[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.
[He's still got fingers wrapped around twinned digits when his smile goes slack (nose wrinkling for a different reason, his tiny ears pinning flat to either side of his head in clear irritation) at that assertion. Bossy as he is— as he's gotten to be now that he's used to the little ghost that used to follow him around doing the opposite of every adult he's grown up around: going along with his plans— he's not, on a fundamental level, very sure about the shift in status quo. Bristling turns to scrutiny inside the warmth between their palms within a few small seconds, however. A shrewd look of thorough consideration, as though he's sizing his companion up on a level far beyond anything like pride or selfish stubbornness. The same look Zevlor gives every writer in his office with a stageplay to pitch.
His tally's a little different in the end, though.
(He likes getting into trouble together. He likes fighting and kicking at each other almost as much as he likes the feeling of a coarser hand in his, squeezing tighter than is proper. He likes sneaking into each others' rooms and eating what they shouldn't when they think they won't get caught, and how he can point to Fenris in front of their richest clients and tell them that he's off the streets and starving just to get a couple extra coins. He likes having someone else here his age. He likes him. And— )
He thinks he might like getting told what to do, as long as it's Fenris.]
We should start practicing now, then. So I can get used to listening to somebody else.
[His ensuing smile is small. And short-lived.
From downstairs there's a bellowing call— 'Astarion, Fenris, get down here now!!' Zevlor's signature projection proves impressive even by thespianic standards every time it's used, and Astarion overheard the dancers saying it was from his days in the fray, but whatever the reason for its existence, it's unmistakable and flinch-inducing: tugging Astarion's fingers out from Fenris' as he whips around on instinct, even knowing that it's coming from below, far, far out of sight.
In theory, they could stay here and pretend not to hear him.
In theory they could live up here forever and only come down when everyone's asleep to eat and drink, and take up the profession of being the Moulin Rouge's phantom twins.
[Maybe they should, Fenris thinks in those first desperate few seconds. Maybe they should just hide up here forever, scurrying away from familiar footsteps until at last Zevlor's ire has faded, his attention caught by some other disobedient staff member. They can't be the only ones, after all. Surely not. Surely someone else will steal something, or break something, or forget a line, and then they'll be in the clear . . .
But then again: maybe not. And the longer you wait, the worse it gets; Fenris knew that even before coming here.]
Come on.
[Said with the grim air of one facing the firing squad— though before Astarion can rise, Fenris' hand darts out. Grabbing his wrist, he gives him a little look.]
Don't scream this time.
[Sticky palm meets slick tongue as Fenris laps at what remains of the sherry. It's not, like, great in terms of hiding the evidence, but at least it's not so obvious either. He shudders just once from the taste, gives Astarion another little look (you're welcome is the subtext there, look at how clever a bodyguard he is already), and scrambles to the ladder.
He can see Zevlor now: the tiefling stands rigidly by the bar they abandoned, his arms crossed and every line in his body radiating anger. The bottle is next to him, damnably incriminating (and yet, Fenris thinks stubbornly, not so out of place that you can really tell anything's wrong— well, beyond the ripped foil, but still). Fenris' ears are low, his shoulders rising up despite himself— for no matter how many times the tiefling yells, still, he never grows used to it.
(And yet: what he isn't yet used to is how mild it is. The first time they'd tracked mud all over the main stage, Zevlor had yelled, oh, yes. But when he'd seen how Fenris stoically braced himself, he'd softened. Dismissed Astarion and knelt down, one warm hand settling on his shoulder. 'I'll never sell you, Fenris,' he'd said firmly. 'I'll never beat you, or hurt you, or give you away. What punishments you earn will fit the crime— but they will never involve you being treated the way you once were.'
It was stunning. Baffling, almost, and he'd stared at the tiefling with a mixture of trepidation and uncertainty, wary of this strange, kind man. Zevlor had only smiled, then. 'You'll see soon enough,' he'd promised, and run a fond hand through his hair before dismissing him.)]
Don't try and talk us out of it. That only makes it worse.
[He advises it as they reach the bottom of the ladder. Is Astarion still mad about the licking thing? Hopefully not. But probably he is. Either way: Fenris shifts himself a little, positioning himself in front of Astarion. It's a little protective, though from what he'd be hard-pressed to say.]
[Well of course it makes it worse— it's all Astarion ever does as a rule of thumb, which is why if not for the lingering feel of dampness on his palm (half wiped away, half held there by the imprint of his opposite thumb, pushed just against its midline), he'd be vexed by the notion of staying silent.
Instead he's red. Warm around the backs of his tucked ears, staring wide-eyed at the back of Fenris' head as they slither from the rafters and return to the land of the acknowledged and the living, which— between his distraction and Fenris' slow march, embodies something of the deliverance of Eurydice from Tartarus.
Small, and preemptively unsure, and decidedly deserving of soft mercy.
Zevlor's brow arches on approach, waiting for the silence to break. It always does, after all. And therefore when it doesn't, and he can't so much as level an interrogating stare towards the tuft of white, curl-laden hair sticking out behind Fenris' silhouette (no face, no expression, barely even the tips of those sharp ears), he clears his throat and offers up a dry:
'Am I to address the council first or will Astarion be joining us?']
[He frowns a little, aware that Zevlor is teasing him but not quite certain as to how. It's one of the many new and often baffling experiences of the Moulin Rouge: the adults are nicer as a rule, but too often they think it gives them leave to tease and patronize as they see fit, and that Fenris has little patience for.
The other issue, now that they're here, is that there's a reason it's always Astarion who does the talking. He's so much better at it than Fenris— far less inclined to simply duck his head and take whatever punishment their guardian sees fit to dole out. But if he's a bodyguard, Fenris thinks, that means protection . . . and protection isn't always about fists and beatings. Sometimes it's about covering, too. Probably. Maybe. He's very new at this.]
You can address me.
[One eyebrow ticks up further, but though there's amusement dancing in his eyes, he's too well-trained to smile. 'Can I,' he says evenly. 'Very well, then. How do you explain this?'
One clawed hand sweeps over the scene of the crime: the bottle, the cork unevenly jammed back in, and scattered around it little bits of gold foil. The bar is sticky with leftover sherry, there's a stained rag left haphazardly on one (of two) drawn out stools, and there are two used glasses still lingering on the bar. Ah . . .]
It was not us.
['Yes, it was,' Zevlor replies swiftly, his voice even. It isn't an argument, simply a statement of fact, and Fenris shifts his weight uncomfortably.]
Well . . . maybe, but . . .
[Um. He glances behind him for a moment, then continues:]
Even if it was, you can't prove it. So. [And then, feeling himself on slightly firmer ground, continues:] If there's no evidence, you can't say it was us. And it wouldn't be fair to punish us for it.
[Fairness is a new concept for Fenris, honestly, especially when it comes to crime and punishment. But it holds weight here, apparently, and he might as well and try it.
'You two are the only ones with hands small enough to match all the prints left on the bar,' Zevlor counters serenely. 'There's foil on your hands, Fenris, and I expect even more would be found on beneath Astarion's fingernails, if he would come out of hiding and show them. And there's no one else here who thinks they have the right to get into whatever stores they please.'
It's a damning argument, to be sure. A perfect retort. Fenris hesitates, turns around again to whisper something to Astarion, and then tries:]
It wasn't even that good. Nobody would've ordered it anyway, probably. So it wasn't even a waste.
['And you would know that . . . how, exactly?'
Fenris' nose wrinkles as he frowns.]
Because it was my idea. And I made him do it. So if you're gonna punish somebody, you should punish me, not Astarion.
[He's a bodyguard, not a lawyer— and while being clever with words is hard, at least he can keep his friend safe.]
Is a twofold declaration, echoing in unexpected ways. Once before Fenris, as the tiefling who adores him must contend with the circuitous floes of childish logic, not yet capable of grasping the weaknesses in their defense until it's been poked full of holes (but he's used to that by now, thanks to Astarion).
The second, however, comes from behind.]
—No he didn't!
[Insists that phantom specter, small ears determinedly twitching beyond the outline of Fenris' own— before Astarion leans forward, nearly shoving to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his friend, giving him a resolute, grim look.
If they're to suffer, they'll suffer together.]
No you didn't.
[Zevlor's brow climbs higher— no, both brows this time.] I told him to. I wanted to taste it— for you. To make sure nobody was messing with it! Ripping you off, that kind of thing....
['Ah, I see,' says Zevlor, nodding slowly, yet despite the dryness in his tone, the hammer fails to fall. Perhaps it's worked, their small petition. Their nobility. Their sacrifice. 'So then why was it that I was directed to speak to only -Fenris- first, hm?']
[Oh, there's not a hint of hesitation. Perhaps they had the idea only minutes ago, but something about it feels so right— and who cares what others think of it? He's good at fighting already, better than almost anyone in the entire Moulin Rouge, probably, so let them talk. Let them laugh, if they're so foolish as to underestimate him. He'll show them all.
Zevlor doesn't laugh. He looks surprised for a few seconds before his expression softens once more.
'Is that right,' he says, quietly amused by Fenris' fervent nod. 'And when did you decide this, hm?'
A few minutes ago is not that impressive an answer, and Fenris shrugs awkwardly.]
We— I— just did.
['I see,' he says again. From behind them, a voice drifts through the air, the words indistinct but the tone light; it's followed by peels of laughter. Kanon is busy with some of the girls, ostensibly measuring them for their newest costumes, but more than likely teasing them for whatever fuss occurred earlier. Zevlor glances towards backstage with a little smile, rubs one hand over his mouth, and then returns his attention to his two unruly children.
'Then perhaps the first thing you should learn is that a bodyguard is not a whipping boy— and taking the blame for Astarion's crimes won't do either of you any favors.']
I wasn't—
['Yes, you were.' It isn't a question. Zevlor kneels down, then, and tips his head at Fenris. 'And if you truly wish for such a thing, you'll need training. We can arrange for that— after you both finish making up for what you did. No,' he says, holding up one clawed hand to stave off the inevitable protest from Astarion. 'You weren't trying to stop me from being ripped off, don't try to sell that. You tried that lie last month with the wine, and it was no truer then than it is now.'
He rises to his feet, glancing between the two of them. 'Astarion, you'll be helping Laira for the next two weeks when she cleans after the guests— don't argue. And as for you, Fenris: Kanon needs someone to hold his pins and scissors while he designs the costumes. You'll give him a hand in what he needs, and serve as model if you must.'
Two tasks that they both hate; two chores that they'd probably be happier to exchange, which is why they both serve well as punishments. Fenris, who had grown brighter at the thought of training, visibly deflates, pulling a little face.]
Ugh.
[The noise slips out of him before he can help it, and for a long moment Fenris stares up at Zevlor in shock. It's the first time he's ever expressed such annoyance, never mind in response to a punishment, and the consequences . . . you aren't supposed to do that. You aren't ever supposed to do that, and despite himself, Fenris tenses. Kindly or not, surely Zevlor won't take to such sass, not from him—
And yet all the tiefling does is chuckle softly. 'Go on,' he urges, and nods at Astarion. 'You too. I'm not changing my mind.']
I wish you would change your mind. [Astarion says, pinning the tip of his tongue to the base of his leftmost canine— a newer habit. He's as tall as Laira now, which is impressive for the fact that it means he's mastered walking in heels without managing to break his own neck, and for that Laira has always been incredibly, undeniably short. Setting his forearms against the bartop bends his shoulders forwards, so he cranes his weight towards it, relieving the aching throb gnawing his heels.
Fenris is stooped low behind the bar, dutifully charged with the one thing he'd been reprimanded for as a child: unpacking inventory, and Astarion can't help leveling his stare at the space between strong shoulders. A rapidly developing ridge of muscle he's never seen before lies there, peeking from beneath the borders of a cotton shirt.
Only yesterday he was a scrawny thing, it feels like. Now he's like a garden, or a freshly founded whorehouse: new growth everywhere.]
Zevlor would forgive you for skipping out on busywork for just an hour. Hells, he probably wouldn't even notice you were gone.
[He doesn't look up as he says it, and that's deliberate. Astarion in heels isn't anything new, not really, but Fenris noticing Astarion in heels is. It's odd: one day it hadn't been anything more than an amusement, and now . . . now, Fenris finds he takes special note of the way his spine arches and his hips sway, his ass pushed out pleasingly.
He has to be careful not to stare. Then again: he has to be careful not to stare at anyone here, not because it isn't allowed, but because there's no one more merciless than a whore with someone to tease. And now that Fenris has grown a bit, well. All the gloves have come off.
But Astarion is different. He doesn't know why, but he is. Being caught staring at Brianna makes for an irritating afternoon, but being caught staring at his friend is . . . well. It's discomfiting.]
And you'll be fine. Just attempt not to antagonize anyone— strange a sensation as that may be for you.
[He straightens up, lifting the box and setting it down on the counter. It's a little easier to face him this way, though the sight of Astarion actually being his height is startling. He's gotten too used to him being short.
Another thing that hasn't changed: those damned magic iceboxes still leave everything unpleasantly slick. Fenris rolls up his sleeves, catching Astarion's eye as he does.]
What has you so fretful? You've taken lessons before. What makes this so different?
Hah. Hah. [Astarion snorts back as his nose wrinkles just the way it did when they were children. Disapproval laced through an otherwise distracted expression, it only takes the rolling of those sleeves for him to forget what they were talking about.
Or doing.
His eyes roll anyway, more performative than not, and when they return to the present view, they're lowered for a half beat longer, watching the flexion pull of tender muscle under skin.]
I'm not fretful.
[Saying that makes him sound fretful, even when he isn't. Too contrarian. Too argumentatively blunt. He's learned the patterns of fine conversation but he's not there yet for using them.
Least of all when he's talking to his childhood best friend.]
But I've no one else to practice on, and the last thing I want to do is look like a godsdamned amateur in front of the others.
[Blunt and dry, that's his style— but even as he says it, Fenris knows already what his answer will be. It's no fun to be the least experienced at something, and gods know he's had more than enough experience at that lately. Knowing how to scrap and brawl is one thing, but acting as vigilant guard is quite another, and he's had more than a few humbling experiences lately.
His hands pick up the pace, swiftly drawing bottles out of a crate and placing them haphazardly on the bar. It's messy work, it's not where they're supposed to go, and he's going to end up having to wipe the bar down all over again for how they're leaving little puddles of condensation, but . . .]
Do you have a spot in mind?
[The answer is yes, even if he hasn't said it yet.]
And if I get in trouble, you're doing whatever tasks Zevlor ends up assigning me. And you owe me a favor.
[If there are rings on the bar's lacquer from condensation, the cost will come from both their hides anyway; Zevlor's too clever to merely dock the one who'd been responsible and call it a day. Not when they're capable and far from careless on their own. No, it's when they're together that their shrewd little minds transmute diligence into oversight.
So to avoid that, and help get them out of here sooner, Astarion cranes forward on his toes, scooting more bottles out of the way in unison— and while not strictly organized, closer to where they belong.
Which is good enough, really.
(And this is normal. This is how it's always been, so why is his heart lodged higher in his throat all of a sudden?)]
You know where.
[The rafters. Their place. The climb is tighter now and the quarters more confined, but it's still the only place where they'll be reliably alone.] I don't want anyone to bother us. I need to focus.
[His scoff is light. Amused to say the least.
He catches the neck of a bottle at the exact same time as his counterpart— knuckles knocking slight against each other.]
Since when were you so fussy about getting into trouble?
[They hit the same line at different emphasis points, but the petulant little nose wrinkle is the same. But protesting really does make him sound as though he is, and that's annoying. Annoying, too, the way his stomach has started to flutter, his heart beating a little faster as they work.
Intimacy is such a lax affair within the Moulin Rouge. Sex and all that comes with it are easily exchanged, offered up between performers and prostitutes as stress relief or to stave off boredom. Even Fenris has gotten propositioned more than once, though he's never taken anyone up on the offer. There are petty jealousies, of course, and rivalries that only grow more heated when it comes to who chooses what bed to lie in, but still: no one thinks of it as anything personal.
And nor will they, he tells himself firmly. This isn't anything more than practice, and the fact that they two are so comfortable with one another is just bonus. There's no reason to be nervous. There's no reason for his words to stick in the back of his throat, nor for his palms to stay a little damp even after he's wiped them off on his trousers.]
I— [A swift swallow, and then:] I simply do not relish the thought of having to wake up early tomorrow because of you.
[He jerks his head as he comes around the bar. The bottles are, if not neatly put away, at least marginally acceptable, and that will have to do for now. Fenris leads the way back, his head half-turned as he speaks.]
What is there to focus on, anyway?
[It's a real question, even as he hops up on the ladder and takes it two rungs at a time. Their secret spot is still pleasingly secluded, even now, and he feels a sense of satisfaction as he ducks past a wooden beam and settles in there.]
Most people manage it without any training at all.
[He sounds offended, if only briefly. As if some great insult's been leveled avidly against him, or his dignity, or his soon-to-be profession— or all of the above. But then again that's hardly shocking: once, a long time ago, after they'd spit into their hands and made quiet promises about their futures, Astarion had made the mistake of calling bouncers pimps— on account of a bit of inflamed gossip eavesdropped in on— and there was, that night, a great deal of fuss about semantics in these halls.
Above him comes the groaning of that ladder while he's still at the bottom; it's old but it bears weight just fine despite its protests, and so the only reason why Astarion pauses after Fenris already scurried up is to kick off both his heels and roll his arches before he follows suit. He'd saved up months for them, after all, and the last thing he wants is to break one of them or one of his own ankles on old rungs.
Their hideaway fits him better than it does Fenris, by the time he's crawled in close and sat down, legs delicately crossed. Dusting off the borders of his silk shirt where it hangs heaviest, two sizes too large.
Like the rest of this, he's aiming to grow into it.]
....[It's a pregnant pause that follows, peripheral and shrewd. Half-held on his tongue before, with all the impetus of youth:]
[It had happened during a show, when they were both backstage. After weeks of (somewhat clumsy) flirting, she'd sat herself in his lap and stolen a kiss— and then another, and another after that. She'd been the one to lead the way, and she'd been the one to put a halt to it too: springing away with a giggle as act one shifted into act two, leaving him dazedly staring after her as he'd touched his lips. And that was that, apparently, for though he'd approached her again, she'd shrugged him off.
Next week she was off kissing Leon, and then Daisy the week after. Nothing is personal here, and he was a little stupid to expect more.
He'd never told Astarion. He doesn't know why, save that it felt oddly disloyal.]
Have you?
[He's too big for their little space, and adding another body doesn't help. His shoulders are broader than they used to be, more defined, and they bump against plywood as he shifts around. One leg tentatively stretches out, resting next to Astarion's thigh, before the other swiftly follows. Time was they were fine with being tangled up, all elbows and knees in a nest in bed; he can't remember when they stopped doing that. Now he's so aware of all the places where they touch: his foot resting lightly against a clothed thigh, Astarion's knees bumping against his shin. Somewhere around here, he knows, there's a scratched in little message they'd written years ago: A+F were here, pointless and triumphant.
He wonders if Astarion has kissed anyone. He must have, Fenris thinks. He's so much better at social things, and he's getting so good at flirting with others . . . surely he must have. And yet the thought makes his stomach twist unpleasantly.]
[Elise. His ears burn at the name. And not in a good way. Not the way he feels when Fenris' leg settles just beside his own, ratcheting his mood in the opposite direction like a counterweight. So maybe it's a mercy he can't see himself like this. Can't tell what face he's making (not practiced, not pretty, not sophisticated like the dazzling woman he studies under without fail)— mouth open and contorted, tension bedded in his shoulders. Staring. Blinking. Working his lips but not making a sound. Swallowing, and it's the loudest thing in the world.
He's relieved to be this close, surrounded by memories from what feels like a lifetime ago to his young mind.
He realizes all at once, with a wave of churning restlessness lodged deep inside his stomach, that he's angry.
Or something like it, knotted and unruly and sharp enough to draw blood.]
No.
[It slips out before he can stop it. Hard-edged. Stupid, he thinks, scolding either himself or that retaliatory tone— he's not sure which. He doesn't really like it either way.]
Because I have standards. [He corrects.
The pitch of his tenor dragging hard like oversteering. A wheel in inexperienced hands apparently only knows how to veer.]
[Instinctively his ears pin back, his expression closing as he tries to understand what just happened. Guilt churns in his stomach for reasons he can't understand— because why should he feel guilty? He didn't do anything wrong. Astarion is his best friend, of course, his confidant and his ally in all things, but that doesn't mean he gets to know everything that goes on in Fenris' life. And as for standards— Elise is pretty. She's pretty and a fine conquest, and he doesn't understand why Astarion is pushing back so hard.]
So I'm the more accomplished in this arena, then.
[His tone is cooler, his head cocking as one eyebrow raises in challenge.]
[He can't tell if that's Fenris teasing him, or jabbing back for the sake of his own dignity in the way that one harsh kick under the table ever used to elicit equal retaliation. In the end, it doesn't matter. He can feel heat marching up his spine, and this time, even without the sight of his own expression Astarion knows the face he's making. Knows he has to look like something of cross between a deer caught in the road and the strawberry jam they'd had for breakfast: red and startled, toes imperceptibly curling as he straightens himself into sitting upright— catching Fenris with an angled, sidelong stare.
But he's been taught expertly. Grown up around crude debauchery and knows it as the transactional exchange it is. He'd never blushed at the sight or suggestion of any of this, and he'd damn well never flustered.
It's like a poker game. Or perhaps more true to them, keenly recognizing the arch in Fenris' brow....a dare.]
Experienced in the way that washing your cock counts as a handjob. [Stubborn. Stubborn again, and his silver eyes squint slightly before resetting with a soft, thready inhale. Just as any actor on a stage. He can do this. He's not anxious. Not overly unsure. Not—
Not staring at the way dark hair frames a long, slender neck that's flanked by woven muscle. The way it clings with faint sweat to his cheeks, and the outline of his ears. The shine of wetness on his lips, barely visible except for when it's in the light.]
Shut up.
[He mutters mildly, pushing the flat of his palm against the center of Fenris' shirt. His chest. Twisting around where he sits onto his knees the way he's seen the other performers do in lounges and in private, straddling only the wealthiest partners Paris can afford. Pressure steady on the inside of his thighs, electricity suddenly coursing through every point of contact they maintain.
When he leans forward, his unkempt curls wash themselves across the bridge of Fenris' nose.]
I told you.... [This time he licks his lips. This time it turns hot exhales cold in close proximity.
He'd been aware of her, no doubt. The taste of her lipstick and the catch of her rings as she'd woven her fingers in her hair, and each time she'd squirmed he'd been so pointedly attuned to all the places soft flesh had met hard muscle. Her soft mouth kept pushing hungrily against his as he lagged a half-step behind, and all the while his mind had spun wildly: it's happening, so this is what kissing is like, it's happening, it's happening right now, is this right, is this it. Only once he'd learned to exhale had it become something thrilling, leaving his mouth sore and his prick aching.
But not once did he feel as though he'd been set ablaze by her.
Their lips meet, and it's simple. Chaste. For a moment they linger there, and then Astarion draws back just long enough to speak. And even if he had wanted to be a brat, Fenris finds he simply can't, for all the words have flown out of his head. Their lips hadn't even moved and already he's aching for more; his head jerks just once, an aborted gesture before he remembers that command to be still.
Be silent.
Fine. He can shut up— but he damned well won't be passive, not after Astarion shot his mouth off like that.
Settling his hands on that slender waist, Fenris yanks Astarion in with one sharp little tug, their hips grinding together and his back arching in eager meeting. Come here, pointed and challenging, even as white sparks fly behind his eyes and some part of his brain fizzles in heady bliss, oh, fuck. He's half-hard already, his cock straining needily against his pants; there's no way Astarion doesn't feel him, but he won't be the one to draw attention to it.
And he doesn't let go.
Remember who you're training with, as he slowly begins to kiss him in earnest, a steady push and pull as his thumbs stroke tentatively beneath Astarion's ribs.]
[He's focused on keeping up with every roll of Fenris' tongue— on the catch of his mouth and the subsequent closure of it around their kiss— humidity suffused against his skin, flooding through the spaces that they make with their intent. The friction of it. The measure of it. Half a step behind and clumsy under the influence of a dance he's never done, trying to recount its avidly imparted steps. In one moment, he's too aware of his rigidity (not the weight between his legs, but the stiffness in his spine)— the next, forcing himself to slacken, to roll, to arch, he remembers he's stopped working his tongue, his teeth. A note to himself obliterated in the next beat when those fingertips slip soft against his side, coaxing out a burst of dizzying sensation. Something that jolts in him. Kicks beneath his ribs and spurs him higher—
He jumps forwards by degrees into that touch.
Makes a sound, involuntary, reminiscent of a fevered whine as they wind up flat against the wall, his aching hands (too imbued with tension from balling them into fists) now fanned on either side of Fenris' head above his shoulders.
When he breaks away— severs the bond between their lips— he's panting. Slick-mouthed and red across his cheeks, the tender bow of his lips turned a spreading shade of matching pink. Blinking once. Blinking again, his eyes restless as they flit back and forth, unfixed. As if he doesn't know where to look. What to say.
(For once.)
And then, rekindled with the anxious curse of self-awareness, Astarion's eyebrows drop over his eyes, pinching in the middle.]
Well?
[His voice accusatory. Braced hard against the present, already radiating all necessary resolution.]
How was it?
Better than Elise?
[She's older. More experienced by a few years, so—
(So probably not. But maybe. And either way, he needs to know. Has to know.)]
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
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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?]
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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.
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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.
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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.]
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His tally's a little different in the end, though.
(He likes getting into trouble together. He likes fighting and kicking at each other almost as much as he likes the feeling of a coarser hand in his, squeezing tighter than is proper. He likes sneaking into each others' rooms and eating what they shouldn't when they think they won't get caught, and how he can point to Fenris in front of their richest clients and tell them that he's off the streets and starving just to get a couple extra coins. He likes having someone else here his age. He likes him. And— )
He thinks he might like getting told what to do, as long as it's Fenris.]
We should start practicing now, then. So I can get used to listening to somebody else.
[His ensuing smile is small. And short-lived.
From downstairs there's a bellowing call— 'Astarion, Fenris, get down here now!!' Zevlor's signature projection proves impressive even by thespianic standards every time it's used, and Astarion overheard the dancers saying it was from his days in the fray, but whatever the reason for its existence, it's unmistakable and flinch-inducing: tugging Astarion's fingers out from Fenris' as he whips around on instinct, even knowing that it's coming from below, far, far out of sight.
In theory, they could stay here and pretend not to hear him.
In theory they could live up here forever and only come down when everyone's asleep to eat and drink, and take up the profession of being the Moulin Rouge's phantom twins.
It's a thought.]
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But then again: maybe not. And the longer you wait, the worse it gets; Fenris knew that even before coming here.]
Come on.
[Said with the grim air of one facing the firing squad— though before Astarion can rise, Fenris' hand darts out. Grabbing his wrist, he gives him a little look.]
Don't scream this time.
[Sticky palm meets slick tongue as Fenris laps at what remains of the sherry. It's not, like, great in terms of hiding the evidence, but at least it's not so obvious either. He shudders just once from the taste, gives Astarion another little look (you're welcome is the subtext there, look at how clever a bodyguard he is already), and scrambles to the ladder.
He can see Zevlor now: the tiefling stands rigidly by the bar they abandoned, his arms crossed and every line in his body radiating anger. The bottle is next to him, damnably incriminating (and yet, Fenris thinks stubbornly, not so out of place that you can really tell anything's wrong— well, beyond the ripped foil, but still). Fenris' ears are low, his shoulders rising up despite himself— for no matter how many times the tiefling yells, still, he never grows used to it.
(And yet: what he isn't yet used to is how mild it is. The first time they'd tracked mud all over the main stage, Zevlor had yelled, oh, yes. But when he'd seen how Fenris stoically braced himself, he'd softened. Dismissed Astarion and knelt down, one warm hand settling on his shoulder. 'I'll never sell you, Fenris,' he'd said firmly. 'I'll never beat you, or hurt you, or give you away. What punishments you earn will fit the crime— but they will never involve you being treated the way you once were.'
It was stunning. Baffling, almost, and he'd stared at the tiefling with a mixture of trepidation and uncertainty, wary of this strange, kind man. Zevlor had only smiled, then. 'You'll see soon enough,' he'd promised, and run a fond hand through his hair before dismissing him.)]
Don't try and talk us out of it. That only makes it worse.
[He advises it as they reach the bottom of the ladder. Is Astarion still mad about the licking thing? Hopefully not. But probably he is. Either way: Fenris shifts himself a little, positioning himself in front of Astarion. It's a little protective, though from what he'd be hard-pressed to say.]
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Instead he's red. Warm around the backs of his tucked ears, staring wide-eyed at the back of Fenris' head as they slither from the rafters and return to the land of the acknowledged and the living, which— between his distraction and Fenris' slow march, embodies something of the deliverance of Eurydice from Tartarus.
Small, and preemptively unsure, and decidedly deserving of soft mercy.
Zevlor's brow arches on approach, waiting for the silence to break. It always does, after all. And therefore when it doesn't, and he can't so much as level an interrogating stare towards the tuft of white, curl-laden hair sticking out behind Fenris' silhouette (no face, no expression, barely even the tips of those sharp ears), he clears his throat and offers up a dry:
'Am I to address the council first or will Astarion be joining us?']
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The other issue, now that they're here, is that there's a reason it's always Astarion who does the talking. He's so much better at it than Fenris— far less inclined to simply duck his head and take whatever punishment their guardian sees fit to dole out. But if he's a bodyguard, Fenris thinks, that means protection . . . and protection isn't always about fists and beatings. Sometimes it's about covering, too. Probably. Maybe. He's very new at this.]
You can address me.
[One eyebrow ticks up further, but though there's amusement dancing in his eyes, he's too well-trained to smile. 'Can I,' he says evenly. 'Very well, then. How do you explain this?'
One clawed hand sweeps over the scene of the crime: the bottle, the cork unevenly jammed back in, and scattered around it little bits of gold foil. The bar is sticky with leftover sherry, there's a stained rag left haphazardly on one (of two) drawn out stools, and there are two used glasses still lingering on the bar. Ah . . .]
It was not us.
['Yes, it was,' Zevlor replies swiftly, his voice even. It isn't an argument, simply a statement of fact, and Fenris shifts his weight uncomfortably.]
Well . . . maybe, but . . .
[Um. He glances behind him for a moment, then continues:]
Even if it was, you can't prove it. So. [And then, feeling himself on slightly firmer ground, continues:] If there's no evidence, you can't say it was us. And it wouldn't be fair to punish us for it.
[Fairness is a new concept for Fenris, honestly, especially when it comes to crime and punishment. But it holds weight here, apparently, and he might as well and try it.
'You two are the only ones with hands small enough to match all the prints left on the bar,' Zevlor counters serenely. 'There's foil on your hands, Fenris, and I expect even more would be found on beneath Astarion's fingernails, if he would come out of hiding and show them. And there's no one else here who thinks they have the right to get into whatever stores they please.'
It's a damning argument, to be sure. A perfect retort. Fenris hesitates, turns around again to whisper something to Astarion, and then tries:]
It wasn't even that good. Nobody would've ordered it anyway, probably. So it wasn't even a waste.
['And you would know that . . . how, exactly?'
Fenris' nose wrinkles as he frowns.]
Because it was my idea. And I made him do it. So if you're gonna punish somebody, you should punish me, not Astarion.
[He's a bodyguard, not a lawyer— and while being clever with words is hard, at least he can keep his friend safe.]
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Is a twofold declaration, echoing in unexpected ways. Once before Fenris, as the tiefling who adores him must contend with the circuitous floes of childish logic, not yet capable of grasping the weaknesses in their defense until it's been poked full of holes (but he's used to that by now, thanks to Astarion).
The second, however, comes from behind.]
—No he didn't!
[Insists that phantom specter, small ears determinedly twitching beyond the outline of Fenris' own— before Astarion leans forward, nearly shoving to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his friend, giving him a resolute, grim look.
If they're to suffer, they'll suffer together.]
No you didn't.
[Zevlor's brow climbs higher— no, both brows this time.] I told him to. I wanted to taste it— for you. To make sure nobody was messing with it! Ripping you off, that kind of thing....
['Ah, I see,' says Zevlor, nodding slowly, yet despite the dryness in his tone, the hammer fails to fall. Perhaps it's worked, their small petition. Their nobility. Their sacrifice. 'So then why was it that I was directed to speak to only -Fenris- first, hm?']
Because he's my—
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[Oh, there's not a hint of hesitation. Perhaps they had the idea only minutes ago, but something about it feels so right— and who cares what others think of it? He's good at fighting already, better than almost anyone in the entire Moulin Rouge, probably, so let them talk. Let them laugh, if they're so foolish as to underestimate him. He'll show them all.
Zevlor doesn't laugh. He looks surprised for a few seconds before his expression softens once more.
'Is that right,' he says, quietly amused by Fenris' fervent nod. 'And when did you decide this, hm?'
A few minutes ago is not that impressive an answer, and Fenris shrugs awkwardly.]
We— I— just did.
['I see,' he says again. From behind them, a voice drifts through the air, the words indistinct but the tone light; it's followed by peels of laughter. Kanon is busy with some of the girls, ostensibly measuring them for their newest costumes, but more than likely teasing them for whatever fuss occurred earlier. Zevlor glances towards backstage with a little smile, rubs one hand over his mouth, and then returns his attention to his two unruly children.
'Then perhaps the first thing you should learn is that a bodyguard is not a whipping boy— and taking the blame for Astarion's crimes won't do either of you any favors.']
I wasn't—
['Yes, you were.' It isn't a question. Zevlor kneels down, then, and tips his head at Fenris. 'And if you truly wish for such a thing, you'll need training. We can arrange for that— after you both finish making up for what you did. No,' he says, holding up one clawed hand to stave off the inevitable protest from Astarion. 'You weren't trying to stop me from being ripped off, don't try to sell that. You tried that lie last month with the wine, and it was no truer then than it is now.'
He rises to his feet, glancing between the two of them. 'Astarion, you'll be helping Laira for the next two weeks when she cleans after the guests— don't argue. And as for you, Fenris: Kanon needs someone to hold his pins and scissors while he designs the costumes. You'll give him a hand in what he needs, and serve as model if you must.'
Two tasks that they both hate; two chores that they'd probably be happier to exchange, which is why they both serve well as punishments. Fenris, who had grown brighter at the thought of training, visibly deflates, pulling a little face.]
Ugh.
[The noise slips out of him before he can help it, and for a long moment Fenris stares up at Zevlor in shock. It's the first time he's ever expressed such annoyance, never mind in response to a punishment, and the consequences . . . you aren't supposed to do that. You aren't ever supposed to do that, and despite himself, Fenris tenses. Kindly or not, surely Zevlor won't take to such sass, not from him—
And yet all the tiefling does is chuckle softly. 'Go on,' he urges, and nods at Astarion. 'You too. I'm not changing my mind.']
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Fenris is stooped low behind the bar, dutifully charged with the one thing he'd been reprimanded for as a child: unpacking inventory, and Astarion can't help leveling his stare at the space between strong shoulders. A rapidly developing ridge of muscle he's never seen before lies there, peeking from beneath the borders of a cotton shirt.
Only yesterday he was a scrawny thing, it feels like. Now he's like a garden, or a freshly founded whorehouse: new growth everywhere.]
Zevlor would forgive you for skipping out on busywork for just an hour. Hells, he probably wouldn't even notice you were gone.
And besides....
[He huffs, tangling his fingers.]
I need you more.
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[He doesn't look up as he says it, and that's deliberate. Astarion in heels isn't anything new, not really, but Fenris noticing Astarion in heels is. It's odd: one day it hadn't been anything more than an amusement, and now . . . now, Fenris finds he takes special note of the way his spine arches and his hips sway, his ass pushed out pleasingly.
He has to be careful not to stare. Then again: he has to be careful not to stare at anyone here, not because it isn't allowed, but because there's no one more merciless than a whore with someone to tease. And now that Fenris has grown a bit, well. All the gloves have come off.
But Astarion is different. He doesn't know why, but he is. Being caught staring at Brianna makes for an irritating afternoon, but being caught staring at his friend is . . . well. It's discomfiting.]
And you'll be fine. Just attempt not to antagonize anyone— strange a sensation as that may be for you.
[He straightens up, lifting the box and setting it down on the counter. It's a little easier to face him this way, though the sight of Astarion actually being his height is startling. He's gotten too used to him being short.
Another thing that hasn't changed: those damned magic iceboxes still leave everything unpleasantly slick. Fenris rolls up his sleeves, catching Astarion's eye as he does.]
What has you so fretful? You've taken lessons before. What makes this so different?
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Or doing.
His eyes roll anyway, more performative than not, and when they return to the present view, they're lowered for a half beat longer, watching the flexion pull of tender muscle under skin.]
I'm not fretful.
[Saying that makes him sound fretful, even when he isn't. Too contrarian. Too argumentatively blunt. He's learned the patterns of fine conversation but he's not there yet for using them.
Least of all when he's talking to his childhood best friend.]
But I've no one else to practice on, and the last thing I want to do is look like a godsdamned amateur in front of the others.
[Never mind that he is. Technically.]
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[Blunt and dry, that's his style— but even as he says it, Fenris knows already what his answer will be. It's no fun to be the least experienced at something, and gods know he's had more than enough experience at that lately. Knowing how to scrap and brawl is one thing, but acting as vigilant guard is quite another, and he's had more than a few humbling experiences lately.
His hands pick up the pace, swiftly drawing bottles out of a crate and placing them haphazardly on the bar. It's messy work, it's not where they're supposed to go, and he's going to end up having to wipe the bar down all over again for how they're leaving little puddles of condensation, but . . .]
Do you have a spot in mind?
[The answer is yes, even if he hasn't said it yet.]
And if I get in trouble, you're doing whatever tasks Zevlor ends up assigning me. And you owe me a favor.
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So to avoid that, and help get them out of here sooner, Astarion cranes forward on his toes, scooting more bottles out of the way in unison— and while not strictly organized, closer to where they belong.
Which is good enough, really.
(And this is normal. This is how it's always been, so why is his heart lodged higher in his throat all of a sudden?)]
You know where.
[The rafters. Their place. The climb is tighter now and the quarters more confined, but it's still the only place where they'll be reliably alone.] I don't want anyone to bother us. I need to focus.
[His scoff is light. Amused to say the least.
He catches the neck of a bottle at the exact same time as his counterpart— knuckles knocking slight against each other.]
Since when were you so fussy about getting into trouble?
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[They hit the same line at different emphasis points, but the petulant little nose wrinkle is the same. But protesting really does make him sound as though he is, and that's annoying. Annoying, too, the way his stomach has started to flutter, his heart beating a little faster as they work.
Intimacy is such a lax affair within the Moulin Rouge. Sex and all that comes with it are easily exchanged, offered up between performers and prostitutes as stress relief or to stave off boredom. Even Fenris has gotten propositioned more than once, though he's never taken anyone up on the offer. There are petty jealousies, of course, and rivalries that only grow more heated when it comes to who chooses what bed to lie in, but still: no one thinks of it as anything personal.
And nor will they, he tells himself firmly. This isn't anything more than practice, and the fact that they two are so comfortable with one another is just bonus. There's no reason to be nervous. There's no reason for his words to stick in the back of his throat, nor for his palms to stay a little damp even after he's wiped them off on his trousers.]
I— [A swift swallow, and then:] I simply do not relish the thought of having to wake up early tomorrow because of you.
[He jerks his head as he comes around the bar. The bottles are, if not neatly put away, at least marginally acceptable, and that will have to do for now. Fenris leads the way back, his head half-turned as he speaks.]
What is there to focus on, anyway?
[It's a real question, even as he hops up on the ladder and takes it two rungs at a time. Their secret spot is still pleasingly secluded, even now, and he feels a sense of satisfaction as he ducks past a wooden beam and settles in there.]
Most people manage it without any training at all.
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[He puffs out.]
A diamond does not.
[He sounds offended, if only briefly. As if some great insult's been leveled avidly against him, or his dignity, or his soon-to-be profession— or all of the above. But then again that's hardly shocking: once, a long time ago, after they'd spit into their hands and made quiet promises about their futures, Astarion had made the mistake of calling bouncers pimps— on account of a bit of inflamed gossip eavesdropped in on— and there was, that night, a great deal of fuss about semantics in these halls.
Above him comes the groaning of that ladder while he's still at the bottom; it's old but it bears weight just fine despite its protests, and so the only reason why Astarion pauses after Fenris already scurried up is to kick off both his heels and roll his arches before he follows suit. He'd saved up months for them, after all, and the last thing he wants is to break one of them or one of his own ankles on old rungs.
Their hideaway fits him better than it does Fenris, by the time he's crawled in close and sat down, legs delicately crossed. Dusting off the borders of his silk shirt where it hangs heaviest, two sizes too large.
Like the rest of this, he's aiming to grow into it.]
....[It's a pregnant pause that follows, peripheral and shrewd. Half-held on his tongue before, with all the impetus of youth:]
Have you managed with anyone yet?
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[It had happened during a show, when they were both backstage. After weeks of (somewhat clumsy) flirting, she'd sat herself in his lap and stolen a kiss— and then another, and another after that. She'd been the one to lead the way, and she'd been the one to put a halt to it too: springing away with a giggle as act one shifted into act two, leaving him dazedly staring after her as he'd touched his lips. And that was that, apparently, for though he'd approached her again, she'd shrugged him off.
Next week she was off kissing Leon, and then Daisy the week after. Nothing is personal here, and he was a little stupid to expect more.
He'd never told Astarion. He doesn't know why, save that it felt oddly disloyal.]
Have you?
[He's too big for their little space, and adding another body doesn't help. His shoulders are broader than they used to be, more defined, and they bump against plywood as he shifts around. One leg tentatively stretches out, resting next to Astarion's thigh, before the other swiftly follows. Time was they were fine with being tangled up, all elbows and knees in a nest in bed; he can't remember when they stopped doing that. Now he's so aware of all the places where they touch: his foot resting lightly against a clothed thigh, Astarion's knees bumping against his shin. Somewhere around here, he knows, there's a scratched in little message they'd written years ago: A+F were here, pointless and triumphant.
He wonders if Astarion has kissed anyone. He must have, Fenris thinks. He's so much better at social things, and he's getting so good at flirting with others . . . surely he must have. And yet the thought makes his stomach twist unpleasantly.]
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He's relieved to be this close, surrounded by memories from what feels like a lifetime ago to his young mind.
He realizes all at once, with a wave of churning restlessness lodged deep inside his stomach, that he's angry.
Or something like it, knotted and unruly and sharp enough to draw blood.]
No.
[It slips out before he can stop it. Hard-edged. Stupid, he thinks, scolding either himself or that retaliatory tone— he's not sure which. He doesn't really like it either way.]
Because I have standards. [He corrects.
The pitch of his tenor dragging hard like oversteering. A wheel in inexperienced hands apparently only knows how to veer.]
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So I'm the more accomplished in this arena, then.
[His tone is cooler, his head cocking as one eyebrow raises in challenge.]
Then come here, and I'll show you how it's done.
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But he's been taught expertly. Grown up around crude debauchery and knows it as the transactional exchange it is. He'd never blushed at the sight or suggestion of any of this, and he'd damn well never flustered.
It's like a poker game. Or perhaps more true to them, keenly recognizing the arch in Fenris' brow....a dare.]
Experienced in the way that washing your cock counts as a handjob. [Stubborn. Stubborn again, and his silver eyes squint slightly before resetting with a soft, thready inhale. Just as any actor on a stage. He can do this. He's not anxious. Not overly unsure. Not—
Not staring at the way dark hair frames a long, slender neck that's flanked by woven muscle. The way it clings with faint sweat to his cheeks, and the outline of his ears. The shine of wetness on his lips, barely visible except for when it's in the light.]
Shut up.
[He mutters mildly, pushing the flat of his palm against the center of Fenris' shirt. His chest. Twisting around where he sits onto his knees the way he's seen the other performers do in lounges and in private, straddling only the wealthiest partners Paris can afford. Pressure steady on the inside of his thighs, electricity suddenly coursing through every point of contact they maintain.
When he leans forward, his unkempt curls wash themselves across the bridge of Fenris' nose.]
I told you.... [This time he licks his lips. This time it turns hot exhales cold in close proximity.
A careful meeting of their mouths.]
....I need to focus.
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He'd been aware of her, no doubt. The taste of her lipstick and the catch of her rings as she'd woven her fingers in her hair, and each time she'd squirmed he'd been so pointedly attuned to all the places soft flesh had met hard muscle. Her soft mouth kept pushing hungrily against his as he lagged a half-step behind, and all the while his mind had spun wildly: it's happening, so this is what kissing is like, it's happening, it's happening right now, is this right, is this it. Only once he'd learned to exhale had it become something thrilling, leaving his mouth sore and his prick aching.
But not once did he feel as though he'd been set ablaze by her.
Their lips meet, and it's simple. Chaste. For a moment they linger there, and then Astarion draws back just long enough to speak. And even if he had wanted to be a brat, Fenris finds he simply can't, for all the words have flown out of his head. Their lips hadn't even moved and already he's aching for more; his head jerks just once, an aborted gesture before he remembers that command to be still.
Be silent.
Fine. He can shut up— but he damned well won't be passive, not after Astarion shot his mouth off like that.
Settling his hands on that slender waist, Fenris yanks Astarion in with one sharp little tug, their hips grinding together and his back arching in eager meeting. Come here, pointed and challenging, even as white sparks fly behind his eyes and some part of his brain fizzles in heady bliss, oh, fuck. He's half-hard already, his cock straining needily against his pants; there's no way Astarion doesn't feel him, but he won't be the one to draw attention to it.
And he doesn't let go.
Remember who you're training with, as he slowly begins to kiss him in earnest, a steady push and pull as his thumbs stroke tentatively beneath Astarion's ribs.]
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He jumps forwards by degrees into that touch.
Makes a sound, involuntary, reminiscent of a fevered whine as they wind up flat against the wall, his aching hands (too imbued with tension from balling them into fists) now fanned on either side of Fenris' head above his shoulders.
When he breaks away— severs the bond between their lips— he's panting. Slick-mouthed and red across his cheeks, the tender bow of his lips turned a spreading shade of matching pink. Blinking once. Blinking again, his eyes restless as they flit back and forth, unfixed. As if he doesn't know where to look. What to say.
(For once.)
And then, rekindled with the anxious curse of self-awareness, Astarion's eyebrows drop over his eyes, pinching in the middle.]
Well?
[His voice accusatory. Braced hard against the present, already radiating all necessary resolution.]
How was it?
Better than Elise?
[She's older. More experienced by a few years, so—
(So probably not. But maybe. And either way, he needs to know. Has to know.)]