[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?
[SEEMS SUS TO HIM, but you know what, he's not the one in charge of money. Like, maybe someone should tell Zevlor that's bad business practice— but on the other hand, it's not Fenris' problem. But maybe he will tell him later, just in case.
For now: they're veering off track.]
Your whole paycheck for the week, you said.
[Don't you back out on him now. Fenris takes the glass, eying it dubiously, but . . . well, how bad can it be? He knocks the glass back, gulping it in one fell swoop—]
[—and it's not that he means to spit it all out and spray it everywhere, it's just that it's so GROSS. So dry and disgusting and it stings his tongue and gets up in his nose, and yes, he swallowed some of it, but most of it ended up on the bar, and all over his clothes, and all over—
Ah.
All over Astarion, too.]
Blech— it's worse than fish!
[And Fenris just does not care. Sorry, Astarion, but he's too busy scrambling to hunt for some water, or wine, or literally anything to get this off his tongue.]
[Astarion can't help it now that it's his turn— he laughs, slapping his tiny hand against the countertop, delighted not to be alone in suffering.]
I told you! [He barks— ] I told you!! [ —cut short by the next pause in the music, somehow worried his yelling is the reason for it (like any child tends to assume), and when the next round of bickering starts, he whispers: ]
Well what are we supposed to do with the rest of this stuff now?
[BLECH . . . he's still looking around for something to drink, but everything is alcoholic (shocking behind a bar). And by now the taste has faded, sort of, or at least become mildly less distressing— so with a huff, Fenris returns to his stool, frowning all the while.]
Can't you give it to someone else?
[He glances up reflexively as Zevlor's voice raises in exasperation; then, with a little grimace:]
No . . .
[There's no trusting anyone else with a secret like this. Hmm . . . ]
We could fill it back up with some water and put the cork back in. That might work.
[That's so smart, that's so smart— with a little hum of approval (and no small measure of relief) Fenris grabs the rag, sopping up every little droplet he can. And hey, turns out spilling while pouring paid off, because now they have even more liquid to funnel back into the bottle. So it all works out, sort of.
There is a thought for how gross all this is, but . . . eh! Rich people aren't really people, at least in Fenris' mind, and if the worst hardship they suffer is a bit of backwash, well. They'll cope. They can afford to cope.]
So what are you going to do when you get older?
[A callback to their earlier conversation, asked as skinny fingers wring out as much liquid as he can.]
[Midway through tugging out the funnel and reaching for their plan's penultimate component, oh Astarion lets out such a haughty little— hah!]
Anybody could run this place, and Zevlor likes it besides. [His chin lifts higher, and he puts the bottle's cork back in before clasping both of Fenris' hands over it (because he's strong), and his own atop them after that, ready to cooperatively bear down without— hopefully— sending the mangled bottle of sherry skyrocketing out into the belly of the cabaret itself at full, unhinged throttle.
[The cork first, and it's easier than it seems to adjust his weight and bear down from straight above, so that nothing goes flying. It doesn't want to go back in, but shove anything hard enough and soon it won't have a choice— and honestly, he's a little pleased for that. It's quietly pleasing to feel Astarion's hands brace above his own.]
Why?
[He glances up as he says it, his head cocking. And then, because he's grown to know Astarion a little:]
The attention might be pleasing, and the outfits are pretty. [More than just pretty: Astarion had taken him on a whirlwind tour of some of the dressing rooms, dazzling Fenris with endless supplies of glittering fabric and jeweled costumes.] But it seems like a lot of work . . . and don't you have to talk to people all the time?
[He makes a little face. He loves hanging out with Astarion, but only Astarion. The others in the Moulin Rouge have been welcoming (for the most part, though there are always one or two nasty comments), but Fenris finds them overwhelming as a group. Everyone's always talking, or singing, or gossiping, or trying to get attention . . . it's exhausting.]
[They call it a birdcage sometimes because it is like one, full of beautiful, lively creatures chattering away. Lots of singing, performing— feathers.
Fenris might not always like being around that much energy, but for Astarion? It's dazzling. It's thrilling.
It's everything.]
That's why there's only one at a time: it's supposed to be....[Like impossible isn't distinguished enough. He needs to work on that. It's a good reminder.] Nearly unattainable.
And Zevlor adopted me [he says, pulling back his still-warm hands with a very proud smile,] but I'm still a noble even if my parents are dead— who else would be better suited for it than me?
[Who better indeed? Astarion does seem to thrive in the spotlight. It's why they work well together: when Fenris shies away from the cacophony, Astarion is there to take it all instead, deflecting it and absorbing it happily. And— Fenris thinks this fondly— he's such a peacock, too. They've been caught pawing through the wardrobes more than once, but it's Astarion who suggests they go, not Fenris; it's Astarion who dresses them both up, thrilling in play-acting out imaginary scenes and snippets of dialogue from whatever play is in season.
He nods as he draws his hands back (he can still feel the ghost of his fingertips atop his own), affirming that statement: yes, it does suit, doesn't it?]
I'll help you, if ever you need it. If you want it.
[How? He has no idea. But he wants to, with all the earnestness and loyalty of a child. Astarion is his only friend, and that's worth so much.]
Zevlor likes you already, that will be a good start.
[Ah, but:]
What about the current diamond?
[Fenris hasn't ever even met her, that's how elite she is.]
She isn't that old. She won't be dead when we're grown. Do they retire?
I dunno. [He shrugs, and it's a half-measure cast aside as he finishes shutting away their crime; pleased to turn over the words I'll help you more than he's concerned about the rest. Some things are far-off concepts that he'll figure out later, he's sure, but things like having Fenris here— knowing that he's willing to lend a hand, and not because he has to— that's the part he likes. All those glittering, distant notions....
And this.
He closes the ice chest with a little thunk.]
But she's a human anyway, and they hardly live long before they get really old and stuff. [Not like Zevlor. Not like them.
Still....he feels bad when he says it. He likes her, after all: she's the one who took him under her wing for tutelage when he wouldn't stop nosing around her coattails. He doesn't want her to grow old, or to leave, or anything like that. But Fenris is right, too. There can't be two of them.
So he puts it out of his mind, and shrugs again.]
She'll probably get tired of sucking up to a bunch of rich people and go to Bah-li, too.
[There's a slight pause, and then:]
What about you? What do you want to do? Are you gonna take over for Zevlor?
[He gives the icebox a brief worried glance, but . . . well, there's nothing more they can do, and anyway, once they walk away, who's going to know it was them? Apart from, say, a particularly canny tiefling that knows exactly what kinds of boys he's taken in . . . mm, but maybe he won't be the one to open it. Maybe whomever opens it won't care. It'll be fine, probably.
And speaking of distant consequences: they should go and do some of the endless chores that need to get done . . . bu-ut Zevlor is busy right now, and why not take advantage of that? Hopping off his bar stool, he nudges at Astarion's elbow, leading him upwards. There's a hidden nook in the rafters that Fenris has found and unofficially claimed— one where no one bothers him, but where he can see the entire stage and most of the main hall. It's dusty and forgotten, and thus perfect for a boy still struggling to acclimate to how just about everything in his life has changed.]
No . . .
[Not Zevlor's job. Fenris is new, yes, but even to him, the thought of the tiefling not being around is . . . disquieting. He's as much a fixture of the Moulin Rouge as the lights or the music; to have him not be there would be wrong, somehow.
But where does that leave Fenris? He ponders it as they clamber upwards, climbing ladders and balancing along light fixtures; only once they're settled, watching the glittering figures move down below, does he answer.]
Maybe a stagehand . . . I like working with my hands. Or a bouncer . . . I'm good at fighting. I was training before I left . . . does Zevlor train bouncers, too?
[Where do you even learn how to fight? Fenris had been soaking up every bit of scrap information he could from anyone he could, from fellow servants to the drunks that lingered outside the bars and thought it funny to see a boy try and fight . . . and of course, he thinks, glancing at scabby knuckles, practice makes perfect. But the bouncers at the Moulin Rouge are so quick about it, especially the ones that linger in the halls, waiting for if one of the workers needs them.
(He'd seen it once, only a few days after he'd come to live here. Some man put his hands on a girl in a way he wasn't supposed to. She'd yelled, the bouncer charged in, and oh, it was so breathtakingly fast the way he hauled him out and guided him out the door, somehow managing not to rouse the attention of anyone else there. It was a work of art, if you've the mind for such a thing, and far better than Fenris himself could have handled it. He's been thinking about it ever since: the way he grabbed the man just here and here, yanking him upright and guiding him out the door . . . it's hard to practice on yourself, but he's tried anyway).]
[Astarion's never told him that he liked to haunt the rafters before they met; he doesn't need to, it's better now that it's Fenris' discovery— like the best kind of secret, it belongs only to them.
So he follows Fenris' handholds, and the little dark shock of straight hair as it vanishes between beams for a time.]
I think he just hires them. [Comes in the middle of that musing, just talking as if he were an extension of thoughts already said— only that's when he catches the last part, so quick he almost spoke over it.
His silver eyes widen. He blinks a lot longer than he should, attention oscillating between scuffed knuckles and the look on Fenris' face while they're both jammed into a corner, all knees and elbows and high shoulders.]
[Oh . . . and suddenly there's a shift in the air, a heavy weight to the conversation, though if pressed he couldn't say how or when or why. But this conversation matters in a way it hadn't a few seconds ago. The air between them feels charged, time slowing in the same way it had all those weeks ago when Astarion had said why don't you live here?
This is a choice that will matter.
Does he want to? But what else would he do? To go anywhere else feels wrong in a way he instinctively recoils from, for being near Astarion is about the only thing that makes sense nowadays. And yet: it isn't fear that fuels him. He doesn't linger because he shies away from the open door; it's a deliberate choice. It has to be a deliberate choice, for nothing else would satisfy.]
Yes.
[He says it firmly, solemnly, for he means it. He means it as much as he's ever meant anything, and he doesn't know why, save only that it feels right.
Below them, the music has started up again. It's a pretty thing from some opera, lighthearted and melodious, meant to act only as background for when meals are served. It's a love song, little pup, Brienne had told him teasingly when he'd asked what it was about. No one cares what the words mean, so long as they like how it sounds. It does sound pretty, he thinks inanely, his eyes still locked on Astarion and all of him focused forward. It drifts through his ears, and much like his own intense certainty, he doesn't know why some part of him fixates on it— only that he does.]
I'll protect you. I'll keep you safe. And— and when you get bored and want to go off to Bah-li, I'll come with you, and protect you there too.
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
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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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If you take a good long drink of it and don't flinch I'll give you all my paycheck for this week.
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[Does he?]
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Do you actually do all your work every week?
[It is, honestly, a real question.]
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[................
...
..
....]
....no.
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[SEEMS SUS TO HIM, but you know what, he's not the one in charge of money. Like, maybe someone should tell Zevlor that's bad business practice— but on the other hand, it's not Fenris' problem. But maybe he will tell him later, just in case.
For now: they're veering off track.]
Your whole paycheck for the week, you said.
[Don't you back out on him now. Fenris takes the glass, eying it dubiously, but . . . well, how bad can it be? He knocks the glass back, gulping it in one fell swoop—]
2/2
Ah.
All over Astarion, too.]
Blech— it's worse than fish!
[And Fenris just does not care. Sorry, Astarion, but he's too busy scrambling to hunt for some water, or wine, or literally anything to get this off his tongue.]
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I told you! [He barks— ] I told you!! [ —cut short by the next pause in the music, somehow worried his yelling is the reason for it (like any child tends to assume), and when the next round of bickering starts, he whispers: ]
Well what are we supposed to do with the rest of this stuff now?
We can't drink it.
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Can't you give it to someone else?
[He glances up reflexively as Zevlor's voice raises in exasperation; then, with a little grimace:]
No . . .
[There's no trusting anyone else with a secret like this. Hmm . . . ]
We could fill it back up with some water and put the cork back in. That might work.
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—oh!
He swipes at the air, gesturing at the dishrag next to Fenris.]
Here, get that and wipe up what you spit on the counter while I pour my glass back in.
[They've got a funnel, and one full glass, and a dishrag, and the makings of a perfect cover-up.]
We can wring it back into the bottle with any leftover water too.
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There is a thought for how gross all this is, but . . . eh! Rich people aren't really people, at least in Fenris' mind, and if the worst hardship they suffer is a bit of backwash, well. They'll cope. They can afford to cope.]
So what are you going to do when you get older?
[A callback to their earlier conversation, asked as skinny fingers wring out as much liquid as he can.]
Take over for Zevlor?
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Anybody could run this place, and Zevlor likes it besides. [His chin lifts higher, and he puts the bottle's cork back in before clasping both of Fenris' hands over it (because he's strong), and his own atop them after that, ready to cooperatively bear down without— hopefully— sending the mangled bottle of sherry skyrocketing out into the belly of the cabaret itself at full, unhinged throttle.
Wing and a prayer.
Moreover, however:]
I'm going to be a diamond.
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Why?
[He glances up as he says it, his head cocking. And then, because he's grown to know Astarion a little:]
The attention might be pleasing, and the outfits are pretty. [More than just pretty: Astarion had taken him on a whirlwind tour of some of the dressing rooms, dazzling Fenris with endless supplies of glittering fabric and jeweled costumes.] But it seems like a lot of work . . . and don't you have to talk to people all the time?
[He makes a little face. He loves hanging out with Astarion, but only Astarion. The others in the Moulin Rouge have been welcoming (for the most part, though there are always one or two nasty comments), but Fenris finds them overwhelming as a group. Everyone's always talking, or singing, or gossiping, or trying to get attention . . . it's exhausting.]
What would be the appeal?
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Fenris might not always like being around that much energy, but for Astarion? It's dazzling. It's thrilling.
It's everything.]
That's why there's only one at a time: it's supposed to be....[Like impossible isn't distinguished enough. He needs to work on that. It's a good reminder.] Nearly unattainable.
And Zevlor adopted me [he says, pulling back his still-warm hands with a very proud smile,] but I'm still a noble even if my parents are dead— who else would be better suited for it than me?
[No one, that's who.]
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He nods as he draws his hands back (he can still feel the ghost of his fingertips atop his own), affirming that statement: yes, it does suit, doesn't it?]
I'll help you, if ever you need it. If you want it.
[How? He has no idea. But he wants to, with all the earnestness and loyalty of a child. Astarion is his only friend, and that's worth so much.]
Zevlor likes you already, that will be a good start.
[Ah, but:]
What about the current diamond?
[Fenris hasn't ever even met her, that's how elite she is.]
She isn't that old. She won't be dead when we're grown. Do they retire?
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And this.
He closes the ice chest with a little thunk.]
But she's a human anyway, and they hardly live long before they get really old and stuff. [Not like Zevlor. Not like them.
Still....he feels bad when he says it. He likes her, after all: she's the one who took him under her wing for tutelage when he wouldn't stop nosing around her coattails. He doesn't want her to grow old, or to leave, or anything like that. But Fenris is right, too. There can't be two of them.
So he puts it out of his mind, and shrugs again.]
She'll probably get tired of sucking up to a bunch of rich people and go to Bah-li, too.
[There's a slight pause, and then:]
What about you? What do you want to do? Are you gonna take over for Zevlor?
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And speaking of distant consequences: they should go and do some of the endless chores that need to get done . . . bu-ut Zevlor is busy right now, and why not take advantage of that? Hopping off his bar stool, he nudges at Astarion's elbow, leading him upwards. There's a hidden nook in the rafters that Fenris has found and unofficially claimed— one where no one bothers him, but where he can see the entire stage and most of the main hall. It's dusty and forgotten, and thus perfect for a boy still struggling to acclimate to how just about everything in his life has changed.]
No . . .
[Not Zevlor's job. Fenris is new, yes, but even to him, the thought of the tiefling not being around is . . . disquieting. He's as much a fixture of the Moulin Rouge as the lights or the music; to have him not be there would be wrong, somehow.
But where does that leave Fenris? He ponders it as they clamber upwards, climbing ladders and balancing along light fixtures; only once they're settled, watching the glittering figures move down below, does he answer.]
Maybe a stagehand . . . I like working with my hands. Or a bouncer . . . I'm good at fighting. I was training before I left . . . does Zevlor train bouncers, too?
[Where do you even learn how to fight? Fenris had been soaking up every bit of scrap information he could from anyone he could, from fellow servants to the drunks that lingered outside the bars and thought it funny to see a boy try and fight . . . and of course, he thinks, glancing at scabby knuckles, practice makes perfect. But the bouncers at the Moulin Rouge are so quick about it, especially the ones that linger in the halls, waiting for if one of the workers needs them.
(He'd seen it once, only a few days after he'd come to live here. Some man put his hands on a girl in a way he wasn't supposed to. She'd yelled, the bouncer charged in, and oh, it was so breathtakingly fast the way he hauled him out and guided him out the door, somehow managing not to rouse the attention of anyone else there. It was a work of art, if you've the mind for such a thing, and far better than Fenris himself could have handled it. He's been thinking about it ever since: the way he grabbed the man just here and here, yanking him upright and guiding him out the door . . . it's hard to practice on yourself, but he's tried anyway).]
I could be your guard, if you became a diamond.
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So he follows Fenris' handholds, and the little dark shock of straight hair as it vanishes between beams for a time.]
I think he just hires them. [Comes in the middle of that musing, just talking as if he were an extension of thoughts already said— only that's when he catches the last part, so quick he almost spoke over it.
His silver eyes widen. He blinks a lot longer than he should, attention oscillating between scuffed knuckles and the look on Fenris' face while they're both jammed into a corner, all knees and elbows and high shoulders.]
....do you want to be?
[Is a heavy question. It sits in his stomach.]
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This is a choice that will matter.
Does he want to? But what else would he do? To go anywhere else feels wrong in a way he instinctively recoils from, for being near Astarion is about the only thing that makes sense nowadays. And yet: it isn't fear that fuels him. He doesn't linger because he shies away from the open door; it's a deliberate choice. It has to be a deliberate choice, for nothing else would satisfy.]
Yes.
[He says it firmly, solemnly, for he means it. He means it as much as he's ever meant anything, and he doesn't know why, save only that it feels right.
Below them, the music has started up again. It's a pretty thing from some opera, lighthearted and melodious, meant to act only as background for when meals are served. It's a love song, little pup, Brienne had told him teasingly when he'd asked what it was about. No one cares what the words mean, so long as they like how it sounds. It does sound pretty, he thinks inanely, his eyes still locked on Astarion and all of him focused forward. It drifts through his ears, and much like his own intense certainty, he doesn't know why some part of him fixates on it— only that he does.]
I'll protect you. I'll keep you safe. And— and when you get bored and want to go off to Bah-li, I'll come with you, and protect you there too.
I promise.
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