it might bring up.]
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Where do you keep it?
[Probably not on a foundry roof, for starters.]
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Home. In Danarius' old wine cellar.
[Mm, but the sooner they get up, the sooner they can drink again . . . with a little groan, Fenris sits up.]
Come. We have only a mile or so to go, but it will be quicker up here than down there.
[Will it? Well, alcohol makes the journey seem fast, anyway, and that will have to be good enough. They jump the gaps between buildings and make their way Uptown, stepping in and out of the shadows of chimneys and water towers, until at last they climb down a balcony and reach the mansion.
And oh: it isn't until Fenris unlocks the door and steps inside does he realize how wretched the mansion must seem. Even more dilapidated than it had been years ago, with dead leaves and dust long since settled on most of the surfaces. There's a small path back to the room he lives in, and it's there he leads Astarion: gesturing to the fireplace (where a set of logs and tinder are neatly stacked) in silent bid to get it started while he disappears to find the wine.]
There were two bottles.
[He announces it as he comes back. Who knows if they'll drink both, but it's a nice assurance to have it on hand.]
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But his head's tilted upwards as they channel through; gloved hand trailed across each wall— aside from where skeletal holes in plaster break that pleasant constant— jumping from flat surface to flat surface until they reach their destination. Until he has to call out to make certain that he's heard, despite withering boards and slanted archways. What nominal barrier they provide.]
I doubt I can enact an encore of tonight's performance without getting you blackout drunk first.
Possibly not even then. [Is that an admission of his battle prowess' limitations?
Perhaps.
But there'll be time to delve into that later once Astarion finishes struggling with the hearth: first fighting to open the flu, then fighting to wedge the level he's just broken clean off back into place before Fenris notices what he's done.
Shit.]
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[Vaguely said as he sets the bottles down on a nearby table. There are glasses around here . . . somewhere, he thinks, and promptly gives up on finding them the moment they don't instantly appear. They'll just drink from the bottle, it's not as if either of them are so worried about propriety . . . mm, yes, and with that decided, Fenris busies himself with finessing the cork out. It's a slow process, hampered mostly by the fact his attention is suddenly shifted upwards.
Call it instinct, maybe: that anytime anyone wants to go unnoticed, there's something about their body language that just shrieks don't look and draws attention all the more.]
Is it giving you trouble?
[Said as he crosses the room, fingers still absently prying at the cork, and only belatedly realizes:]
Do you know how to start a fire?
[Has he noticed the lever? Apparently not just yet, though there's still time.]
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[Hastily, body covering the mouth of the fireplace as much as physically possible. Cast iron lever sinking at a laborious tilt every time Astarion finds some way to make it look the way it was. On the upside, the flue is open now— only with the addition of an added gap from where damper's lever tore itself away.
It dangles on next attempt, precariously swaying to the sound of padding footfalls drawn nearer, and then— success— oh it stays. Dangling like a doll's arm held on by a thread, but still it looks secure which is all that truly matters (provided the stare that takes it in isn't fluently versed in architecture of this shade).
And then a thought.]
Actually, no.
[Turns him around at a crouch to glance behind him. Shifting from flat delivery to something sheepish and demure, delayed. Enough delayed, in fact, that like a rubber band it snaps across its throttled tone, only settling after he's done the diligence of clearing his own throat. (And swallowing. And dropping his brows so that hangdog eyes soon lift.)] I was a prostitute, you know. I've never learned this sort of....banality.
Never had the chance.
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But the truth is that it doesn't matter. If Astarion acts out of old habit (and the more Fenris looks at him, the more he thinks that this is no farce), it's only because he cannot help it. Two hundred years of conditioning aren't so easily undone, no matter how much the world tells you that you ought to move on. No matter how much you tell yourself, he thinks, and crouches down beside his companion.]
Nor did I.
[A little wry.]
I can reliably wield most any weapon, even ones I have never seen before, but I had no idea how to begin to take care of myself when I was freed. But building a fire was one of the first tasks I learned. Watch, now. This will serve you as we come into winter.
Wood takes time to grow hot enough to burn. Start with tinder that lights easily, which in turn causes the kindling to catch fire— so finally the logs can grow hotter at their own pace, and burn for a long time. Here—
[They're going to do this together, it seems, for he offers up flint and steel to Astarion. When better to have a lesson on fire than while drunk? But honestly, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.]
Strike at it sharply— like this. [He mimes the action twice.] It will set off sparks, which will light the tinder and start the process. We need not mind it for too long after that.
[But before Astarion starts, Fenris adds:]
My apologies. I should have realized—
[Which is right when that lever finally gives up the ghost. It held on for as long as it could, but like a thread snapping, it falls with a loud clatter to the bottom of the hearth. Fenris snorts.]
Damned thing.
[. . . and that's it, really. There's no real reaction beyond that, for the mansion is old and crumbling, and it takes far more than that to raise his ire. Indeed: his attention is already focused back on Astarion, expectant (and a little eager, truthfully, in a drunkenly enthusiastic way) on returning to their lesson.]
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Or—
Rather, it does, but only the world Astarion is glad to watch shrivel up and die— eclipsed by a replacement with more patience than perversion to its name. The overlap shrinking whilst flint bites into his fingers through thick leather, and his hazy stare can't stop gawking at the handsome thing before his eyes.
Not outraged. Not incensed. Soused, perhaps, and close enough to evoke a certain dryness in his throat, but— gods, there's something in that stare he's never seen before. (Again. Again. Someday he'll stop being taken wholly by surprise by Fenris' ability to carve out first after first in the catalogue of never known experiences,) But for a palmful of silent seconds Astarion feels....
Oh, stupid. Dumbstruck, with a literal emphasis on the term dumb, because he ought to be rejecting this disarmament. Waiting for the hammer to fall in any which way it might, finally catching the curtain call that's been beckoning it back to center stage: Astarion is feeling again. Astarion's gone weak. Astarion's fled his lead again, and now—
He blinks before his head tilts down, glancing up once more to be sure it's still all right— then back towards the hearth and its debris. The flint held in his hand. The mess of tinder there to light, scarecrow remembering the gesture when he enacts it: a rough click-clack snap of steel against stone and an ensuing hiss of sparks.
Ultimately lifeless.
It doesn't take.]
Tsk.
[Just his luck.]
It's defective.
[Astarion. Sweetheart. Flint and steel can't be defective.]
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[Serenely countered, though the look he offers Astarion is a bit more gentle. His eyes dart about the other elf's face, still trying to pick out what threads are genuine and what are put-on affectations. But this look . . . oh, he knows this look very well, for it was the same look he himself aimed up at the Fog Warriors once. The first time he'd trampled through some fishing lines without meaning to; he'd told them, all of him steeling for the blow that was sure to come—
Only to find nothing. Some exasperated sighs and rolled eyes, and they had set him to repairing them, but there was nothing like the hell he would have caught from Danarius.
But while he does know that feeling, he also knows how damned patronizing it can be to hear something like that laid out starkly. I know why you flinch, I know why you cower, and never mind that he knows through experience— still, it's a humiliating thing to hear directly.]
Try again. And if this fireplace continues to fall apart, as everything in this house is apt to do, there are at least a dozen more we can try.
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Positioned this way, shoulders angled forwards and knees dug into the hearth, Astarion has to lift his head again to get the measure of Fenris' expression. And no, there's nothing there he doesn't expect to see once done. Nothing that rattles the moors of all present suspicion a second time, save for the one small detail sought out to begin with.]
You're not bothered by that?
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[It's a bit of a wry answer as he catches Astarion's eye deliberately, but he adds:]
If it is the former, no. I cannot say it is ideal, but this was Danarius' manor, and I have spite enough even now to watch it fall apart. And, lever aside, I have carved out a place for myself in here that is comfortable.
[But still, admittedly, dilapidated. A hole in the ceiling does not a skylight make, no matter that Fenris enjoys the view. And while that's a very nice explanation, it falters a little when one looks around and notices all the cracked tiles and dusty shelves . . . what's the difference between letting something rot out of spite and being too miserable to take the time to care for it?]
As for the latter . . . break what you please, so long as it is not my sword or my personal gear. But the mansion itself I care little for.
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I've never known a slave to own anything like this— not even by right of succession, not even freed.
[If there's a note of awe traceable in his voice, there's little there to mind.]
Can't say I know what you're feeling about it going to pieces, but I know that.... [A glance towards that lever. A glance back, mouth twitching wryly (he hadn't spoken it aloud when they came in, and granted, he still isn't— but it's a tip of his hand as much as any). Click. Click.]
Well.
I don't want to be the one that does it.
[That's all.]
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[It really is. Not just Astarion's quiet assertion, which is sweet in a way that Fenris hadn't expected, but that awe, too. It's validating, even now.]
But you are not wrong when it comes to slaves and owning things. I was glib before, but . . .
[He settles back on his heels, glancing around as he waits for tinder to finally catch.]
In truth, I think there is a part of me that still refuses to believe it is mine. Danarius has been dead for nearly fifteen years, and his heirs were swift to follow— and yet there is a part of me that wonders even now when the other shoe will drop.
[He takes another sip of wine, and then, a little wryly:]
But you own things now too, you know. How many times since you got your dagger have you checked to be sure it hasn't been stolen or fallen off?
[For he remembers that, too. Treasuring the newfound possessions the Fog Warriors gave him like a dragonling with his first bit of gold, caring for them fastidiously. The bedroll was abandoned long ago, and he has no use for fishing lines . . . but he still has the knife, for he has never broken the habit of running his thumb over a knife's pommel, feeling out blunt Qunlat markings.]
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