INBOX II

[illithidnapped]

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[doggish]

[I'm unhappy to think that I might lose you.

An hour later, he still can't quite get over hearing the emotion said aloud.

He feels the same. Of course he does. There's no other explanation for the way he'd brightened upon realizing they would room together on this trip; there's no real reason he would have agreed to go to Antiva all those weeks ago if not for growing fondness. And yet it's one thing to know that passively, a spark building into a hearthfire in his chest.

It's another to acknowledge it.

You'll lose him, something sings shrilly in the back of his mind. Just like you lost Hawke and Isabela and Varric, you know how this goes, don't you? You'll give too much of your heart away. You'll grow too used to his company and let your defenses falter. You'll let yourself rely on his humor, his wit, his charm; stupid boy, you'll delude yourself into thinking it will never change, and then it will hurt all the more when he leaves.

And he will leave, because that's what people do. That's what friends are: people who mutually use one another until they get what they want, and then they go.

(And he knows that isn't true, but what his head knows and his heart weeps cannot always be differentiated).

And yet what is he to do? He can no more stop his adoration than he could the beating of his heart or the inhale of air into his lungs: it happens, whether or not he wants it to. And the thoughts keep churning around his head, over and over, a panicked response with no answer— so that he's almost grateful to be given a task to focus on.

Fenris does as he's told: tucking himself into the shadows of a pillar with a drink in hand. Dutifully he glances around the party, watching the guests as they move about. This part, at least, he knows how to do: it was not solely for appearance's sake that Danarius had him serve wine, and knowing how to listen for particularly juicy bits of gossip was yet another aspect of his training.

So: he hears that the Viscount Blacktree has embarrassed his lord father yet again by fretting over the ethics of hunting. He hears that the Lutece twins have hinted at yet another magical breakthrough, the third of the season— and that the rumors of their, ah, preferences towards one another's company have only grown worse. He hears that nobody has seen the Cousland daughter in ages, and no one can decide if she's died or run off with an elven servant.

And he knows without having to be told how little all of that adds up to, especially when it comes to their mission. So perhaps it's no surprise his eyes inevitably flit back towards the glimmering figure flitting his way cleverly through the crowd. Not tracking him, not as a jealous lover might, but merely . . . paying mind. Watching as heads turn and eyes widen, entranced by such beauty— and tensing up when he finally approaches a noble tucked away against a pillar, watching the proceedings without actively participating.

Fenris cannot hear what they say, not from this distance. But oh, he does notice when the man lays a hand on him. Gently, not groping, despite his station— for though it's a masquerade and the entire point is anonymity, there isn't a person in the Orlais who doesn't notice when a duke is in attendance.

Even when the duke in question would rather not be noticed.]