[Astarion's grip on the bottle of sherry— tucked between his knees for support as he fiddles around with the cap— slips again a second time, condensation slicking the bottom of his hand like sweat, and making the paper label so brittle that it threatens to tear off completely via force. It's already pilling, and with a noise of disgust Astarion wipes it all off on the side of his trousers, little nose wrinkling in contempt.]
Ugh [comes out loud enough to cut through the noise of rehearsals in the background. Main stage, while they're here, tucked behind the bar on stools taller than either of them.] I hate the stupid magic iceboxes they keep these in. Everything just goes wet the second that it comes out.
[Which would be a problem if Astarion was tasked with unpacking the shipments early.
Astarion was not tasked with unpacking the shipments early.]
[But someone surely was, and who knows where that someone might be? It's the fifth time he's glanced around in about as many minutes, but Leto can't help it. A bit of mischief now and then he can tolerate, but stealing sherry? Stealing it and prying it open where anyone might catch them? Mm . . . Astarion's assured him that no one will care, but Leto isn't so sure. There's an awful lot you can do to get in trouble. Sometimes you don't even have to be doing anything. Sometimes standing is bad enough.
But this is not his home, and Mas— no, it's Zevlor, just Zevlor, but the thought of using his first name without a title makes Leto cringe— Master Zevlor has said before that it's fine. He hadn't looked particularly pleased about it, mind you, but still: he seems inclined to turn a blind eye to their antics.
(So far, some eternally wary part of him murmurs, but never mind that).]
You'd complain if it was warm. You did last time. Just don't drop it.
[Skeptically said, for he's half-sure Astarion is going to drop it anyway.]
What is it, anyway? Wine again?
[He had not liked the wine very much the last time they tried it— or, no, he had, right up until they'd ended up throwing up all night.]
Sherry— [Astarion puffs out, still swiping his hand against fabric. A few balled-up curls of soaked paper fall to the floor like tiny leaves from a tree in the process, gold around their edges— same as the bottle's signature scrawl.
Evidence, later. But not right now.
Right now, he can hear the rhythmic thudding of footwork against hollow wood (a low, shuddering sound not so different from a drum in play, only there's a percussive crispness to it), broken by the occasional correction from Zevlor or from one of the performers calling out. Today, Etudíe is furious at Brienne. That means there's more pauses than usual between sets, and when it happens, it comes coupled with a few arguments. Short ones, sure, but heated.
It works in Astarion and Fenris' favor.
And gives Astarion enough confidence to push his stare up and away from his battle, setting its attention on the other elf instead while he goes on.] —is what all the best people drink.
It's not the same as wine. [Declared with the unflinching confidence of someone who's never known nor asked what sherry actually is.
And this time there's a reason for it.]
Look. [He hefts his arm up behind him— the same one he'd been pawing with— grabbing a slim cocktail menu off the edge of the counter, almost twisting his shoulder around for how high up it is, but if it hurts he doesn't seem to mind; he's more focused on the end goal here:] See?
[He hasn't forgotten Fenris is still learning his letters, so he taps the ink with his index finger. Second row down from the top.]
They wouldn't write it separate if it was just regular wine. And it wouldn't cost twice as much either.
[Numbers are so much teasier than letters, and oh, that price is rather high, all things considering. Dark eyebrows raise as his eyes flick down, trying to compare it to the other prices, but ah: that's a bit too difficult.]
And you're certain no one will miss this?
[Said with all the dubious air of someone searching for the catch. Nothing ever comes for free, and surely there has to be a point where Zevlor's patience runs out.
On the other hand . . . it's not as if he's the one stealing it. He won't abandon Astarion if they get caught, but the ire certainly won't be wholly directed his way. And he's curious now, hesitance or not. It sounds exotic, or at the very least fancy, and when else will he ever be able to try it? Fenris grabs the edge of the bar and yanks himself forward, scooting boy and stool all at once so he can crowd in.]
Give it to me. You're pretty weak, you are not going to be able to get that cork off.
[Not an insult, or at least not really intended as one. Just the blunt utterances of a child. Above them, the song winds down. Zevlor's even tone rings through the air, offering indistinct corrections. Of course she missed the last shift, she's too busy sucking on Mallius' tongue all day, Etudíe drawls, and oh, there starts up the bickering again.]
Now what are they fighting about?
[He's getting better at learning names and faces, but that's a very different beast than understanding all the drama and details that come with each performer. Everyone's slept with someone, or has some grudge, or has a soft spot, or resents someone because they got a favored role . . . it seems exhausting to Fenris, in truth. But he likes hearing about it secondhand. Astarion is a good storyteller, and seems to have a knack for knowing all the dirty details. Being friends with him has been quite the education.]
[The look Astarion gives him is constricted by criticism at first: the urge to argue that he's not weak is only outstripped by the desire to see Fenris actually open the bottle he's well over fiddling with— huffing out a scoff of disagreement as he pries the bottle out of his own lap and foists it into Fenris' arms instead.
And with his hands now free, he gives himself one last dusting before setting his chin in his hands on the bar, menu steepled right beside him.]
Mallius. [Is the only definitive answer to all prior lines of questioning. His chasing grin proves it's not the end of it, either.] Brienne and Etudíe both like him because he's the only dancer that gives good cock, and they both think he should want them— and it's worse because Etudíe 'stole' one of Brienne's clients two months ago, only we all know she was just camping outside Brienne's room so she could catch him and convince him to try her instead.
[He doesn't know that— it's just the exact same gossip regurgitated the exact same way he heard Laira say it whilst wiping down the bar, and like anything a child hears, it stuck.
His eyes are on the cork; he doesn't quite know why, but he likes watching Fenris' hands work.]
Buuut I overheard Mallius saying that he was only sticking around until this next show run ends so he can meet up with boyfriend in Bah-li.
[Bali, actually. But points for trying, Astarion.]
[From Laira to Astarion to Fenris: what was once rumor becomes ingrained fact, easily accepted in a baffling sort of way. He barely knows what giving good cock means, beyond a vague understanding that it's to do with fucking, but what does it matter? He nods in agreement because he likes hearing Astarion talk, and the education he gets in carnal matters is a bonus.
As for where Bah-li is: Fenris shrugs one skinny shoulder, eyes narrowed in concentration as he focuses on the bottle. One of the other servants had taught him this: the trick isn't to yank it out all at once, but wiggle it free slowly and methodically . . .
Though one bit of gossip slips through the cracks in his concentration, and he glances up.]
He's the only dancer who— who does that?
[His tongue falters at the last minute, but no matter. It isn't that he's shy, exactly, but he doesn't have the same casual confidence Astarion does when it comes to uttering such phrases.]
In the whole company? That seems . . .
[Ill-advised, he would say if he was grown. Instead, his nose wrinkled:]
Stupid. Shouldn't everyone know how to do that?
[After all: how hard can it possibly be? And he has other thoughts on that, but—
Pop! goes the cork, and Fenris glances down in mingled surprise and pleasure at the opened bottle of sherry. He grin at Astarion, proud and pleased to succeed in front of him, and flips the cork over to him before sniffing experimentally at the bottle.
It's . . . alcoholic, mostly, and he fights the urge to wrinkle his nose in instinctive distaste.]
It smells like almonds . . .
[Whether that's a good thing or a bad thing remains to be seen.]
Do we just drink it?
[There was a whole lesson last week on how to decant wine, which he only vaguely remembers.]
It smells expensive. [Is really the point. They're a real pair of merchant princes now— or just as good as them— as Astarion makes a show of sniffing that cork first, then crawls down from his seat to fish up two crystal glasses from the underside of the bar and slide them both over to Fenris for pouring.
That's his job.]
He's the only dancer who they like, so i guess he's the only one that's good at it.
It's like being a diamond: everyone wants to be, but not everyone is. Besides, he's not a courtesan, only a dancer, so that has to make it extra special or something.
[He considers this as he grasps the bottle in two hands and begins to pour. There's a little frown on his face as he focuses on pouring slowly enough so it doesn't spill. Except that's too slow, a trickle rather than a steady pour, and so he nudges the bottle higher— except then that's too fast, a surge of sherry suddenly filling the glass all at once, and that's too much even when he rushes to fill the second glass—
And look: it could be worse. In the end, there's a sticky puddle of sherry on the bartop, but no more than a thimbleful, if that. And it's not as if it's gone totally to waste: Fenris drags his fingers against the counter, gathering up the liquid and popping it into his mouth.
It tastes . . . he wrinkles his nose, his mouth working once or twice, but that's no way to try it.]
What makes for a diamond, anyway? Being very good at, [and there's only the slightest hesitation now,] giving cock?
[His mother would box his ears for speaking so crudely, but she isn't here now, is she? He picks up one slick glass, waiting for Astarion to do the same. Together or not at all.]
A diamond always gives good cock, and conversation, and p— [What would've been the word performances is turned into a scattered cough as Astarion's attempt to sip his sherry with sophistication turns instead into him inhaling its drier vapors. Condensation, too, and it's a good thing the music's started up again because he has to slap his hand against his chest to clear his throat and lungs. Throat burning when he delivers his assessment of:]
[He laughs, which is a little mean, but he doesn't mean it that way. It's just that Astarion sounds so much like an indignant pup, sputtering and gagging all over the place; it's just that he looks precious like that, and there's something to be said for seeing your friend so undignified.]
You barely even drank it! You just got a few drops, that doesn't count.
[And then, with a goading little grin:]
Go on. Try it properly. Don't back out now. You aren't a coward, are you?
[It doesn't matter what Fenris is doing. It doesn't matter that it's nigh on six in the morning, or that the cock four streets over's already crowed four times now, making it well and truly past their limit for both bedtime and anxious fretting.
Like a snake slithering through underbrush, Astarion slips under his covers the way he's done a thousand times before, starting from those first few nights when Fenris couldn't bear to sleep alone and— though Zevlor swears it was a dream— Astarion still stays certain he saw the frail little wisp of a stray elf weep until he did this, forging the bond that first made them inseparable.
Even now.]
Hey. [He starts, whispering as he tents the blankets with one palm, trying to let his eyes adjust within the dark.]
Fenris.
[He doesn't dare risk waking either Kanan or Zevlor. Not after the volatility of today. (Little does he know they're both far from sleep, discussing them in turn.)]
It doesn't matter what they're feeling (that first night full of agonizing despair, his sobs smothered safely in his pillow, for the thought of being overheard was too terrifying— up until he was. Up until a little voice whispered in the darkness, and when he'd desperately tried to cover it up, there was only a cool palm gently pushing him back down on the bed. It's okay, and time has erased the specific words, but the feeling will remain eternal. It's okay, you can cry, I won't tell). It doesn't matter what fights went on during the day, who said what or what the other swore. It doesn't matter if Zevlor is furious or Kanan is upset or if one of them threw a temper tantrum, because this is what they do.]
Yeah.
[His tone is flat as he stares owlishly in the dark at his counterpart. This is what they do, yes, and he shifts enough to make more room for Astarion, but that doesn't mean he has to make it easy. His mouth draws up tight, his shoulders hunching defensively— oh, he's up all right, for he's spent the whole night alternating between frustrated anger and agonized upset, tossing and turning until he'd outright given up on sleep.]
[But that's no more than the tepid grumbling of a packmate, sullen but not seething. And just to prove it, he reaches out, snagging his fingers lightly in the fabric of Astarion's sleepshirt. Stay.]
I was waiting.
[I knew you'd still come, even now, and the predictability is comforting.]
[He was a lot of things before he crawled under these covers. Guilty. Anxious. Hurt. Sad.
Still unbearably jealous.
But even that's not enough to keep him away for long. The reason why he'd come here is the same reason that finds him by way of those intertangled fingers wrapping tighter than they ever did before. And whatever the case for Fenris might be, for Astarion, it's the antagonistically powerful pull of bone-deep longing like a gravity well. A sense of suffused belonging he doesn't feel when they're apart, and the gap it carves out has him stuck in it up to his neck at the very least, unable to move or pull himself away. Unable to mind it, either.
It cuts the sharpness of his frown. Releases a handful of visibly pinched wrinkles on his brows even in the dark.]
Yeah.
[He mutters to the shape of Fenris' balled-up fist.]
....I was too.
[Were they both just playing one big metaphorical game of chicken with each other from across the Moulin Rouge?]
After what happened earlier, I didn't want to wake Zev and Kanan up.
[They'd be grounded till the second coming of Andraste.]
Did he talk to you....? [Is a good excuse to curl up with his toes tucked in underneath him where he sits.]
Edited (dw that wasn't the icon i chose) 2025-07-16 18:14 (UTC)
[He grunts a small, fervent agreement to the idea of avoiding waking either of their guardians up. Zevlor wasn't nearly as stern as he could have been, to be fair, but still: he'd rather not go through another round of lectures and well-meaning (if not somewhat dubiously taken) advice.]
Yeah.
[Astarion curls up and Fenris sits up just a little, rising up on one elbow to meet his counterpart halfway. They're like two pups warily circling one another, ears flat and heads cocked; not friendly, not by a long shot, but not angling to fight either.]
He . . .
[Mm . . . but how much does he want to reveal to Astarion? It's not a secret, not the way Elise was, and it's not like when they were younger, and he'd sometimes hide some bit of praise just to avoid a fight with Astarion. Instead, it's . . . it's private is the word that he eventually settles on. Private because he's still turning over the words in his mind, weighing them out against his own sense of duty and bouts of anger.
But there's some things he can share. Like:]
He said I— we— delayed the play again.
[It's so minor in the scheme of things, but let them work their way backwards to the fight. Fenris' thumb smooths against soft fabric, some tiny part of him unwilling to let go just yet.]
And . . .
[Mmph.]
I . . .
[Oh, say it. Thank the Maker for a dark room, though, for even to elvish eyes the sudden heat in his cheeks and ears is barely visible.]
I should not have bitten you. Or fought you at all.
[It's not as if things have changed much since they were younger, if that's the metric gone by. The only reason they fought boils down to him finding out about Elise, which means that if he never knew, they never would've fought at all— case open, case shut. Astarion would've asked his fragile question, they'd have agreed to sneak away, crawled up into the attic, and—
Fought.
Because Fenris couldn't have kissed Elise and said nothing. Because if Astarion didn't know and found out later, they'd have fought again anyway. Because as tempestuous as they can be on their worst days neither of them like keeping secrets from each other compared to anyone else— that's the game they play for mischief's sake, for fun, when the reality of living as adopted sons working on the back end of a brothel becomes about as draining as its own description sounds.
Maybe the only outcome Astarion wants to change is that Fenris kissed Elise at all, is the only real conclusion his heart comes to at the epicenter of what he's being told, what he's thinking, and what his constricted-to-the-point-of-being-painful heart is feeling, balled up tight as Fenris' grip and just as committed to its course. That the only reason he can't sort his own mess out is because it's the one thing he can't change, and all that's left around it is what Kanan told him. What Zevlor told Fenris. What he knows is true, and what Fenris' hold and the still-red spot on his neck (and the angry words) all have in common, inevitably driven home.]
It's fine.
[That it's not fair of him to be upset if he's supposed to kiss other people too.]
It's not like we burned the scripts or ruined the stage or anything. [He sounds less like the poised courtesans he tries to emulate when he swipes his free hand across the bridge of his nose, discreetly pushing aside a residual bit of tightness in his throat. A touch of damp humidity around his eyes.] Zevlor fusses about everything, don't let him freak you out or make you think the theater's about to close because they missed one practice session. That's not how it works.
[His glance is to the side. Lowered.]
Besides, I wanted to fight you. It's why I kicked you, after all.
[Well, Zevlor did make him freak out, actually. He did think the theater was about to close, because he's always half-convinced that everything around him is on the verge of slipping through his fingers without warning. And the only person who ever manages to counter that, so sturdy and solid and steady that he's been an eternal foundation upon which to build any kind of sense of self, wasn't there.
And Fenris still doesn't understand why. And then again he does, sort of, in a vague kind of way, but it's all so muddled in his mind. There's a part of him that's still angry, a gnawing sullenness in the pit of his stomach that won't go away no matter how hard he tries to ignore it. There's a part of him that hears the tightness in Astarion's voice and suddenly wants to tug him down, pressing their mouths together again and again until both their miseries are forgotten and the world outside ceases to exist. There's a part of him that wants to blurt out something like it was you I wanted to kiss, not her, and yet the words stick in his throat.]
And now what do you want?
[It's not a challenge, but a question, soft-throated and yet direct. From the open window, a warm breeze drifts in, a relief from the summer heat and yet not quite what either of them are craving. He still hasn't let go of Astarion's sleepshirt, though by all rights he's far too old and mature to cling. His green eyes are solemn, and there's so many questions layered beneath that one.]
What made you come here?
[Oh, he knows why. Of course he does. But he wants to hear it, when everything seems so fragile and there's a sudden drifting distance between them.]
[Is it a sudden drifting distance when the covers seem to bow in tight around them? When their voices— soft and small and full of everything— take so little effort to hear? What made him come here? (That the idea of being alone is more unbearable than the opposite. That there are places in the Moulin Rouge meant only for them according to the spaces they've carved out like rat's tunnels, right down to the way they're hunkered here now beneath bedsheets.) It feels better to feel the idle weight of Fenris' taut fingertips when he shifts (when he breathes) than the heaviness of their shape across the mattress instead. But he'd have come to that conclusion in due time. One or two fitful nights would've seen to that, alongside a resentful batch of tears no doubt. So then, why come here tonight?]
To apologize. [Be the bigger man is a lingering echo from Kanan's urging, but like everything, there's more to that beneath the surface.]
I shouldn't have called you names just because she kissed you.
[His eyes stay fixed over a shallow point across the mattress. A momentary flicker brings them back— turns them down.]
....or because things didn't go the way I wanted them to.
[It's never quite the thrilling rush he thinks it will be when Astarion apologizes. With others, there's always a sense of vicious vindication whenever they're the ones to apologize. That's right, you should be sorry, say it again, the urge born of too many formative years spent learning not to flinch beneath the lash. It's an ugly trait, and one both Kanan and Zevlor have tried to ease him out of (with varying rates of success). And you'd think, wouldn't you, that the feeling would only intensify with Astarion. Their fights are more personal, the emotions dig deeper, and Maker knows Astarion would rather get a tooth pulled than ever say I'm sorry— gods, it should be so utterly satisfying whenever he admits he was wrong.
But it's not. Fenris always walks away with a fractured heart newly mended: satisfying in the long-run, but so damned wearying in the short. He isn't happy Astarion admitted it, because he isn't happy about this fight in the first place. At best, there's a sense of that gnawing searing rage gently being put out, steam rising and hissing from the dampening embers: it wasn't my fault, you shouldn't have been so mean, you shouldn't have yelled at me, you shouldn't have ruined it—
But then it quiets, and he's left alone in the dark with the person he trusts and loves more than anyone in the entire world. Not such a subtle thing, not ever to him. Not such a clever little liar with a silver tongue, not when Fenris knows every tell, every giveaway. When he sees the way his mouth thins, his eyes flick away, and can extrapolate a thousand conclusions from that alone.
It makes his confusion about earlier so much starker. So often he knows Astarion blind; to have been clouded to his thoughts and intentions still feels so wrong. And maybe that's another reason he never lingers in vindication: because it feels so much better to stumble towards joyful reunion instead.]
You . . .
[No. He won't mess up this time. This moment is important, Fenris thinks. Just like that moment all those years ago when they'd struck their bargain, he can feel the heaviness in the air around them— but it's thicker now. The atmosphere around them is thick with all the things they aren't saying, and yet Fenris feels like a fish staring through glass: able to know his own rising anxiety and longing, able to see Astarion's hesitance and uncharacteristic withdrawal, and yet not able to confirm what he's feeling. Not able to attune to him the way he normally does.
I don't even like her, I didn't even like kissing her that much, you were better, and all those things are true, but he won't bring Elise into the room right now. It was never about her, anyway.
He sits up. Licks his lips (when had his mouth gone so dry?) and stares at Astarion, his eyes drifting along the delicate line of his jaw. The way his skin looks in the grey, pre-dawn light that's filled the room, all of him colored in muted tones, the line of his body just barely visible through the thin fabric of his sleepshirt. And he knows even know that he can only look because Astarion isn't staring at him.]
You shouldn't —don't call illiterate again, [he says instead, and means it, for all that it's a distraction. But they're best friends (or were, or are, or will always be). They've said worse to each other before, and he's sure they'll snarl again someday. It's just what they do.
But it's hard to say what he really wants to. His voice nearly shakes for the sudden surge of nervousness clawing up his throat. His teachers would scold him for it (a bodyguard isn't meant to be visible, he has no emotions, he does not interfere until he is needed). But he's not a bodyguard, not around Astarion. He's his rawest self, always, just as Astarion is never a courtesan. And surely that won't ever change. Surely the world will see them as they project themselves to be, but to one another . . . don't leave me, he thinks suddenly. Don't ever shut me out.
And yet it's too frightening to declare what he wants. He has a thought to sweep in and kiss him, but what might come easily for his adult self is far too hard for a teenager. Even releasing Astarion's sleepshirt and skimming two fingers up his forearm feels overwhelmingly daring in a way it has no right to be, not when it's the least little bit of contact.]
But . . . if you want, if, if you— if you want, you can—
[Of all the fucking times for his voice to break— oh, he goes red as he sharply clears his throat, hating his fucking vocal chords and his fucking voice and his fucking agonizing hell of a life all at once. Vishante kaffas, the curse a silent seething snarl, and shoves the rest of the words out of his mouth.]
You can try again.
[He overcompensates, his voice thick and gruff and indifferent to try mask for terror and abject, toe-curling, utterly awful humiliation.]
[He seizes him with both hands. Fingers to the flush run rampant in tanned cheeks, the outside world etched across his skin as surely as the lack thereof stains Astarion pale and pallid as the plaster posters he admires. There's no forethought this time— like Fenris, he can finally say that he's done this before— his mouth over his companion's, tangled up in the interconnected push and pull of hands and fingertips, elbows and knees and the fabric that they tangle in as he falls over him with all his weight. A scant drop in the bucket compared to how tall and athletic Fenris has become. How childishly, stupidly soft Astarion has stayed, not a callous on his knuckles.
I won't call you that again.
They're best friends. Sworn brothers by choice. They were before tonight, and they always will be. The next time they fight, it'll be something else maybe, but not that.
I'm sorry.
And there was nothing in need of compensating, not when Fenris was his in all those moments spent together. The shadow that he clung to whether they smelled like sherry and failed mischief, or whether it was huddled up together in this same bed after a storm, or whether— whether— (whether the beat of his heart felt like this through a half open shirt, muscle and sinew run rich beneath tight, twitching fingertips that grip less like they don't know where to place themselves, and more like all the want is to be)—
Close.
And he can try again. And he does. And it is full of everything that matters beyond all the bickering and strife; cultivated passion.]
[It feels like sunrise when he breaks away, flush again but for the right reasons. Not anger, not a will to hit each other or bite or hurl the kind of insults that should hurt. The way it should've been before, but wasn't, and though this won't undo what happened, it undoes the worst of the entangled knot within his heart— his hand having slipped just over Fenris' somewhere along the way, both of them clutching at his shirt.
It leaves them forehead to forehead. It leaves Fenris prettier than he's ever looked before, Astarion thinks to himself, lost within the gold-green catch of reflected light in stunning eyes.]
....how....[he starts again for what feels like the twentieth time in the last few days] ....how was it that time?
[They tumble back on the sheets, Astarion a gloriously warm weight above him, and all Fenris can think about in those first few moments is how small he feels in his arms. It's a spark of a thought among a thousand others, each of them giddy and excited and overwhelmed in turn, but still: small, he thinks, and when had that happened? Time was they could trade clothes easily, but somewhere along the way he's gotten broader, taller, stronger, able to hoist Astarion up and reposition him ever-so-slightly as their mouths meet. Come here, like this, his thighs properly straddling his hips, and oh! what a dizzying discovery: he can nearly fit his fingers around the span of a narrow waist, a fact he barely has time to consider (storing it away for fascinated, private contemplation at a later date).
One hand stays locked on his waist; the other fumbles blindly, eager to hold his hand again in any way he can manage, and all the while their mouths move. It's nothing like before, all terrified hyperawareness, no: his nerves are gone, his fear shoved by the wayside in favor of glorious, adoring hunger. More— more— more— every rhythmic push met with an eager pull, teeth clicking and tongues tangling in something that's so much more hunger and enthusiasm than poise. It's no kiss worth of the Moulin Rouge, not when it's so searingly hot and eagerly clumsy— and yet that makes it all the better. It means that he's never gotten his fill no matter how many times they kiss, the end of each one heralded by another eager attempt, once more, once more, air a forgotten necessity, until at last Astarion pulls away— and Fenris whines.
But falling back brings its own intimacy. He pants softly as he lies against the sheets, so close to Astarion that it's nearly another kind of kiss: his breath hot against the other boy's lips and their foreheads pressed together (and he nearly butts against him, the urge rising up in him like a forgotten instinct, but not yet). Pretty, he thinks in unwitting echo. So pretty, so perfectly wonderful when he's disheveled like this, hair askew and the collar of his sleepshirt tugged down just far enough to give a daring peek of one pale shoulder. No one else gets to see him like this, Fenris thinks. No one else ever gets to know Astarion like this— he's all Fenris' in this moment, and that's exactly how it should be, for no one ever gets to see Fenris like this either.
This is for them, only them, because that's what it's always come back to. Just them united against the world eternally and forever, no matter what form it takes. Playing in the rafters or whispering furiously under the sheets, and now this . . . and oh, what a sight Astarion makes. It's nothing he hasn't seen a thousand times before, and yet right now, everything feels like it's bathed in new light. In quiet fascination he winds two fingers around the one stubborn curl Astarion can never get to behave, and smiles in amusement when his ear twitches as he goes to tuck it back.]
I don't know.
[Coy. Breathlessly playful, his lips curling up into a little smile as he drinks in the sight of reddened lips. Then, glancing back up at his Astarion, he adds:]
Try it again and I'll tell you.
[But without waiting he darts up, stealing a kiss (clumsy, so clumsy, and someday he'll laugh at his own overslick efforts), then another, before gamely trying to catch Astarion's bottom lip between his teeth. It's a short nip, a little too tame and a little too overeager, before he falls back on the bed. Now he's grinning, for now, finally, he remembers how this goes between them. It's a new kind of game, one more thrilling and daring than they've ever played before, but there's always a rhythm to how they interact with one another.
Come get me. Come show me. Come play with me, as his heart thunders in his chest and electric sparks of thrill pulse through his veins.]
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
no subject
Ugh [comes out loud enough to cut through the noise of rehearsals in the background. Main stage, while they're here, tucked behind the bar on stools taller than either of them.] I hate the stupid magic iceboxes they keep these in. Everything just goes wet the second that it comes out.
[Which would be a problem if Astarion was tasked with unpacking the shipments early.
Astarion was not tasked with unpacking the shipments early.]
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But this is not his home, and Mas— no, it's Zevlor, just Zevlor, but the thought of using his first name without a title makes Leto cringe— Master Zevlor has said before that it's fine. He hadn't looked particularly pleased about it, mind you, but still: he seems inclined to turn a blind eye to their antics.
(So far, some eternally wary part of him murmurs, but never mind that).]
You'd complain if it was warm. You did last time. Just don't drop it.
[Skeptically said, for he's half-sure Astarion is going to drop it anyway.]
What is it, anyway? Wine again?
[He had not liked the wine very much the last time they tried it— or, no, he had, right up until they'd ended up throwing up all night.]
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Evidence, later. But not right now.
Right now, he can hear the rhythmic thudding of footwork against hollow wood (a low, shuddering sound not so different from a drum in play, only there's a percussive crispness to it), broken by the occasional correction from Zevlor or from one of the performers calling out. Today, Etudíe is furious at Brienne. That means there's more pauses than usual between sets, and when it happens, it comes coupled with a few arguments. Short ones, sure, but heated.
It works in Astarion and Fenris' favor.
And gives Astarion enough confidence to push his stare up and away from his battle, setting its attention on the other elf instead while he goes on.] —is what all the best people drink.
It's not the same as wine. [Declared with the unflinching confidence of someone who's never known nor asked what sherry actually is.
And this time there's a reason for it.]
Look. [He hefts his arm up behind him— the same one he'd been pawing with— grabbing a slim cocktail menu off the edge of the counter, almost twisting his shoulder around for how high up it is, but if it hurts he doesn't seem to mind; he's more focused on the end goal here:] See?
[He hasn't forgotten Fenris is still learning his letters, so he taps the ink with his index finger. Second row down from the top.]
They wouldn't write it separate if it was just regular wine. And it wouldn't cost twice as much either.
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And you're certain no one will miss this?
[Said with all the dubious air of someone searching for the catch. Nothing ever comes for free, and surely there has to be a point where Zevlor's patience runs out.
On the other hand . . . it's not as if he's the one stealing it. He won't abandon Astarion if they get caught, but the ire certainly won't be wholly directed his way. And he's curious now, hesitance or not. It sounds exotic, or at the very least fancy, and when else will he ever be able to try it? Fenris grabs the edge of the bar and yanks himself forward, scooting boy and stool all at once so he can crowd in.]
Give it to me. You're pretty weak, you are not going to be able to get that cork off.
[Not an insult, or at least not really intended as one. Just the blunt utterances of a child. Above them, the song winds down. Zevlor's even tone rings through the air, offering indistinct corrections. Of course she missed the last shift, she's too busy sucking on Mallius' tongue all day, Etudíe drawls, and oh, there starts up the bickering again.]
Now what are they fighting about?
[He's getting better at learning names and faces, but that's a very different beast than understanding all the drama and details that come with each performer. Everyone's slept with someone, or has some grudge, or has a soft spot, or resents someone because they got a favored role . . . it seems exhausting to Fenris, in truth. But he likes hearing about it secondhand. Astarion is a good storyteller, and seems to have a knack for knowing all the dirty details. Being friends with him has been quite the education.]
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And with his hands now free, he gives himself one last dusting before setting his chin in his hands on the bar, menu steepled right beside him.]
Mallius. [Is the only definitive answer to all prior lines of questioning. His chasing grin proves it's not the end of it, either.] Brienne and Etudíe both like him because he's the only dancer that gives good cock, and they both think he should want them— and it's worse because Etudíe 'stole' one of Brienne's clients two months ago, only we all know she was just camping outside Brienne's room so she could catch him and convince him to try her instead.
[He doesn't know that— it's just the exact same gossip regurgitated the exact same way he heard Laira say it whilst wiping down the bar, and like anything a child hears, it stuck.
His eyes are on the cork; he doesn't quite know why, but he likes watching Fenris' hands work.]
Buuut I overheard Mallius saying that he was only sticking around until this next show run ends so he can meet up with boyfriend in Bah-li.
[Bali, actually. But points for trying, Astarion.]
Wherever that is.
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As for where Bah-li is: Fenris shrugs one skinny shoulder, eyes narrowed in concentration as he focuses on the bottle. One of the other servants had taught him this: the trick isn't to yank it out all at once, but wiggle it free slowly and methodically . . .
Though one bit of gossip slips through the cracks in his concentration, and he glances up.]
He's the only dancer who— who does that?
[His tongue falters at the last minute, but no matter. It isn't that he's shy, exactly, but he doesn't have the same casual confidence Astarion does when it comes to uttering such phrases.]
In the whole company? That seems . . .
[Ill-advised, he would say if he was grown. Instead, his nose wrinkled:]
Stupid. Shouldn't everyone know how to do that?
[After all: how hard can it possibly be? And he has other thoughts on that, but—
Pop! goes the cork, and Fenris glances down in mingled surprise and pleasure at the opened bottle of sherry. He grin at Astarion, proud and pleased to succeed in front of him, and flips the cork over to him before sniffing experimentally at the bottle.
It's . . . alcoholic, mostly, and he fights the urge to wrinkle his nose in instinctive distaste.]
It smells like almonds . . .
[Whether that's a good thing or a bad thing remains to be seen.]
Do we just drink it?
[There was a whole lesson last week on how to decant wine, which he only vaguely remembers.]
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That's his job.]
He's the only dancer who they like, so i guess he's the only one that's good at it.
It's like being a diamond: everyone wants to be, but not everyone is. Besides, he's not a courtesan, only a dancer, so that has to make it extra special or something.
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[He considers this as he grasps the bottle in two hands and begins to pour. There's a little frown on his face as he focuses on pouring slowly enough so it doesn't spill. Except that's too slow, a trickle rather than a steady pour, and so he nudges the bottle higher— except then that's too fast, a surge of sherry suddenly filling the glass all at once, and that's too much even when he rushes to fill the second glass—
And look: it could be worse. In the end, there's a sticky puddle of sherry on the bartop, but no more than a thimbleful, if that. And it's not as if it's gone totally to waste: Fenris drags his fingers against the counter, gathering up the liquid and popping it into his mouth.
It tastes . . . he wrinkles his nose, his mouth working once or twice, but that's no way to try it.]
What makes for a diamond, anyway? Being very good at, [and there's only the slightest hesitation now,] giving cock?
[His mother would box his ears for speaking so crudely, but she isn't here now, is she? He picks up one slick glass, waiting for Astarion to do the same. Together or not at all.]
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A diamond always gives good cock, and conversation, and p— [What would've been the word performances is turned into a scattered cough as Astarion's attempt to sip his sherry with sophistication turns instead into him inhaling its drier vapors. Condensation, too, and it's a good thing the music's started up again because he has to slap his hand against his chest to clear his throat and lungs. Throat burning when he delivers his assessment of:]
Ugh!!
[It's not sweet at all.]
That's bloody awful.
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You barely even drank it! You just got a few drops, that doesn't count.
[And then, with a goading little grin:]
Go on. Try it properly. Don't back out now. You aren't a coward, are you?
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Like a snake slithering through underbrush, Astarion slips under his covers the way he's done a thousand times before, starting from those first few nights when Fenris couldn't bear to sleep alone and— though Zevlor swears it was a dream— Astarion still stays certain he saw the frail little wisp of a stray elf weep until he did this, forging the bond that first made them inseparable.
Even now.]
Hey. [He starts, whispering as he tents the blankets with one palm, trying to let his eyes adjust within the dark.]
Fenris.
[He doesn't dare risk waking either Kanan or Zevlor. Not after the volatility of today. (Little does he know they're both far from sleep, discussing them in turn.)]
Are you awake?
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It doesn't matter what they're feeling (that first night full of agonizing despair, his sobs smothered safely in his pillow, for the thought of being overheard was too terrifying— up until he was. Up until a little voice whispered in the darkness, and when he'd desperately tried to cover it up, there was only a cool palm gently pushing him back down on the bed. It's okay, and time has erased the specific words, but the feeling will remain eternal. It's okay, you can cry, I won't tell). It doesn't matter what fights went on during the day, who said what or what the other swore. It doesn't matter if Zevlor is furious or Kanan is upset or if one of them threw a temper tantrum, because this is what they do.]
Yeah.
[His tone is flat as he stares owlishly in the dark at his counterpart. This is what they do, yes, and he shifts enough to make more room for Astarion, but that doesn't mean he has to make it easy. His mouth draws up tight, his shoulders hunching defensively— oh, he's up all right, for he's spent the whole night alternating between frustrated anger and agonized upset, tossing and turning until he'd outright given up on sleep.]
Are you gonna kick me again?
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I was waiting.
[I knew you'd still come, even now, and the predictability is comforting.]
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Still unbearably jealous.
But even that's not enough to keep him away for long. The reason why he'd come here is the same reason that finds him by way of those intertangled fingers wrapping tighter than they ever did before. And whatever the case for Fenris might be, for Astarion, it's the antagonistically powerful pull of bone-deep longing like a gravity well. A sense of suffused belonging he doesn't feel when they're apart, and the gap it carves out has him stuck in it up to his neck at the very least, unable to move or pull himself away. Unable to mind it, either.
It cuts the sharpness of his frown. Releases a handful of visibly pinched wrinkles on his brows even in the dark.]
Yeah.
[He mutters to the shape of Fenris' balled-up fist.]
....I was too.
[Were they both just playing one big metaphorical game of chicken with each other from across the Moulin Rouge?]
After what happened earlier, I didn't want to wake Zev and Kanan up.
[They'd be grounded till the second coming of Andraste.]
Did he talk to you....? [Is a good excuse to curl up with his toes tucked in underneath him where he sits.]
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Yeah.
[Astarion curls up and Fenris sits up just a little, rising up on one elbow to meet his counterpart halfway. They're like two pups warily circling one another, ears flat and heads cocked; not friendly, not by a long shot, but not angling to fight either.]
He . . .
[Mm . . . but how much does he want to reveal to Astarion? It's not a secret, not the way Elise was, and it's not like when they were younger, and he'd sometimes hide some bit of praise just to avoid a fight with Astarion. Instead, it's . . . it's private is the word that he eventually settles on. Private because he's still turning over the words in his mind, weighing them out against his own sense of duty and bouts of anger.
But there's some things he can share. Like:]
He said I— we— delayed the play again.
[It's so minor in the scheme of things, but let them work their way backwards to the fight. Fenris' thumb smooths against soft fabric, some tiny part of him unwilling to let go just yet.]
And . . .
[Mmph.]
I . . .
[Oh, say it. Thank the Maker for a dark room, though, for even to elvish eyes the sudden heat in his cheeks and ears is barely visible.]
I should not have bitten you. Or fought you at all.
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Fought.
Because Fenris couldn't have kissed Elise and said nothing. Because if Astarion didn't know and found out later, they'd have fought again anyway. Because as tempestuous as they can be on their worst days neither of them like keeping secrets from each other compared to anyone else— that's the game they play for mischief's sake, for fun, when the reality of living as adopted sons working on the back end of a brothel becomes about as draining as its own description sounds.
Maybe the only outcome Astarion wants to change is that Fenris kissed Elise at all, is the only real conclusion his heart comes to at the epicenter of what he's being told, what he's thinking, and what his constricted-to-the-point-of-being-painful heart is feeling, balled up tight as Fenris' grip and just as committed to its course. That the only reason he can't sort his own mess out is because it's the one thing he can't change, and all that's left around it is what Kanan told him. What Zevlor told Fenris. What he knows is true, and what Fenris' hold and the still-red spot on his neck (and the angry words) all have in common, inevitably driven home.]
It's fine.
[That it's not fair of him to be upset if he's supposed to kiss other people too.]
It's not like we burned the scripts or ruined the stage or anything. [He sounds less like the poised courtesans he tries to emulate when he swipes his free hand across the bridge of his nose, discreetly pushing aside a residual bit of tightness in his throat. A touch of damp humidity around his eyes.] Zevlor fusses about everything, don't let him freak you out or make you think the theater's about to close because they missed one practice session. That's not how it works.
[His glance is to the side. Lowered.]
Besides, I wanted to fight you. It's why I kicked you, after all.
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And Fenris still doesn't understand why. And then again he does, sort of, in a vague kind of way, but it's all so muddled in his mind. There's a part of him that's still angry, a gnawing sullenness in the pit of his stomach that won't go away no matter how hard he tries to ignore it. There's a part of him that hears the tightness in Astarion's voice and suddenly wants to tug him down, pressing their mouths together again and again until both their miseries are forgotten and the world outside ceases to exist. There's a part of him that wants to blurt out something like it was you I wanted to kiss, not her, and yet the words stick in his throat.]
And now what do you want?
[It's not a challenge, but a question, soft-throated and yet direct. From the open window, a warm breeze drifts in, a relief from the summer heat and yet not quite what either of them are craving. He still hasn't let go of Astarion's sleepshirt, though by all rights he's far too old and mature to cling. His green eyes are solemn, and there's so many questions layered beneath that one.]
What made you come here?
[Oh, he knows why. Of course he does. But he wants to hear it, when everything seems so fragile and there's a sudden drifting distance between them.]
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To apologize. [Be the bigger man is a lingering echo from Kanan's urging, but like everything, there's more to that beneath the surface.]
I shouldn't have called you names just because she kissed you.
[His eyes stay fixed over a shallow point across the mattress. A momentary flicker brings them back— turns them down.]
....or because things didn't go the way I wanted them to.
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[It's never quite the thrilling rush he thinks it will be when Astarion apologizes. With others, there's always a sense of vicious vindication whenever they're the ones to apologize. That's right, you should be sorry, say it again, the urge born of too many formative years spent learning not to flinch beneath the lash. It's an ugly trait, and one both Kanan and Zevlor have tried to ease him out of (with varying rates of success). And you'd think, wouldn't you, that the feeling would only intensify with Astarion. Their fights are more personal, the emotions dig deeper, and Maker knows Astarion would rather get a tooth pulled than ever say I'm sorry— gods, it should be so utterly satisfying whenever he admits he was wrong.
But it's not. Fenris always walks away with a fractured heart newly mended: satisfying in the long-run, but so damned wearying in the short. He isn't happy Astarion admitted it, because he isn't happy about this fight in the first place. At best, there's a sense of that gnawing searing rage gently being put out, steam rising and hissing from the dampening embers: it wasn't my fault, you shouldn't have been so mean, you shouldn't have yelled at me, you shouldn't have ruined it—
But then it quiets, and he's left alone in the dark with the person he trusts and loves more than anyone in the entire world. Not such a subtle thing, not ever to him. Not such a clever little liar with a silver tongue, not when Fenris knows every tell, every giveaway. When he sees the way his mouth thins, his eyes flick away, and can extrapolate a thousand conclusions from that alone.
It makes his confusion about earlier so much starker. So often he knows Astarion blind; to have been clouded to his thoughts and intentions still feels so wrong. And maybe that's another reason he never lingers in vindication: because it feels so much better to stumble towards joyful reunion instead.]
You . . .
[No. He won't mess up this time. This moment is important, Fenris thinks. Just like that moment all those years ago when they'd struck their bargain, he can feel the heaviness in the air around them— but it's thicker now. The atmosphere around them is thick with all the things they aren't saying, and yet Fenris feels like a fish staring through glass: able to know his own rising anxiety and longing, able to see Astarion's hesitance and uncharacteristic withdrawal, and yet not able to confirm what he's feeling. Not able to attune to him the way he normally does.
I don't even like her, I didn't even like kissing her that much, you were better, and all those things are true, but he won't bring Elise into the room right now. It was never about her, anyway.
He sits up. Licks his lips (when had his mouth gone so dry?) and stares at Astarion, his eyes drifting along the delicate line of his jaw. The way his skin looks in the grey, pre-dawn light that's filled the room, all of him colored in muted tones, the line of his body just barely visible through the thin fabric of his sleepshirt. And he knows even know that he can only look because Astarion isn't staring at him.]
You shouldn't —don't call illiterate again, [he says instead, and means it, for all that it's a distraction. But they're best friends (or were, or are, or will always be). They've said worse to each other before, and he's sure they'll snarl again someday. It's just what they do.
But it's hard to say what he really wants to. His voice nearly shakes for the sudden surge of nervousness clawing up his throat. His teachers would scold him for it (a bodyguard isn't meant to be visible, he has no emotions, he does not interfere until he is needed). But he's not a bodyguard, not around Astarion. He's his rawest self, always, just as Astarion is never a courtesan. And surely that won't ever change. Surely the world will see them as they project themselves to be, but to one another . . . don't leave me, he thinks suddenly. Don't ever shut me out.
And yet it's too frightening to declare what he wants. He has a thought to sweep in and kiss him, but what might come easily for his adult self is far too hard for a teenager. Even releasing Astarion's sleepshirt and skimming two fingers up his forearm feels overwhelmingly daring in a way it has no right to be, not when it's the least little bit of contact.]
But . . . if you want, if, if you— if you want, you can—
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You can try again.
[He overcompensates, his voice thick and gruff and indifferent to try mask for terror and abject, toe-curling, utterly awful humiliation.]
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I won't call you that again.
They're best friends. Sworn brothers by choice. They were before tonight, and they always will be. The next time they fight, it'll be something else maybe, but not that.
I'm sorry.
And there was nothing in need of compensating, not when Fenris was his in all those moments spent together. The shadow that he clung to whether they smelled like sherry and failed mischief, or whether it was huddled up together in this same bed after a storm, or whether— whether— (whether the beat of his heart felt like this through a half open shirt, muscle and sinew run rich beneath tight, twitching fingertips that grip less like they don't know where to place themselves, and more like all the want is to be)—
Close.
And he can try again. And he does. And it is full of everything that matters beyond all the bickering and strife; cultivated passion.]
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It leaves them forehead to forehead. It leaves Fenris prettier than he's ever looked before, Astarion thinks to himself, lost within the gold-green catch of reflected light in stunning eyes.]
....how....[he starts again for what feels like the twentieth time in the last few days] ....how was it that time?
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One hand stays locked on his waist; the other fumbles blindly, eager to hold his hand again in any way he can manage, and all the while their mouths move. It's nothing like before, all terrified hyperawareness, no: his nerves are gone, his fear shoved by the wayside in favor of glorious, adoring hunger. More— more— more— every rhythmic push met with an eager pull, teeth clicking and tongues tangling in something that's so much more hunger and enthusiasm than poise. It's no kiss worth of the Moulin Rouge, not when it's so searingly hot and eagerly clumsy— and yet that makes it all the better. It means that he's never gotten his fill no matter how many times they kiss, the end of each one heralded by another eager attempt, once more, once more, air a forgotten necessity, until at last Astarion pulls away— and Fenris whines.
But falling back brings its own intimacy. He pants softly as he lies against the sheets, so close to Astarion that it's nearly another kind of kiss: his breath hot against the other boy's lips and their foreheads pressed together (and he nearly butts against him, the urge rising up in him like a forgotten instinct, but not yet). Pretty, he thinks in unwitting echo. So pretty, so perfectly wonderful when he's disheveled like this, hair askew and the collar of his sleepshirt tugged down just far enough to give a daring peek of one pale shoulder. No one else gets to see him like this, Fenris thinks. No one else ever gets to know Astarion like this— he's all Fenris' in this moment, and that's exactly how it should be, for no one ever gets to see Fenris like this either.
This is for them, only them, because that's what it's always come back to. Just them united against the world eternally and forever, no matter what form it takes. Playing in the rafters or whispering furiously under the sheets, and now this . . . and oh, what a sight Astarion makes. It's nothing he hasn't seen a thousand times before, and yet right now, everything feels like it's bathed in new light. In quiet fascination he winds two fingers around the one stubborn curl Astarion can never get to behave, and smiles in amusement when his ear twitches as he goes to tuck it back.]
I don't know.
[Coy. Breathlessly playful, his lips curling up into a little smile as he drinks in the sight of reddened lips. Then, glancing back up at his Astarion, he adds:]
Try it again and I'll tell you.
[But without waiting he darts up, stealing a kiss (clumsy, so clumsy, and someday he'll laugh at his own overslick efforts), then another, before gamely trying to catch Astarion's bottom lip between his teeth. It's a short nip, a little too tame and a little too overeager, before he falls back on the bed. Now he's grinning, for now, finally, he remembers how this goes between them. It's a new kind of game, one more thrilling and daring than they've ever played before, but there's always a rhythm to how they interact with one another.
Come get me. Come show me. Come play with me, as his heart thunders in his chest and electric sparks of thrill pulse through his veins.]
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