There’s a great deal that could be said. That had Fenris spoken up, he’d have gladly— well, all right, not gladly— taken the other bed, despite its less than sparkling state of affairs. Or, having been made a vampire spawn once more via transit through the Fade, albeit with a few remarkable caveats such as sunlight and garlic and stepping through open doorways, he could’ve simply not slept at all.
But what’s done is done, and what’s more it was done out of a place of good intent, which is...
Which is...
He’s trying not to be soft about this, mind you. Not to care, and not to make this into more than it needs to be, or turn Fenris’ own discomfort into an opportunity for warm, reassuring hand-holding or delicate promises that it’s all over.
Mostly because Astarion despises that when it’s done to him. He can’t imagine Fenris would be much different.
“The dresser next time— for sex, then. That way you can sleep as peacefully as you like without having to huddle up like a dog in the snow.”
Still, he pauses, his mind working over one last detail.
He thinks he’ll teach him new comforts. He doesn’t say it aloud right away, quietly tending to the underside of his nails where little rust colored flecks of blood remain from the night before.
“Seems like it’d be the opposite: all those sharp corners and hard edges— ” shoulders rising stiffly, arms going rigid as a momentary metaphor, sulking faintly in disagreement. “but fine. I won’t stop you.”
“...maybe just tempt you to forget it every now and then.”
"You need only ask, when we are alone," Fenris says, with an expression that holds no innocence for Astarion's sulking airs. "You have tempted me to another world. Is that not enough for your wiles?"
At that, his lips curl, the image of something sweet— gone devious somewhere in its faint undercurrent. Or maybe that’s just the red gleam in his eyes beneath dark lashes, making total innocuity a distant prospect.
“Why, my dearest love, I thought you’d noticed by now.”
That he draws the covers away is deliberate, that he leans closer towards the gap between beds just as much, only a narrow strip of sheet offering anything in the way of modesty— and only just.
He hates it when his advances don’t warrant an immediate, feverish response. Call it a pet peeve, if you will, and one that Fenris so often excels in, in ways that only make Astarion determined to try harder.
And that isn’t a euphemism.
But for now he’s routed again, confusion painted across his face in the shadow of his own pale curls. He makes a noise of acquiescence in the back of his throat, lips pulling into a line— before he turns to grab for his own fine clothing, long fingers feeling over the crimson lining of his doublet. This, at least, no one will notice, though it’s a shame to mangle it regardless: lifting it to his teeth and tearing silk into a long, lean strip.
“...are you injured?”
The boar, perhaps? Something this morning he’d overlooked? He can smell no blood in the air, but maybe it had already been cleaned.
He holds out the silk with little fanfare, hoping it’s seen as the sacrifice it truly is.
Fenris wordlessly, carefully ties the trinket around his right wrist, curving it into the metalwork of his gauntlet so it will stay primly in place. He studies it from differing angles, readjusts where needed, and goes back to eating.
"If we are as tied together as you imply, I would like it known I am yours."
And if Astarion has been flattering him for ego and easy sex-- that is fine. But now is an excellent time to say so.
He laughs because he can't believe it. Because it's so utterly sincere that for a moment his whole world seems to have been turned entirely on its head. Two hundred years of courting and cruelty and he'd almost forgotten anyone— anyone— could ever be this openly unfeigned.
...and then he realizes that might not've been the best instinctive response; that this truly isn't done in jest, and he feels more naked in his own expression than in sleep-wrought nudity, lips parting as he blinks, as if intending to say something that never makes it past his throat.
"Well I..."
An empty hand gesticulates somewhere just in front of his chest, just as useless as the rest of him, eyes set on the vivid swath of cloth as though transfixed. No, this is not some flight of fancy.
Not something shared in relief alone, or as pacifying comfort amidst displacement.
"I have nothing," Fenris says, rather frankly. He thought it was self evident. "Save you."
He can harbor the laughter-- there was no malice in it, he thinks. He can weather the empty flattery and jests Astarion trades in. That is who he is, and if Fenris cannot handle it, he has no right being where he is now, or where he was last night.
Someone must believe in Astarion, for he clearly only believes in himself out of dogged spite. Fenris is often that creature. It is good to have a companion, and this is just an indelible sign of it, a ward against doubt.
He shifts where he’s perched, sunken under the gravity of those words. Those fingertips, still hovering, sinking to press themselves somewhere across his heart. Not a conscious effort, just—
Maybe if this hadn’t happened now, he’d react differently. He still doesn’t quite know how to carry it, granted, wondering if Fenris knows just who he’s tied himself to with a length of silk and a pretty promise, but—
Stop start, every thought. Until he swallows, and shuts his eyes, and breathes out pointless air on habit. They’ll be fine. This is fine.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
They haven’t discussed their plans yet, beyond wanting a warm bed instead of a patch of dirt beneath them. In fact they haven’t discussed hardly anything of Faerun, which has Astarion wondering if it’s a matter of lack of caring on Fenris’ part: that the setting doesn’t matter to him.
Or if he just wants to go wherever Astarion treads.
“We should move on today. Try to get a little further north. I remember enough of this area to get us up to Dessarin Valley, not far. And not unpleasant either. You’ll like it there, I’m sure.”
"If you are there," Fenris adds. He wants to make his position clear-- he is here for Astarion, and him only. At first it had been... different, Fenris had wondered what life could be made in this new world. Now it doesn't matter. Astarion needs his aid, and he needs Astarion.
And Astarion, in this moment, seems to need some reassurance that sharp metal fingers cannot give.
Fenris finishes eating. "What is our goal? Ultimately. Or do you prefer to act the nomad?"
“Our goal is to be as far away from Baldur’s Gate as possible.”
There’s a sharpness to that immediate response that bleeds away a moment later as he reaches over to begin dressing himself. In comparison, the words that follow are pleasant. Cheerful.
Hopeful, even, if one feels like being optimistic about Astarion’s current mood.
“Besides that, Yartar is a lovely place, aside from the name. And I do mean that. It’s not some hole in the ground where people don’t know how to comb out their hair in the mornings— no, it’s bustling, wealthy, warm, and agriculturally speaking abundant enough that they hold a distinct political advantage.
A few weeks there, and I'm sure I’ll be clawing my way out of the gutter, so to speak. You won’t want for anything.”
He tugs once on an upturned sleeve, sucking on the edge of a sharp tooth before adding:
“And I won’t have you out there selling your sword to the nearest imbecile for coin.”
Fenris observes the sharpness of that, and now he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, where Astarion's tormentor lives. He does not make plans, but he notes this. It may, one day, come in handy.
Yet Fenris has never returned to Tevinter. He will not walk into a lion's den without ample time to plan. He can understand that.
"I suggest we do not stay there long," Fenris says, "if you think so highly of it."
Nonsense because he craves it, in a way: the memory of bustling streets, the scent of candlight overflowing in the evening— the idea of having something for himself rather than simply scraping up whatever meager, momentary bedding sets itself in their path as they move along. He doesn't relish the thought of accumulation without permanence. It's far too unpalatable.
His doublet is shrugged high across his shoulders, he sets his fingers to fastening buttons, snorting faintly in disagreement.
"The only people we need to be wary of will be looking for Astarion the vampire. Astarion, the wearied spawn that would burn up in daylight— that can't cross an open doorway without an invitation, or tolerate a little garlic. That, my dearest boy," Said as he pauses, holding up his palm to once again show off the lingering vibrant shard from Thedas. "Is exactly what's going to mean I fly right under everyone's noses, so long as I'm in northern territories."
"Are you prepared to defend this Yartar tooth and nail? Not the city, but your place in it? There will come a time your cover will fail."
He speaks from experience. Astarion doesn't need to know that, just as he doesn't need to know how little Fenris is capable of anything but sword-selling.
"The only thing that's going to fail is my patience if you keep acting so damned stubborn about this."
It's not even his world, how can he be so certain about anything, Astarion wonders, lip curling petulantly as he turns away to fix the last few ruffles around his collar in a nearby mirror, littered with dust.
Much like so many other well-kept perks, he still exists in glass.
"Have a little faith, won't you? I know what I'm doing."
"I fought Danarius off ten long years in Kirkwall, before I ever met you," Fenris says calmly. "I will be very surprised if something similar does not follow, but it may be so."
Fenris remains calm, a cool river made cooler by Astarion's disapproval. This is good. It means his advice is needed, that he is needed, and it is a calming thought indeed.
The downside of having a reflection, of course, is that it's fully visible: the mention of Danarius— a name Astarion had never forgotten, yet long ago set aside— prompts an unexpected, tangled stillness where he'd been otherwise content to pull and preen at fabric in soured defiance.
"That's different," he finally concludes, though the paper quality to his voice might betray the truth that his conviction is only willful deception. "We're different."
And then, with a light breath, he returns to his attentions: combing fingers across loose curls, forcing an easy smile into place.
"You'll see. There's limits to what he can do— and by that extension, I could argue I've more power than half his wretched family. Maybe even him, as long as the sun holds out." It prompts a loose chuckle, something breathy, pinned against the back of his teeth. Paper thin.
"I am different from you," is all Fenris says. It's not a closing argument. It just is. Fenris feels at ease, knowing his duty-- get them to Yartar, and make sure there is an emergency escape planned, without Astarion's help. If he wishes to be in denial, it is his choice. Fenris will not see him suffer for it.
Onto brighter matters: "I wonder what you would have me do, if not selling my strength?"
He takes to it instantly, turning with an optimistic look that's only just a little weathered at the seams, and fading fast at that— fingers fanned and raised high, practiced in their poise.
"Why, tend to my needs, of course. I do have so many."
A fine decision: whatever thready discontentment still left clinging to the air dissipates in the wake of that playful shift, as Astarion cuts a direct path towards his partner in exile, painted with false pity.
"Sadly, no."
Arms bracketing either side of him across the mattress, leaning forward to scuff his teeth across the base of Fenris' neck— just where the swoop of pale markings gives way to bare, unmarred skin.
Fenris hums, as if considering. "Tonight," he says, switching the subject with abruptness matching only how casually it comes from him, "you will drink from me again. Is that sufficient, or do you need me sooner?"
'Me' instead of 'my blood'. The distinction, in Fenris' mind, is important, and very blurred.
He’s too tired to play coy, too dislodged from pleasant dreams by earlier conversation. Instead he sighs across bare skin where it meets rigid collar, letting his own cheek tumble down to shoulder, defeated.
“I can just fetch a bite elsewhere. No need to go troubling you every time I turn peckish.”
He aims to dislodge himself as he says it. Disentangling with all the enthusiasm of a slug falling off a rock.
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There’s a great deal that could be said. That had Fenris spoken up, he’d have gladly— well, all right, not gladly— taken the other bed, despite its less than sparkling state of affairs. Or, having been made a vampire spawn once more via transit through the Fade, albeit with a few remarkable caveats such as sunlight and garlic and stepping through open doorways, he could’ve simply not slept at all.
But what’s done is done, and what’s more it was done out of a place of good intent, which is...
Which is...
He’s trying not to be soft about this, mind you. Not to care, and not to make this into more than it needs to be, or turn Fenris’ own discomfort into an opportunity for warm, reassuring hand-holding or delicate promises that it’s all over.
Mostly because Astarion despises that when it’s done to him. He can’t imagine Fenris would be much different.
“The dresser next time— for sex, then. That way you can sleep as peacefully as you like without having to huddle up like a dog in the snow.”
Still, he pauses, his mind working over one last detail.
“The armor, is that part of it too?”
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"I woke with no memory," he says, "and this was all I was bid to wear for years. It is a... comfort, now."
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“Seems like it’d be the opposite: all those sharp corners and hard edges— ” shoulders rising stiffly, arms going rigid as a momentary metaphor, sulking faintly in disagreement. “but fine. I won’t stop you.”
“...maybe just tempt you to forget it every now and then.”
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“Why, my dearest love, I thought you’d noticed by now.”
That he draws the covers away is deliberate, that he leans closer towards the gap between beds just as much, only a narrow strip of sheet offering anything in the way of modesty— and only just.
“Nothing is ever enough.”
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"Do you have any spare fabric? Something small of yours?"
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He hates it when his advances don’t warrant an immediate, feverish response. Call it a pet peeve, if you will, and one that Fenris so often excels in, in ways that only make Astarion determined to try harder.
And that isn’t a euphemism.
But for now he’s routed again, confusion painted across his face in the shadow of his own pale curls. He makes a noise of acquiescence in the back of his throat, lips pulling into a line— before he turns to grab for his own fine clothing, long fingers feeling over the crimson lining of his doublet. This, at least, no one will notice, though it’s a shame to mangle it regardless: lifting it to his teeth and tearing silk into a long, lean strip.
“...are you injured?”
The boar, perhaps? Something this morning he’d overlooked? He can smell no blood in the air, but maybe it had already been cleaned.
He holds out the silk with little fanfare, hoping it’s seen as the sacrifice it truly is.
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"If we are as tied together as you imply, I would like it known I am yours."
And if Astarion has been flattering him for ego and easy sex-- that is fine. But now is an excellent time to say so.
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...and then he realizes that might not've been the best instinctive response; that this truly isn't done in jest, and he feels more naked in his own expression than in sleep-wrought nudity, lips parting as he blinks, as if intending to say something that never makes it past his throat.
"Well I..."
An empty hand gesticulates somewhere just in front of his chest, just as useless as the rest of him, eyes set on the vivid swath of cloth as though transfixed. No, this is not some flight of fancy.
Not something shared in relief alone, or as pacifying comfort amidst displacement.
"I don't have anything of yours."
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He can harbor the laughter-- there was no malice in it, he thinks. He can weather the empty flattery and jests Astarion trades in. That is who he is, and if Fenris cannot handle it, he has no right being where he is now, or where he was last night.
Someone must believe in Astarion, for he clearly only believes in himself out of dogged spite. Fenris is often that creature. It is good to have a companion, and this is just an indelible sign of it, a ward against doubt.
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Maybe if this hadn’t happened now, he’d react differently. He still doesn’t quite know how to carry it, granted, wondering if Fenris knows just who he’s tied himself to with a length of silk and a pretty promise, but—
Stop start, every thought. Until he swallows, and shuts his eyes, and breathes out pointless air on habit. They’ll be fine. This is fine.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
They haven’t discussed their plans yet, beyond wanting a warm bed instead of a patch of dirt beneath them. In fact they haven’t discussed hardly anything of Faerun, which has Astarion wondering if it’s a matter of lack of caring on Fenris’ part: that the setting doesn’t matter to him.
Or if he just wants to go wherever Astarion treads.
“We should move on today. Try to get a little further north. I remember enough of this area to get us up to Dessarin Valley, not far. And not unpleasant either. You’ll like it there, I’m sure.”
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And Astarion, in this moment, seems to need some reassurance that sharp metal fingers cannot give.
Fenris finishes eating. "What is our goal? Ultimately. Or do you prefer to act the nomad?"
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There’s a sharpness to that immediate response that bleeds away a moment later as he reaches over to begin dressing himself. In comparison, the words that follow are pleasant. Cheerful.
Hopeful, even, if one feels like being optimistic about Astarion’s current mood.
“Besides that, Yartar is a lovely place, aside from the name. And I do mean that. It’s not some hole in the ground where people don’t know how to comb out their hair in the mornings— no, it’s bustling, wealthy, warm, and agriculturally speaking abundant enough that they hold a distinct political advantage.
A few weeks there, and I'm sure I’ll be clawing my way out of the gutter, so to speak. You won’t want for anything.”
He tugs once on an upturned sleeve, sucking on the edge of a sharp tooth before adding:
“And I won’t have you out there selling your sword to the nearest imbecile for coin.”
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Yet Fenris has never returned to Tevinter. He will not walk into a lion's den without ample time to plan. He can understand that.
"I suggest we do not stay there long," Fenris says, "if you think so highly of it."
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Nonsense because he craves it, in a way: the memory of bustling streets, the scent of candlight overflowing in the evening— the idea of having something for himself rather than simply scraping up whatever meager, momentary bedding sets itself in their path as they move along. He doesn't relish the thought of accumulation without permanence. It's far too unpalatable.
His doublet is shrugged high across his shoulders, he sets his fingers to fastening buttons, snorting faintly in disagreement.
"The only people we need to be wary of will be looking for Astarion the vampire. Astarion, the wearied spawn that would burn up in daylight— that can't cross an open doorway without an invitation, or tolerate a little garlic. That, my dearest boy," Said as he pauses, holding up his palm to once again show off the lingering vibrant shard from Thedas. "Is exactly what's going to mean I fly right under everyone's noses, so long as I'm in northern territories."
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He speaks from experience. Astarion doesn't need to know that, just as he doesn't need to know how little Fenris is capable of anything but sword-selling.
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It's not even his world, how can he be so certain about anything, Astarion wonders, lip curling petulantly as he turns away to fix the last few ruffles around his collar in a nearby mirror, littered with dust.
Much like so many other well-kept perks, he still exists in glass.
"Have a little faith, won't you? I know what I'm doing."
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Fenris remains calm, a cool river made cooler by Astarion's disapproval. This is good. It means his advice is needed, that he is needed, and it is a calming thought indeed.
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"That's different," he finally concludes, though the paper quality to his voice might betray the truth that his conviction is only willful deception. "We're different."
And then, with a light breath, he returns to his attentions: combing fingers across loose curls, forcing an easy smile into place.
"You'll see. There's limits to what he can do— and by that extension, I could argue I've more power than half his wretched family. Maybe even him, as long as the sun holds out." It prompts a loose chuckle, something breathy, pinned against the back of his teeth. Paper thin.
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Onto brighter matters: "I wonder what you would have me do, if not selling my strength?"
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"Why, tend to my needs, of course. I do have so many."
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"Does that pay well?" His tone is amused, as sweet as he is wont to get.
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"Sadly, no."
Arms bracketing either side of him across the mattress, leaning forward to scuff his teeth across the base of Fenris' neck— just where the swoop of pale markings gives way to bare, unmarred skin.
"But I hear the perks are to die for."
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'Me' instead of 'my blood'. The distinction, in Fenris' mind, is important, and very blurred.
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Oh never mind.”
He’s too tired to play coy, too dislodged from pleasant dreams by earlier conversation. Instead he sighs across bare skin where it meets rigid collar, letting his own cheek tumble down to shoulder, defeated.
“I can just fetch a bite elsewhere. No need to go troubling you every time I turn peckish.”
He aims to dislodge himself as he says it. Disentangling with all the enthusiasm of a slug falling off a rock.
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