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[illithidnapped]

Mm. He was a little blind. [Astarion smirks, still submerged in deep affection, betraying the coarse quiver rolling up his spine. The prickling across his skin that feels both electric and numb all at once, and craves that fading phantom of a kiss— that faint humidity that he only need lean forward just to chase, and—

Dalyria snuffles against his shoulder, jerking his head back in her direction for a moment. First there, then a careful glance around the room to look for Violet or Aurelia (both bickering with Leon about something in the crowd, their bodies angled away), thankfully distracted. It isn't that he wouldn't let them unearth the truth if it came to it, it's that he doesn't actually trust more than half of them to keep their mouths shut the second they grew furious with one another, or were bribed, or drank too much, or—

He squeezes Fenris' fingers in his own, strong knuckles biting back against soft skin. Another slanting smile, levered upwards on one side around a flash of white teeth.]

It took him longer to figure out which one of them had the bigger cock.

[doggish]

[Thank the Maker for Dalyria, for she serves as potent reminder of just why they can't indulge as they'd like just yet. Somewhere in the distance Petras is strutting about, pleased beyond reason that they're all out for his birthday; somewhere not-so-distant Yousen likely lurks, taking in all the details of his companions as he always does.]

How many times must I tell you? It isn't in how big it is, but whether or not the brat in question knew how to use it. And he flashed it enough that first night that at least one of them was aware.

[And Astarion does know how to use it, so before he can point that out, Fenris smoothly adds:]

But you're overdue for a break, I think. When was the last time you drank anything save liquor? Come. I will accompany you— and to the bathroom, if you need it.

[Excessively cautious, perhaps, but no one can blame a bodyguard for wanting to protect his charge— especially in such a crime-ridden city as Baldur's Gate. And even if they could, gods, Fenris doesn't care anymore. If he cannot get Astarion properly alone for another few hours, they can at least have time enough to whisper those words properly somewhere. I love you, he thinks again, and dares to pry his fingers away just long enough to brush his knuckles against Astarion's cheek.]

And you can tell me more of all the nuances you picked up during that play. All the moments you wished to share with me . . . I would hear of them all.

[illithidnapped]

[It's a good thing the bass is so loud. That the area they occupy is so secluded and the club around them so alive with an electric sense of gravity. They aren't subtle creatures, after all. Never mind that coy words and stolen glances and passing contact is the sort of thing that bars like this are known for— anyone not drunk or high enough to see stars would clock it in an instant as more of the usual fare— but for now they're lucky: Dalyria dozes drearily in the lap (then loungechair) that she lays on; the others still bickering in their corner facing off the other way. Maybe Yousen sees them. Maybe Leon. Then again maybe not. It's late enough those things don't matter much when you're a tipsy, spoiled brat used to fucking all the help. One more instance in a long line of them.

And yet nothing could be further from the truth.

He's never said I love you to another soul. Not the way he whispers it in Fenris' ear the second the door locks tight behind them. Never thrown his heart into the measure of his drink-numb hands as they trace the borders of his lover's jaw, aching and clinging and hungry. Each kiss more savage than the last, defined by teeth and tongue and the docile neediness of a desperate pup. Young, but even if he wasn't it wouldn't change the fact that this is the only time he's felt this way.]

I love you, Fenris. [He mutters, his lips both chapped and flush at the same time. Sweat stinging at the corners of them, but it's sweet across his tongue. Still tastes like the bourbon cherry he had a half an hour ago, and smells like Fenris' usual scent.

If he could drown himself in it, he would. Bottle it up and drench his clothing in it, so that even when they weren't together, he'd still have him near.] I love you.

[Three words. That's all he musters up for depth of commentary. Over and over again, devoid of eloquence, he can't stop saying it in place of something grander. More dramatic. Sweepingly romantic, like the poet Astarion always fancied himself before. I love you, I love you, I love you— short-form, now. Blunt as a slam recital, and the sort he'd be booed off stage for chanting.

Only in the break from all that contact does a different thought rattle loose, abrupt in referencing Fenris' earlier excuse for coming here (and earnest; oh gods, he's so so drunk):]

....I didn't bring any water.

[doggish]

[I love you, and it doesn't matter how many times Astarion repeats it, for it won't ever be enough. Every breathless intonation rings in his ears as he commits them to memory; each one suffuses through his body and wends its way into his soul, caressing scars so deep and ancient he'd long since forgotten they were there. I love you, and he echoes it each time, his voice rough and his lips slick as he frantically return every desperate kiss. He grips lithe hips with hands that tremble, yanking Astarion in close (there's no space between them and still he pulls him in close, hips knocking and thighs sliding between one another, determined not to leave a single inch between them).]

I love you. I love you— I love you, perfect thing—

[Because he's the only person in three centuries who's ever given a damn. He's the only one, the only one who's ever looked at Fenris as a person instead of a weapon. Because he whispers those words and hands Fenris a blade aimed straight at his heart, trusting that he won't hurt him— use him— act like a savage beast or every opportunistic tutor that had come before. I love you, and the words feel so good to whisper that it hurts, a clawing desperation in his heart and his throat, insisting with every fierce kiss and hungry touch that it isn't enough— that it'll never be enough— fingers knotting in his shirt just to slip beneath it, tongues tangling only to draw back to whisper it again—

Until there's the barest pause, and with chest heaving, Astarion whimpers that out.]

My poor amatus.

[Crooned out teasingly, though the firm grip he keeps on Astarion's hips ensures he won't fall. Darling thing. Adorable, drunken, besotted thing, and Fenris loves him all the more for how messy he looks as he draws back. Mouth reddened and curls in his eyes, all of him so wonderfully disheveled.

Mine, he thinks, the thought gentle. Mine, not to possess or claim, but to keep close and protect. My heart. My love.]

No one will notice, I promise you, and I will find you some when we emerge. [For he will need water, especially if he doesn't want to throw up by the end of the night. But perhaps not just yet, he thinks, and idly flicks his thumbs over the jut of his hips.]

But I refuse to stop telling you just how much I love you— not until I know you'll remember it even tomorrow morning, when all the rest of tonight seems a blur.

[A playful little nudge of his nose against Astarion's own, knocking against him in a blatant bid for attention. Then, with far more sincerity:]

I love you. And I will tell you tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that . . . so long as you do the same.