Dexterity, adaptability, flexibility . . . fighting and dancing require many of the same skills.
[The scent of lilac fills his senses as his nose bumps against the edge of Astarion's mask. It's sweet and light, and a welcome contrast to the heavy perfumes the Orelesians tend to favor. He likes it, Fenris thinks, and wishes there was a way to say that without coming across as creepy. I like your scent; I like the way you feel as I hold you like this, small and warm and close; I like how fluidly we move together— there's so many sensations right now he can't tell Astarion about, for fear of it all being ruined.
I like how this feels, he thinks as they move together, right to right, left to left. I like having you near me, and he can't— won't— think about what that means. He won't connect his own relief that Astarion isn't squirreled away with some oafish count with the simple pleasure that pulses through him now. He won't even linger on the way his body is so aware of every place they touch: Astarion's fingers leaving ghostly echoes against the small of his back, and gods, he wouldn't mind if those hands drifted even further—
No.
Too dangerous, that line of thought. Too terrifying for a man still steeling for the inevitable loss.
Focus on the here and now. On the intimacy of whispering things to one another, and all the jealousies they spark by not sharing. On the joy of having Astarion (selfishly, possessively in a way he has no right to be), even in some small way, even if it's only for now.]
Indeed: there have been times when I have contemplated taking up ballet as a hobby. Then again: considering the demographic that usually populates those classes, perhaps not. There are few things less merciless to one's ego than children.
[Is he joking? There's no giveaway in the rumble of his voice, but this close, Astarion might be able to see the amusement glittering in his gaze.]
I could say the same to you, though. Are dances so similar where you're from, or are you simply good at adapting?
[Light, airy: better to say that than in your world.]
no subject
[The scent of lilac fills his senses as his nose bumps against the edge of Astarion's mask. It's sweet and light, and a welcome contrast to the heavy perfumes the Orelesians tend to favor. He likes it, Fenris thinks, and wishes there was a way to say that without coming across as creepy. I like your scent; I like the way you feel as I hold you like this, small and warm and close; I like how fluidly we move together— there's so many sensations right now he can't tell Astarion about, for fear of it all being ruined.
I like how this feels, he thinks as they move together, right to right, left to left. I like having you near me, and he can't— won't— think about what that means. He won't connect his own relief that Astarion isn't squirreled away with some oafish count with the simple pleasure that pulses through him now. He won't even linger on the way his body is so aware of every place they touch: Astarion's fingers leaving ghostly echoes against the small of his back, and gods, he wouldn't mind if those hands drifted even further—
No.
Too dangerous, that line of thought. Too terrifying for a man still steeling for the inevitable loss.
Focus on the here and now. On the intimacy of whispering things to one another, and all the jealousies they spark by not sharing. On the joy of having Astarion (selfishly, possessively in a way he has no right to be), even in some small way, even if it's only for now.]
Indeed: there have been times when I have contemplated taking up ballet as a hobby. Then again: considering the demographic that usually populates those classes, perhaps not. There are few things less merciless to one's ego than children.
[Is he joking? There's no giveaway in the rumble of his voice, but this close, Astarion might be able to see the amusement glittering in his gaze.]
I could say the same to you, though. Are dances so similar where you're from, or are you simply good at adapting?
[Light, airy: better to say that than in your world.]