illithidnapped | INBOX II

[Does he trust Fenris not to make a fool of himself in front of a court that'd spurn them both for the sake of a fine challenge?

Yes. Yes he does— and that goes beyond the fawning trust fostered from the awe long set in on arrival's heels: Cazador's court would be in ruins for the lightness in each step or every deliberate twist his body makes, as if he's come to know even his own musculature (let alone his veins, his blood— his weightless sense of balance) the way an artist hones his tools. Neither the work nor canvas, but the means, masterfully wielded.

He'll be fine.

So: cut his foot along the inside line, knee to inner knee. So: a tightening of his right thumb when it sinks into the channel of Fenris' palm, taking lead. So: square up with his left against the small of one muscular back (and try, try to remember how to breathe) as he smiles past his canines in warning. This is the moment before they play. Before they test just how well Fenris can keep up. Best be ready.]

I think I should warn you....

[The next song doesn't leap in so much as it flows. Smoother than a river, yet give credit to the acoustics that he can hear himself speak over the pleasant din. (Rivaini? Antivan? Closer to a tango than a waltz.) Its tempo drives him forwards; quickens his steps; straightens his spine and rounds his neck so that when he stops to spin them both into a dip, he can whisper to the patterns in silver metal:]

....I am much better at dancing than I am fighting.

[Amongst other things, unimportant to this sparring.]

[Fenris gasps.

One short, swift inhale that he won't ever admit to anyone, Astarion least of all. It's there and gone, evidence for it only living on in the way he's breathless as he's bent backwards: held by hands that don't waver and whispered to with a voice that overwhelms in the most alluring way. His heart thunders as heat floods his cheeks, and he doesn't know why, save perhaps that no one has ever done this before.

But there's no time for reflection. In the next instant they rise up out of the dip and move: Astarion driving them forward and Fenris walking back, his eyes gleaming as he remembers how this goes. It's all about letting go, in fighting or fucking or dancing: how to stop worrying about how you don't know what to do and simply let yourself do it, trusting in your own instincts to be your guide. Don't glance down at your feet, for they don't know any better than you what's happening next; instead, watch his eyes. He grips Astarion's hand and feels the tension there, guiding him into turning left or right; he surrenders the urge to lead and instead focuses on following, grinning all the while.]

I see that.

[Muttered wryly as they twist, turn— dip again, Fenris parting his thighs as Astarion leans in deep, their breath hot against one another's mouths. Like this, like this, and without realizing it he's shifted his own body, arching his back as his hips remember what it is to act separately from his torso.

They drift apart deliberately, hands still connected, and Fenris uses the momentum to add a twist, his feet moving in a complex pattern before he's drawn back close once more. Astarion's hand is warmer now, soft and yet with enough power in those wiry fingers to guide Fenris along as they draw back together.]

Is that the best you can do?

[More, show me more, as if they aren't electrified already— but now he feels as though he's in sync with Astarion. He knows the press of his body and the tension in his muscles; he knows how to anticipate, angle, move with him instead of against him, reading his body and relying on him to know just how to catch him when Fenris falls. Even their breathing feels as though it's in sync, ragged exhales and sharp inhales as they move together.]

Don't hold back.

You think I'm holding back?

[The syllables electrify themselves. Spark life at the corners of his mouth. Inspire him as so little else ever manages, weaving in and out between shared rapidfire steps. The little reverberations traveling upwards from the edges of his soles that bristle like perked whiskers, telling him just how close they are to clipping one another— to touching— through the rhythms of a song he doesn't know. Never heard before. (Sunlight on his skin; kind words; outstretched fingers that don't grab for him before he's ready.)

A song he wants to hear again and again and again before the lights go out.

There's a flourish. The flow of weight along his forearm when he yanks his grip backwards just to change direction and invoke the heady rise of excitement without warning. There's more— so much more— for combinations unexplored as his mind races like an animal in practiced pursuit of swifter prey, and the music builds to a crescendo—

'Leave.'

Is all the guard says to them in the meager silence of uncaught breath, once the music stops abruptly. A full dance floor, but he's there beside them like a damned iron post, clearly wearing someone else's (a noble or two or more, perhaps) ire: arms folded, mask colder than the ballroom's overarching sentiment.]

—I really thought we were going to be jailed for that. [Astarion laughs dryly, quenching it with a slow pull from (one last) stolen bottle, invisibly plucked up on his way out regardless of the eyes that watched to make certain they took their leave. Two unmonitored companions with no altus in sight? Tsk tsk. Like letting a greyhound have at the empress' table, apparently.

They won't be getting back in any time soon, but at least the gardens are cool and quiet, and feel pleasant against the sweat-kissed gaps between lacelined clothes.]

Do they send assassins after slaves here?

As if a slave was ever worth something so important.

[Drawled rather than growled, a testament to his lingering good mood. He sits sprawled on the ground, his back resting against the bench and Astarion's leg not an inch away. It's a childish pose and he doesn't care, not when he's tipsy bordering on drunk and still so exhilarated about tonight.]

No, they would hire common thugs, if anything, and half the time they wouldn't even find the right slave.

[Everything feels warm and out of focus right now, pleasant in a way that Fenris hasn't felt in a long time. His head rolls to the side, his smile a little wide as he peers up at his companion.]

You still owe me a dance, though. We did not finish ours, and you never proved yourself to me. You cannot count that as a victory just yet.

Now give me that bottle. And tell me what that dance was, anyway, for it was nothing like anything I have seen before.

[Astarion twists himself to look down, one leg dangling over the side of the bench closest to Fenris, only slightly in the way when he passes the bottle back on demand.]

Seriously?

That wasn't enough to impress you? [Tch.] Such a demanding young lad.

[There's such a resounding click when the bottle leaves his grip— deliberate— jewelry caught against its twin.]

....or maybe you just couldn't get enough? The tango is quite addictive.

[An amused scoff slips past his lips for young lad, for he still hasn't had time to think about the reality of their age difference. But he must be young to someone two centuries old, he thinks muzzily as he stares up at Astarion. He must seem little more than a child. And what is it like, to age so much? Do they grow wiser with every decade, or does it plateau after a certain point? Does an elf with five centuries upon him scoff at the folly of someone who's only a hundred? It's equal parts baffling and amusing, and his thoughts linger there for a time . . .

Until he realizes he's been simply staring up dazedly at Astarion, his gaze unfocused. Ah . . .]

Tango . . .

[He rolls the word around in his mouth, pinning the word to deed. Then, as he grins around the bottle's mouth:]

Let me amend my words, then: I was impressed, for you are an excellent dancer . . .

[He really is, and he lets that linger in the air as he drinks a mouthful.]

. . . but that doesn't negate the fact we didn't finish. And that I would like to learn the rest of it someday— though somewhere where we won't be interrupted, I think.

[But perhaps not here and now. He adds curiously:]

Are all dances like that where you're from? So . . .

[He gestures vaguely with his hands, trying to indicate a general sense of heat and passion, not to mention closeness.]

. . . intense.

[A simple reiteration slides its way in as gloved fingers pull a gilded mask fully free, discarding it in lush grass off to one side (they won't need it now, will they? If he turns up here tomorrow it'll only bring about a swift kick in the ass— or as Fenris so aptly surmised: thugs— let alone a deeper inquiry as to who at all invited them, and he'd rather not bring suspicion down around the Duke's ears either for having spent the evening at his side, an inevitable consequence of investigation. No, he'll cash his check and find another way to ferret a few tidbits of information without being seen, or endure the consequences; Riftwatch can't even begin to compare with Cazador's admonishments, after all), white curls slightly damp from dancing and the blowback of his breath behind that mask, leaving them splayed wildly in all directions.

In sore need of combing down, which he does with his fingertips thereafter, exhaling.]

Keep flattering me and I might actually commit myself to teaching you. You weren't a terrible study, as it so happens. [Is a tease, and an admission, and it comes with a far more praising wink for good measure before he leans back.

Squints up at what few stars can be seen over city lights as they continue on.]

Hah! Goodness no.

Despite the way it is both well-known and perfectly acceptable as an art in higher hallways, you certainly won't catch the Duchal Grandmatron hiking her skirts with both hands at the start of every ball. [Spares one delighted half-snort of delight at the imagined thought.]

Most are either rowdy enough to warrant warnings depending on the establishment, or remain about as stuffy as your typical exchange back there. The usual step-pause-step-step-pauseeee~ [a bored half-sweep of his hand runs long] ~wait for your partner to imagine the whole of your lives together, the children you might rear, growing old together whilst battling the scars of the past through tearfelt romantic readings of old memories plucked from a notebook, something-something kissing in the rain- anddddd step.

Edited 2025-01-21 23:50 (UTC)

[He laughs at that descriptor. His cheeks are aching, he realizes. He can't remember the last time he smiled so much around someone— a real smile, too, not just a mean smirk or sardonic grimace. And as for laughing, Maker, he's rusty at it. The sound startles him even now, a full-throated laugh as he tosses his mask atop Astarion's, quietly gleeful at the wastefulness.]

Come, now.

[As truly chiding as Astarion's own words, his tongue thick and a little clumsy as he speaks.]

You can do better than that for a compliment. Or did I not keep up with your every step and move?

[His hand lifts, his wrist rolling with surprising flexability as he offers it.]

Must I prove myself again? Though you may not find me quite as nimble after so much wine.

[Spontaneous, the laughter he breaks into without thinking; angles his attention low across the bench towards the backs of pretty ears.]

If it means watching you dance again, I'll tell you you're the worst in Faerûn though it'd be a lie—

[Ah.

Ah, that's right. Silly to forget a thing like that when his own palm's aching like it's been stung, but....

His inhale's clipped. His smile thinned down to something sober where he isn't, and it makes it hard to keep up with what he feels before it up and speaks for him.]

You make it easy to think of better days I can't remember.

[Oh.

Something like astonishment crosses his expression as he turns to face Astarion, soft and light in a way that eases the years in his face. For just a moment he isn't the jaded and cynical elf that had crossed the border three days ago; instead, he's something less roughened. Doe-eyed and a little awed by this wondrous, impossible companion who speaks from the heart instead of the head.]

You make it easy to simply be.

[The words are soft, but genuinely meant. And though some part of him balks at such honesty, he doesn't take it back. The moons shine so bright tonight, making Astarion's hair look like starlight; his eyes glimmer in the darkness, twin rubies that Fenris wouldn't look away from for anything.]

And I think it is fair to say I have never met anyone like you before. Not in all my years.

Good. [Sounds more confident than it is— ] because if there was someone else, I'd certainly hate to have to kill the unlucky bastard just to secure my rightful place. [ —Less weak in the knees than he feels, and it's nothing to do with the hiss of spiced static between his ears from too much wine. Too much comfort. The moonlight's blinding at this angle, as is everything else, frankly, and at the fringe edge of that recognition as he leans on all his skills, is the realization that this kind of fondness could be fatal.

That he could make all the wrong choices for someone who looks at him the way that Fenris looks at him, speaks to him as Fenris speaks to him; all strange, enduring brilliance, and a pair of hands roughened by too-familiar scars. Worn down in all the right ways. Made stronger in ways he'd never dreamed of.

Gods help him, he's a fool, that Astarion.]

His mistress is pulling the strings, I think.

[The bottle fits into his hands when he takes it again; he's lost track of the back and forth.] That's what I owed you for your dancing, after all. My assessment. My 'best guess'— which might now be my only guess, considering our graceful exit from the court's envious gaze.

[Something was lost in those breathless seconds. Something that Leto can't quite name, but his heart mourns all the same. Wait, wait, and he doesn't know how to beg to go back, nor even what he would say if they could. He's breathless as Astarion's words weave around him, his mind caught in that endless undertow—

Before he moves on, for there's no other choice.

(Hours later, when Astarion is asleep, he'll allow himself to wonder about that moment. And years from now, curled up in the circle of his arms, his memories half-restored to him, he'll pity his younger self, and be grateful for the way it inexplicably still managed to work out).]

It's enough to satisfy Riftwatch, in any case.

[His voice is a little distant, his mind still caught on before.]

I suspect you're right, but even if you aren't, they will not ask for confirmation.

[It's funny: nothing has changed, and yet all at once, everything has. The air smells a little less sweet; the noises around them are a little too sharp, vulgar laughter and the endless drone of violins now offensive to his ears. His legs are restless, and without thinking he stands, his hands pushing into his pockets as he glances down at Astarion.]

Come on. We can finish the bottle in our rooms. But it will be a long journey back to Kirkwall tomorrow, and a lack of sleep will not help it.

INBOX II

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