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.
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
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.]
no subject
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.]