[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.
[He'd never needed to ask Zevlor if this— their arrangement, parentship, employment— whatever anyone would call it, would last. It was shown to him over time, in fragments of memories involving pyjamas and bedtime stories and raised covers and the feeling of a comb run through his messy curls. Things he can't fully remember save for the impact that they had: a feeling like....
Mm.
He doesn't know.
It's heavy now as it was then. Like punctuation, or an eclipse, it presses in and bends this moment into something more profound than it would otherwise be. His legs are tucked under him, soaking in dust that's nearly half an inch thick in places, and his hands hook over his knees, and he can almost feel the buzzing electricity in the empty space between them.
Like coming home, he thinks.]
What if I don't ever get bored? [He chances, rubbing one hand over the other wrist in thought.] What if I stay here forever and drink sherry and perform every night for strangers that you hate?
[Again, there's a pause: not of hesitation, but contemplation, for there's no point if he doesn't give Astarion a wholly honest answer. But this comes easier, now.]
Then I'll stay.
[He tips his head to one side, his ears twitching upwards as something a little lighter weaves through his tone.]
You'll have to deal with them, not me— and if you hate them, I get to fight them, so. [That rather works out for him.] And you can drink sherry, and I'll have beer, and you'll sing, and dance, and do whatever else a diamond does— and we'll live here.
I like it here. And I would not mind staying, so long as— as you're here too.
He's so weird. Even at the Moulin Rouge, aside from Zevlor and himself, people come and go (not always to Bah-li, sometimes right down the street to work someplace else, marry someone else), but it's not because of fear that he's offering to stay. They're past the days of Danarius— he hopes— but Fenris could go anywhere, do anything.
Astarion's nose wrinkles when he grins.]
Mm. You can fight anybody you want....as long as you're here with me.
[His hand is still sticky with the long-gone remnants of spilled sherry; he holds it out to seal their pact.]
[He grins right back at him, his heart elated. If the past few months have taught him anything, it's that life is anything but predictable. One minute he was living with his mother and sister, serving their master, and the next they were all gone; one minute he was a slave, and the next free. Once he had nothing, and now . . .
Now, he has someone. He has a home, a real home, and people who watch out for him. The future is theirs if they want it to be, and for the first time in his life, he's allowed to do something so audacious as dream.]
You're gonna have to do what I tell you to do.
[He says it as he grips his hand, amused by the stickiness.]
That's how I keep you safe. By making sure nobody can get near you, not unless you want them . . . and by making sure you're not putting yourself in danger.
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
no subject
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?
no subject
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.]
no subject
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?
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
Mm.
He doesn't know.
It's heavy now as it was then. Like punctuation, or an eclipse, it presses in and bends this moment into something more profound than it would otherwise be. His legs are tucked under him, soaking in dust that's nearly half an inch thick in places, and his hands hook over his knees, and he can almost feel the buzzing electricity in the empty space between them.
Like coming home, he thinks.]
What if I don't ever get bored? [He chances, rubbing one hand over the other wrist in thought.] What if I stay here forever and drink sherry and perform every night for strangers that you hate?
[Would you stay then?]
no subject
Then I'll stay.
[He tips his head to one side, his ears twitching upwards as something a little lighter weaves through his tone.]
You'll have to deal with them, not me— and if you hate them, I get to fight them, so. [That rather works out for him.] And you can drink sherry, and I'll have beer, and you'll sing, and dance, and do whatever else a diamond does— and we'll live here.
I like it here. And I would not mind staying, so long as— as you're here too.
no subject
He's so weird. Even at the Moulin Rouge, aside from Zevlor and himself, people come and go (not always to Bah-li, sometimes right down the street to work someplace else, marry someone else), but it's not because of fear that he's offering to stay. They're past the days of Danarius— he hopes— but Fenris could go anywhere, do anything.
Astarion's nose wrinkles when he grins.]
Mm. You can fight anybody you want....as long as you're here with me.
[His hand is still sticky with the long-gone remnants of spilled sherry; he holds it out to seal their pact.]
I only want one bodyguard.
no subject
Now, he has someone. He has a home, a real home, and people who watch out for him. The future is theirs if they want it to be, and for the first time in his life, he's allowed to do something so audacious as dream.]
You're gonna have to do what I tell you to do.
[He says it as he grips his hand, amused by the stickiness.]
That's how I keep you safe. By making sure nobody can get near you, not unless you want them . . . and by making sure you're not putting yourself in danger.
[Something like that, anyway.]