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.)]
[As intelligent answers go, it isn't worth much, but at least it's honest. He needs to give a better one, he knows, but his mind keeps flitting towards little things, like the way Astarion's freckles look when his cheeks are lit up by such a pretty flush. The way his lips have gone swollen and red in a way Fenris has never seen, and the glimmer of saliva still lingering there— gods, he likes looking at his mouth. He wants to kiss him again, he realizes: dart up and catch him another hungry kiss, and another, biting at that bottom lip until he can earn another needy little whine—
Focus.
His eyes dart up guiltily as he tries to think. What is he asking? Oh, Elise . . . no, not Elise. Who cares about Elise? What can I do better, that's the real question here, and Fenris frowns softly as he tries to think.]
But . . . try this . . .
[One hand stays on Astarion's waist while the other lifts, cupping one cheek. Gently he tips his head just a touch, drawing him in as he fits their mouths together. Against his lips, then:]
Slower. F-follow my rhythm . . . don't try and lead.
[And ignore the way he stuttered just a little. Wasn't this how it went last time? He'd been so desperately hungry, fervently trying to take take take, right up until Elise had scolded him with a little bite. Settle down, she'd taught him. Let me be the one to show you the way, and he's almost sure that's what it meant.]
That, uh, that goes for tongues, too.
[He thinks. He's flying blindly and stammering all the while. There's a dull flush building beneath tanned skin, harder to spot but no less luminous than Astarion's own.]
Let, let me lead the way. I'll— in your mouth. Not mine. Just . . .
[Oh, to hell with it. It's easier to show than tell, and he tips his head, catching Astarion in a kiss. He means to start slow, but nerves make him go just a little too fast, clumsily opening his mouth just a little too wide— but it's the rhythm he knows best. The coaxing little dance of pushes and pulls that move in time with the thundering of his heart, drawing Astarion in as much as the hand he wraps around the back of his neck, urging him in closer— to melt against him and settle those rigid muscles.]
[Everything and not-enough are unwitting coactees under the calloused press of Fenris' palm spread heavy along the back of his neck. Stills something defiant (and confused) in him that feels oilier than nausea and far more restless in his lap, nearly squirming despite himself— shifting by unmonitored inches. It means he's a mess for throughput, following every instruction as best he can about a second after he's directed (he's meant to listen to his bodyguard, wasn't that the deal?) his formerly emboldened hands slid down to rest on stronger shoulders—
—when did Fenris get so bloody strong? It can't have been when he got taller; he'd been a beanstalk then, still wiry and looking even more starved than ever despite eating Zevlor out of house and relative home. But now there's heat and plusher strength, not just bone. All of it tangible through slightly sweatsoaked cloth.
(Is this how it'll be with everyone? Oddly inviting. Addictive. Blinding.
....he could get used to that.)
When the kiss breaks, it's only through the give of that same guiding palm. Fingerprints still burning like a phantom weight along his skin.]
....I'm supposed to compliment you.
[Astarion says, his tone a bottled mess of dumbstruck numbness and distraction. Something of Elise still catches in the back of his mind like bitter flint, but it can't break the surface of this moment, either: his words blow back at him through what proximity affords, and it intertwines his voice with Fenris' breathing.
His hands are on those shoulders. He hasn't moved at all in the aftermath.]
[His lips part, intending to say something, but for the life of him Fenris can't remember how to speak. A compliment? But he barely knows what a compliment is right now, for all the blood has rushed between his legs and his mind is little more than a whirlwind of sparks and dazed adoration. His lips throb from phantom pressure, the taste of Astarion still lingering on his tongue; absently he licks his lips just once, trying to remember what words are.]
So—
[Focus. The scent of lilac fills the air, tangling sweetly with Astarion's own. It's as much a new addition as the heels, but he likes it. He likes the way Astarion smells normally, sweet and a little powdery, and this only adds. Absently, his thumb slides against one soft cheek, a little fascinated by the pattern of faint freckles there.]
So compliment me.
[This close together, there's nowhere to look but at one another, and that helps. It helps not to have an escape route— for even if every part of him is howling yes, there's still a tiny part that wants to run.]
It has to be something that sounds like you mean it.
[He isn't a diamond in training, but it's impossible not to pick up some tips when you've grown up here.]
....don't know. [Defensiveness makes him feel the way he did when he was seven. Eight. Ten. Still too brusque for his own good— but now it's only pooling underneath the surface of his delivery, tender in the way that anything sincere would be under pressure: what makes diamonds also makes for bruises, and he doesn't feel ironclad from this experience. He feels— he feels close and awkward, flush beneath his collar in a way that signals sweat despite it being almost winter, with talk of christmas gifts already on the way (the courtesans beg and fawn beforehand, always ready to flaunt their clientele's cumulative generosity. Astarion gets socks and a week without work; Fenris gets custard cake and a chance to sleep in for a change. Neither are jewels from a maharaja, but Zevlor and Kanan at least know how to be consistent in exchange for a trove of hand-drawn cards). His fingers squeeze a little, deflecting for a moment while he thinks.
He can't look at Fenris (but he can feel his every breath, fluttering like his pulse). Each time he tries, his eyes reel themselves back down towards the floor.
He doesn't know why. It's not the first time they've ever been this close.
Just the first time they've ever been like this.]
You've gotten better at leading, I suppose.
[Three years ago it would've been you got better at leading.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
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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.)]
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[As intelligent answers go, it isn't worth much, but at least it's honest. He needs to give a better one, he knows, but his mind keeps flitting towards little things, like the way Astarion's freckles look when his cheeks are lit up by such a pretty flush. The way his lips have gone swollen and red in a way Fenris has never seen, and the glimmer of saliva still lingering there— gods, he likes looking at his mouth. He wants to kiss him again, he realizes: dart up and catch him another hungry kiss, and another, biting at that bottom lip until he can earn another needy little whine—
Focus.
His eyes dart up guiltily as he tries to think. What is he asking? Oh, Elise . . . no, not Elise. Who cares about Elise? What can I do better, that's the real question here, and Fenris frowns softly as he tries to think.]
But . . . try this . . .
[One hand stays on Astarion's waist while the other lifts, cupping one cheek. Gently he tips his head just a touch, drawing him in as he fits their mouths together. Against his lips, then:]
Slower. F-follow my rhythm . . . don't try and lead.
[And ignore the way he stuttered just a little. Wasn't this how it went last time? He'd been so desperately hungry, fervently trying to take take take, right up until Elise had scolded him with a little bite. Settle down, she'd taught him. Let me be the one to show you the way, and he's almost sure that's what it meant.]
That, uh, that goes for tongues, too.
[He thinks. He's flying blindly and stammering all the while. There's a dull flush building beneath tanned skin, harder to spot but no less luminous than Astarion's own.]
Let, let me lead the way. I'll— in your mouth. Not mine. Just . . .
[Oh, to hell with it. It's easier to show than tell, and he tips his head, catching Astarion in a kiss. He means to start slow, but nerves make him go just a little too fast, clumsily opening his mouth just a little too wide— but it's the rhythm he knows best. The coaxing little dance of pushes and pulls that move in time with the thundering of his heart, drawing Astarion in as much as the hand he wraps around the back of his neck, urging him in closer— to melt against him and settle those rigid muscles.]
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—when did Fenris get so bloody strong? It can't have been when he got taller; he'd been a beanstalk then, still wiry and looking even more starved than ever despite eating Zevlor out of house and relative home. But now there's heat and plusher strength, not just bone. All of it tangible through slightly sweatsoaked cloth.
(Is this how it'll be with everyone? Oddly inviting. Addictive. Blinding.
....he could get used to that.)
When the kiss breaks, it's only through the give of that same guiding palm. Fingerprints still burning like a phantom weight along his skin.]
....I'm supposed to compliment you.
[Astarion says, his tone a bottled mess of dumbstruck numbness and distraction. Something of Elise still catches in the back of his mind like bitter flint, but it can't break the surface of this moment, either: his words blow back at him through what proximity affords, and it intertwines his voice with Fenris' breathing.
His hands are on those shoulders. He hasn't moved at all in the aftermath.]
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So—
[Focus. The scent of lilac fills the air, tangling sweetly with Astarion's own. It's as much a new addition as the heels, but he likes it. He likes the way Astarion smells normally, sweet and a little powdery, and this only adds. Absently, his thumb slides against one soft cheek, a little fascinated by the pattern of faint freckles there.]
So compliment me.
[This close together, there's nowhere to look but at one another, and that helps. It helps not to have an escape route— for even if every part of him is howling yes, there's still a tiny part that wants to run.]
It has to be something that sounds like you mean it.
[He isn't a diamond in training, but it's impossible not to pick up some tips when you've grown up here.]
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....don't know. [Defensiveness makes him feel the way he did when he was seven. Eight. Ten. Still too brusque for his own good— but now it's only pooling underneath the surface of his delivery, tender in the way that anything sincere would be under pressure: what makes diamonds also makes for bruises, and he doesn't feel ironclad from this experience. He feels— he feels close and awkward, flush beneath his collar in a way that signals sweat despite it being almost winter, with talk of christmas gifts already on the way (the courtesans beg and fawn beforehand, always ready to flaunt their clientele's cumulative generosity. Astarion gets socks and a week without work; Fenris gets custard cake and a chance to sleep in for a change. Neither are jewels from a maharaja, but Zevlor and Kanan at least know how to be consistent in exchange for a trove of hand-drawn cards). His fingers squeeze a little, deflecting for a moment while he thinks.
He can't look at Fenris (but he can feel his every breath, fluttering like his pulse). Each time he tries, his eyes reel themselves back down towards the floor.
He doesn't know why. It's not the first time they've ever been this close.
Just the first time they've ever been like this.]
You've gotten better at leading, I suppose.
[Three years ago it would've been you got better at leading.
They're both learning.]
Must be why Elise likes you.