[Astarion's hand is so soft compared to his own. Not in actuality any smaller or more delicate than Fenris' own, and yet the mind plays tricks on perception, for as he runs a calloused thumb idly over the back of his hand, Fenris marvels at it. Soft and cold, for his fingers are like ice as they thread through Fenris' own.
He draws their joined hands up, his other settling on the jut of one sharp hip. He takes the leading position by default; there's a certain mechanical way he settles himself, stiff and yet not unyielding. He knows how to dance. He even knows how to formally dance, albeit in a somewhat old-fashioned style. But knowing and practicing are two different things; right now, Fenris moves like a man mentally checking off boxes, making sure all his bits are in place, so unlike the way he fluidly slides into battle positions.
One hand here. Weight evenly distributed and leaned forward into the balls of his feet (pinching in the hated shoes). He steps a little closer to his partner, bridging the gap between them until there's only the barest sliver of space. And then—]
Follow my lead.
[It's such a simple little waltz. Most of the Orlesians around them are addicted to complexity: drawing apart and walking forward with only their fingers linked, or thread through one another, trading partners in a complicated weave. But there are others, much like the two of them, who make do with nothing more than a steady set of motions, steady and pleasingly simple.
That isn't what sets everyone's tongue wagging.
'Are they actually—'
'Do you think their Altus knows?'
'Are they even allowed to do that?'
Whispers whip through the room in a swift susurrus, soft giggles and uncertain grins echoing each one. Is it a joke? A game whose purpose they haven't yet deduced? More than once couriers glance up at the Marquis, trying to gauge his reaction, only to find him utterly preoccupied with speaking animatedly to his mistress. And no one is saying anything . . . perhaps it is a joke. Perhaps this is some sort of backwards ball, or a play on nobility.
And Fenris doesn't care. The whispers drift to his ears, and he's more than aware of how many people are staring at them, but somehow, it all comes at a distance. He'll chalk it up later to focusing on not stepping on Astarion's feet, and indeed, that's a concern— but truly, it's that he can't take his eyes away from Astarion. He can't stop noticing the softness of his hand or the span of his hip beneath Fenris' palm. He searches for scarlet eyes behind a golden mask and smiles when he sees them glittering in amusement; he dares to add an extra turn and grins when Astarion effortlessly keeps up.]
Stay close, lest they swoop in and attempt to steal you from me in a spirited effort to get you to join in some inane group dance.
no subject
[Astarion's hand is so soft compared to his own. Not in actuality any smaller or more delicate than Fenris' own, and yet the mind plays tricks on perception, for as he runs a calloused thumb idly over the back of his hand, Fenris marvels at it. Soft and cold, for his fingers are like ice as they thread through Fenris' own.
He draws their joined hands up, his other settling on the jut of one sharp hip. He takes the leading position by default; there's a certain mechanical way he settles himself, stiff and yet not unyielding. He knows how to dance. He even knows how to formally dance, albeit in a somewhat old-fashioned style. But knowing and practicing are two different things; right now, Fenris moves like a man mentally checking off boxes, making sure all his bits are in place, so unlike the way he fluidly slides into battle positions.
One hand here. Weight evenly distributed and leaned forward into the balls of his feet (pinching in the hated shoes). He steps a little closer to his partner, bridging the gap between them until there's only the barest sliver of space. And then—]
Follow my lead.
[It's such a simple little waltz. Most of the Orlesians around them are addicted to complexity: drawing apart and walking forward with only their fingers linked, or thread through one another, trading partners in a complicated weave. But there are others, much like the two of them, who make do with nothing more than a steady set of motions, steady and pleasingly simple.
That isn't what sets everyone's tongue wagging.
'Are they actually—'
'Do you think their Altus knows?'
'Are they even allowed to do that?'
Whispers whip through the room in a swift susurrus, soft giggles and uncertain grins echoing each one. Is it a joke? A game whose purpose they haven't yet deduced? More than once couriers glance up at the Marquis, trying to gauge his reaction, only to find him utterly preoccupied with speaking animatedly to his mistress. And no one is saying anything . . . perhaps it is a joke. Perhaps this is some sort of backwards ball, or a play on nobility.
And Fenris doesn't care. The whispers drift to his ears, and he's more than aware of how many people are staring at them, but somehow, it all comes at a distance. He'll chalk it up later to focusing on not stepping on Astarion's feet, and indeed, that's a concern— but truly, it's that he can't take his eyes away from Astarion. He can't stop noticing the softness of his hand or the span of his hip beneath Fenris' palm. He searches for scarlet eyes behind a golden mask and smiles when he sees them glittering in amusement; he dares to add an extra turn and grins when Astarion effortlessly keeps up.]
Stay close, lest they swoop in and attempt to steal you from me in a spirited effort to get you to join in some inane group dance.