[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.]
[He might be waiting a long time. Click. Click. Click—
And a gentle scoff that leads into sudden silence.]
I sleep with it. All night. [The first thing he's ever owned, and in the spirit of its impavid gifter: what keeps him safe from the worst this city has to offer.] Start a timer as to how often I reach for it and in less than five minutes you'll have run out of viable numbers to count with. Even dreaming my fingers run to it like magnets— convinced it won't be there, and that all the benefits I'm starting to believe in will vanish along with it.
Logically, I know it won't. Logically, according to the sort of logic I've kept company with for ages, it will.
[It isn't impulse that pushes him to settle back across his heels in the middle of a canting glance; he measures something about the way Fenris drinks, the way he talks, too, backlit by a series of gaps in rotted ceiling tiles— but mostly how he drinks. And with a little flick of lengthy ears, Astarion scoots forward onto all fours, reaching out to yet again wrap his hand around the bottom of that bottle, and tugging till either Fenris relinquishes it, or it comes loose regardless.
A few dashes of it over the shavings stuffed inside that hearth (tucking the bottle inside the crook of his arm), a few snaps of flint and steel, and voila—
Just like that, there's fire.]
But unlike you, I actually wear shoes, so at least I've an excuse.
[....but satisfaction in the warm glow of lit coals doesn't last long. Not when he starts to actually feel the ageworn dust caked onto the surface of that bottle where it meets his forearm. Not when the memory of why he'd fought— and won— suddenly decides to flood back in.
This isn't the cheap bottle from the rooftops.
This isn't one of the pilfered no-names from the bar.
And with a whip-quick yank he's pulled the bottle out into the firelight just to get a better look at its label, searching for— ]
[It happens so bewilderingly fast. The thrilling sight of Astarion on his hands and knees, the wine bottle plucked neatly from his unresisting fingertips— and then all at once, the sudden swerve of alcohol poured not between two reddened lips but doused over the fire like so much cheap ale. Hundreds of gold coins wasted in ten seconds flat, and the only response afterwards is a tiny, belated curse—
And what can Fenris do but laugh?
Inelegantly, loudly: a snorting little chuckle that swiftly turned into something harder. It's not that funny and he doesn't care; he's drunk and happy and there's something, even now, that's so bone-deep satisfying about watching the waste of a magister's wealth.]
That is cheating.
[He says it with a grin, then reaches for the bottle, grabbing it just as swiftly as Astarion had so he can put it to his lips once more.]
Drunken thing . . . should I cut you off if you are going to make mistakes like that? I warn you: I am not going to supply you with wine when we go on the road. You will have to be put to the test sooner or later.
[Mm. The bottle's half-empty now— more than that, actually, he thinks, giving it another swig, and offers it back to Astarion.]
Finish it. Or don't. But throw it at the wall when you're through.
Is it cheating, or is it leveraging cleverness unchecked? [Asks the elf who's smirking at the bottom of that bottle as it's raised in high salute— long sip looking so sweet judging by the bob in Fenris' glittering throat as he drinks, bewitching garnet eyes. Lending a hazy quality to everything in Astarion for a beat, beyond just drunkenness alone, for he hasn't felt this lax throughout his joints (and sinew, and bone) at all till now. Pleasant and slow-smouldering, like the blooming heat beside him, and he hardly minds that it makes his grip nigh ineffective when he tries to take that bottle back, nearly fumbling at first—
Doing better on the second try.
He sprawls after he's succeeded, flaunting dagger-long teeth with that first pull (and oh, it is ambrosial)....]
[He mimes the action, as if the issue might be that Astarion just doesn't understand. And oh, the other elf looks so comfortable like that . . . with a little grunt Fenris crawls over towards him, as impudent as a pup as he half leans over him, reaching towards his bed to grab some of the pillows and blankets piled there. He likes to sleep in a nesting heap of them, pillows and sheets and blankets all piled atop one another, both to ward off the chill and for sheer indulgent comfort.
Useful, now, when he seeks to make a little nest of their own: a few pillows to lean back against, a few blankets to put some softness between himself (and Astarion, as he nudges one or two over to the other elf) and the floor. And once he's resettled:]
Do not tell me you have never wanted to destroy your master's things. All the finery, delicate silks or pretty jewels or a well-carved staff . . . and how they would value such things so much higher than you or I. There's something spiteful to be found in destroying it.
I cannot give you your master's things. But I can lend you mine.
[A beat, and then, with all the consideration of an elven brat that grew up with bare feet and sticks to play with, adds:]
For just a moment. Just a single moment as he's reached over, when luxury hitting the back of his throat slams hot against his windpipe.
Not a miracle that he can choke again like any mortal thing, but that he might choke over this, his fingers laced like iron over the belly of that bottle, immobile till it passes, heart racing in his ears.]
Mm. [Vibration brings on clarity, and he shakes his head in turn before another sip (where widened eyes cast peripherally and lifted ears could still read as curiosity alone).]
I always wanted his things.
[But Fenris has it all inside these crumbling walls, and that last line elicits a smile. A huffing laugh.]
Destruction, though....
Fun in the moment, I'll give you that— and tempting— but astonishingly less fun in the inevitable clean up, I'd assume.
Does it look as though I bother much with cleaning?
[Dryly said, though that's not entirely fair. Give Fenris this: his little room, at least, is somewhat orderly. There's a rug and a working fireplace, a bed and a bookshelf filled . . . he does try to clean up after himself. It's the structural damage that he hasn't ever tried to repair.
But fine, fine, and he grins as he settles down, lying on his side and propping his head on one hand.]
Then tell me what you want, if you refuse to indulge in destruction. We have another bottle of wine . . . what would you have stolen from him if you could have?
[Fenris lounges. Astarion does too (There's the theme eternal since arrival: Fenris does anything, Astarion does too). Bottle in one hand (slosh, go its dwindling contents with every pull), though his stare never leaves the outline of the other elf's face in growing firelight— still drafty, but starting to feel warm. First through his soles, and he knows it won't take long for ambient diffusion to take over.
Quick, his next intake of breath, kissing the lip of that bottle.]
[Someday, Fenris will notice that echoing behavior. He is no stranger to it, after all— but it's so much harder to spot when Astarion eternally seems more developed to Fenris' eyes. He is no stumbling fawn, wide-eyed and bewildered to the shape of the world; he does not wait for a master's instruction, not to Fenris' eyes. He is so much more than Fenris ever was in his first days and weeks and years out of enslavement— and so how can he help but be a little blind to it?
His power, though . . . Fenris cocks his head.]
I will not say I do not know the feeling. Though I think, if you had asked me when I was younger, I would have said his wealth.
[There's no judgement in his gaze nor his voice. He watches the flicker of firelight slowly grow over Astarion's face, casting him in ever-shifting reds and yellows that highlight the glimmer of his skin and the shadows around his eyes.]
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no subject
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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
[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.]
no subject
[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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
[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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And a gentle scoff that leads into sudden silence.]
I sleep with it. All night. [The first thing he's ever owned, and in the spirit of its impavid gifter: what keeps him safe from the worst this city has to offer.] Start a timer as to how often I reach for it and in less than five minutes you'll have run out of viable numbers to count with. Even dreaming my fingers run to it like magnets— convinced it won't be there, and that all the benefits I'm starting to believe in will vanish along with it.
Logically, I know it won't. Logically, according to the sort of logic I've kept company with for ages, it will.
[It isn't impulse that pushes him to settle back across his heels in the middle of a canting glance; he measures something about the way Fenris drinks, the way he talks, too, backlit by a series of gaps in rotted ceiling tiles— but mostly how he drinks. And with a little flick of lengthy ears, Astarion scoots forward onto all fours, reaching out to yet again wrap his hand around the bottom of that bottle, and tugging till either Fenris relinquishes it, or it comes loose regardless.
A few dashes of it over the shavings stuffed inside that hearth (tucking the bottle inside the crook of his arm), a few snaps of flint and steel, and voila—
Just like that, there's fire.]
But unlike you, I actually wear shoes, so at least I've an excuse.
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This isn't the cheap bottle from the rooftops.
This isn't one of the pilfered no-names from the bar.
And with a whip-quick yank he's pulled the bottle out into the firelight just to get a better look at its label, searching for— ]
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And what can Fenris do but laugh?
Inelegantly, loudly: a snorting little chuckle that swiftly turned into something harder. It's not that funny and he doesn't care; he's drunk and happy and there's something, even now, that's so bone-deep satisfying about watching the waste of a magister's wealth.]
That is cheating.
[He says it with a grin, then reaches for the bottle, grabbing it just as swiftly as Astarion had so he can put it to his lips once more.]
Drunken thing . . . should I cut you off if you are going to make mistakes like that? I warn you: I am not going to supply you with wine when we go on the road. You will have to be put to the test sooner or later.
[Mm. The bottle's half-empty now— more than that, actually, he thinks, giving it another swig, and offers it back to Astarion.]
Finish it. Or don't. But throw it at the wall when you're through.
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Doing better on the second try.
He sprawls after he's succeeded, flaunting dagger-long teeth with that first pull (and oh, it is ambrosial)....]
I wouldn't d—
[A beat.]
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'....throw it at the wall?'
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[He mimes the action, as if the issue might be that Astarion just doesn't understand. And oh, the other elf looks so comfortable like that . . . with a little grunt Fenris crawls over towards him, as impudent as a pup as he half leans over him, reaching towards his bed to grab some of the pillows and blankets piled there. He likes to sleep in a nesting heap of them, pillows and sheets and blankets all piled atop one another, both to ward off the chill and for sheer indulgent comfort.
Useful, now, when he seeks to make a little nest of their own: a few pillows to lean back against, a few blankets to put some softness between himself (and Astarion, as he nudges one or two over to the other elf) and the floor. And once he's resettled:]
Do not tell me you have never wanted to destroy your master's things. All the finery, delicate silks or pretty jewels or a well-carved staff . . . and how they would value such things so much higher than you or I. There's something spiteful to be found in destroying it.
I cannot give you your master's things. But I can lend you mine.
[A beat, and then, with all the consideration of an elven brat that grew up with bare feet and sticks to play with, adds:]
And it's fun.
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For just a moment. Just a single moment as he's reached over, when luxury hitting the back of his throat slams hot against his windpipe.
Not a miracle that he can choke again like any mortal thing, but that he might choke over this, his fingers laced like iron over the belly of that bottle, immobile till it passes, heart racing in his ears.]
Mm. [Vibration brings on clarity, and he shakes his head in turn before another sip (where widened eyes cast peripherally and lifted ears could still read as curiosity alone).]
I always wanted his things.
[But Fenris has it all inside these crumbling walls, and that last line elicits a smile. A huffing laugh.]
Destruction, though....
Fun in the moment, I'll give you that— and tempting— but astonishingly less fun in the inevitable clean up, I'd assume.
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[Dryly said, though that's not entirely fair. Give Fenris this: his little room, at least, is somewhat orderly. There's a rug and a working fireplace, a bed and a bookshelf filled . . . he does try to clean up after himself. It's the structural damage that he hasn't ever tried to repair.
But fine, fine, and he grins as he settles down, lying on his side and propping his head on one hand.]
Then tell me what you want, if you refuse to indulge in destruction. We have another bottle of wine . . . what would you have stolen from him if you could have?
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Quick, his next intake of breath, kissing the lip of that bottle.]
His power.
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His power, though . . . Fenris cocks his head.]
I will not say I do not know the feeling. Though I think, if you had asked me when I was younger, I would have said his wealth.
[There's no judgement in his gaze nor his voice. He watches the flicker of firelight slowly grow over Astarion's face, casting him in ever-shifting reds and yellows that highlight the glimmer of his skin and the shadows around his eyes.]
What aspect of his power?
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