faderift | [Closed] I'd Take Another Chance

"Well ... it really depends on what part of Darktown you're in. In some, you might just get propositioned." Adasse shrugged, because that was Darktown. Death, quick poke in the dark or quick bit of coin. It was what it was.

Unlike the Dalish, who seemed to be in everyone's business in their clan. He couldn't even imagine what that is like to have a family like that - or at least a group like that. He doesn't know what he would even do with the alienage elves trying to be as busy-body as the Dalish.

"Sounds ... like it's a lot of helping that no one wants?" He arched an eyebrow, "I can imagine it's gotten a little stifling."

"It's not that bad, really. They... mean well, it's all out of love, more or less. I shouldn't complain-- I've been lucky," More than lucky, to be honest. He could hardly have found himself luckier, to be born Dalish and free, a mage, the Keeper's son, to survive things that killed so many others...

"More than I deserve," he concludes, looking out over the alienage's movements in the half-darkness, hearing the muffled, many-voiced grumbling as the city settles into its night, "If letting the Keeper speak for me every now and then is all the price I pay, then it's well enough left alone. She isn't in charge for no reason, after all."

"Well I'm not denying your luck, gorgeous, and Maker only knows you do know how to show you're a dutiful son, First, and ecetera ..." Adasse shrugged, leaning back on his arms. "In fact, I wouldn't have even said anything at all."

Now he glanced back at Sorrel, "If you did not, in fact, have that look on your face like you locked lips and tongues with sour lemons."

"I do not," He says, perhaps a little too loudly on the negative, but he seems to realize it and with some embarrassment Sorrel reigns it back to a hiss, "Stop watching me like that, if you're just going to use it to make fun of me."

Now watch him sulk like a cat. And realize he's spilt a little tea on his robe. And almost try to clean it with a sleeve before realizing that that won't do a bit of good. Well, this is. Mortifying. And here he'd been hoping to make a good impression.

"It's not about me," He mutters, finally, as if that were some kind of explanation for his outburst, or apology, "It's just... Sina."

Adasse arched an eyebrow at him, and waited for Sorrel to ... spill tea on himself, sputter, mutter and glower. Tea in hand, he breathed in the scent of mint, waiting, always waiting it seemed. However he was a thief and if you were an impatient thief you ended up dead.

"...all right. I'm sorry for assuming things about you." He blew on his tea, to sip it gently. "What is it, about Sina?"

"I-- It's..." He exhales, burning with embarrassment, "...Sorry."

Give him a moment, to compose himself. Deep breath: good. Now.

"Sina never really wanted me. She agreed to our bond for the Clans, because they needed the merge, and because the Keepers asked her to. She said she loved me-- I believe her! But it was more like... friends. You know?" At this he finally looks at Adasse, but not directly; first, at the floor and then up at his face all in one rush, as if he were afraid of the judgement he might see there, "I know who she would've rather been with too; she told me who, near the end. She died, and never... She died."

Alone. Unfulfilled. Because of a duty that had pointlessly imposed on her last days, and which could never have had its own fulfillment besides. What had been Sina's plan, for that? He doesn't know. He doesn't know.

"She told me to be happy. To love whoever I loved. But the Clan expects me to go back to them and I-- I don't know what to do. So mostly I just lay around being sad unless people crawl in my windows and make me come out to spill tea on myself."

"It's all right." He says easily, sips his tea and listens.

Which was good, because as a patient thief knows -- when you're dealing with a shock and a thrill all at the same time? You got to still yourself. You got to make yourself stand and not move and not make a stupid motion that will give away everything. So he kept his body and his face still, although sadness seeped in for Sina.

To live that life, and then to not ... to not love who she wanted to love, at the end? So many regrets. So much time lost.

He looked down at his cup, then up at Sorrel, holding those beautiful eyes. "So it's between what you want, and what they want. You want to be happy with someone you ... love, and they want you to be ... part of them."

He looked out across the roof again, to the tree. "I'm sorry, that must be ... horrible. Being pulled in two different directions. It's just - listen. Sorrel. I think Sina? I think Sina has the right of it. And yes, I know, easy for me to say but ... but I know how short life is, how fragile. You've got to make out of every moment because the next one? You could be dead. You've done your duty, you've bound the clans and ... and I think that means you get to choose. You have a lifetime of moments to choose - to be happy. With someone. Or not!"

He felt his cheeks suddenly flush, and he was the one fumbling a bit with his cup. "You can. Just be, you. Sorrel. Magical, and beautiful and artistic and no one is going tell you to be anything else. You just ... you just have to figure out what you want to choose, I guess. What would really make you happy."

"But it's about more than just me!" Sorrel replies, almost laughing, conscious of a certain predilection in himself to whine, about this, at least, "Sometimes I miss them like I'd miss a lost hand, and sometimes, I think about going back, and I want to scream, but I'm the last of the younger mages left, the Clan needs a First to take over after the Keepers are gone. And we're the strongest magic in any bloodline in Ashara, at least-- I..."

Sorrel realizes, like being presented with an unexpected wall, that there was nothing to think about, in that regard. Bloodline? Bloodline. Who was he fooling, then? What was his plan to deal with the idea of sex and children?

It wasn't as if, once acknowledged, the way he felt could just be stuffed back in a box. It didn't work that way. And any woman who brought herself into the clan for the purpose wouldn't be able to help noticing, if it ever came to that. He was exactly the same as Sina.

"...Wait you just said artistic."

Beleth. How. How. Would this endless, cursed night of mortification never end?

"Okay, hold on." He held up his hands for a moment, "I'm not saying abandon the Clan. I'm just saying ... I don't understand why you can't be yourself, and fall in love with who you want to ... fall in love with..." So Bad at Feelings, Adasse. "I mean - can't you have both?"

Couldn't Sorrel? Couldn't he? Couldn't he have this and not be in danger?

There was another pause, as he arched an eyebrow.

"...Yes. Yes I did. Because, you sketch."

Sorrel regards Adasse with open horror, mouth working, clearly spinning what few wheels he has left. Oh Creators. Oh. This was a mistake. Slowly and carefully, he then puts his tea aside, and puts both hands up to cover his face.

"No, you can't have seen those," he groans, "This is. I need to go drown myself in the fucking sea."

This is going so badly. It was such a nice thought; beautiful stranger at your window,a mysterious trek through an exotic city. Sharing your favorite tea in a secret rooftop grotto, while chatting, getting to know one another. Isn't that a lovely image? And then there was the reality of it.

"Why do I never do anything but make a fool of myself in front of you?"

Adasse blinked for a long moment, before he let out a huff of amusement. Really, this was two men who liked one another well enough and perhaps more to be this awkward in front of each other when they were alone, and still be good.

So he leans over, takes Sorrel's hands and pulls them gently away from his face. "You are not making a fool of yourself. I ... loved it. I loved that picture. I think ... I think you're one of the few people who can see me how I am. In everything."

Hold his hands, don't let either one of them escape from this ... talk. "So. You need to know something embarrassing something about me. I make tiny dresses for Coco to wear."

"..."

Sorrel is torn. Part of him is still dwelling in the warm, giddy sensation that had grown up around Adasse's words, around the warmth of his hands wrapped around Sorrel's. The moment hung in his heart like a jewel held up to the light. Adasse didn't just like his picture, or think it was alright. I loved it, he said. The smile on his face has edged right past "soft" and into the realm of the goofy.

But the rest of Sorrel, the part that usually speaks first and makes stupid comments, has centered firmly on the image of Coco in a tiny little dress.

"Does she wear them?"

Adasse stared at him for a moment, before his lips twitched.

Lips twitched really hard. His lips are twitching so hard, but he is not going to laugh. He was not going to laugh even for a moment. He just looks over at Sorrel, rubbing his thumb over those delicate, beautiful hands. He let himself smile though, bright and wide.

"Yes he does, and he looks adorable."

"Oh no! Oh, Coco!" Sorrel can't help it, he dissolves into helpless little giggles, "I want to see it. No, no, no, I want to see Beleth if we dress her little dragon up too."

It would be classic, Adasse. Think of the look on her face. Think of the look on Sorrel's face right now, clutching at your hands and grinning, his eyes shining with mischief.

"That. Would be beautiful."

He couldn't resist it now, he broke out laughing himself, tipping his head back even while he squeezed the other man's hands tightly in his own. He choked back another laugh as he tipped up an eyebrow. He'd do just about anything for that stupidly handsome face.

"I think ... you need to tell me what colors would best compliment a baby dragon."

"Yes," Sorrel cheers, much encouraged, "I'm thinking a nice white frilly thing, maybe with a ribbon? That'll do just perfect."

She's going to hate it. He couldn't be more pleased with himself. This calls for a drink! Well, a drink of tea, at least. Sorrel lets go of Adasse for a moment to reach for his own. Down in the alienage square, someone has started singing, a lilting, questioning song. The lyrics are terrible, both morally and artistically, but the melody is strong and the singer enthusiastic. Someone out in the dark laughs, audible through a part-open window and between the mint and the smoke and the bite of early-winter chill...

He's happy. It brings him up short, to think of it, but it's true. Sorrel feels... happy, again. He smiles at Adasse, soft and fond, while he finishes his tea before it can get cold.

"I should thank you, ma'nehn, For pulling me out tonight. This was a good idea."

Edited 2018-01-10 02:15 (UTC)

"Mmmm, I think a purple ribbon. Nice, wide, purple ribbon that we can tie into a big bow." He smirked faintly, his brown eyes brightening as Sorrel smiled and just kept smiling.

He turns his head towards the song, and his smile almost split his face, "Ah, Old Maggie begins her evening ballad." He takes up his own tea, and sips it, looking out over the tree once more.

"I'm happy that you're happy. It's good to see that smile again."

"Ha. Well. You make it easy for me," He replies, as if to demurr the value of it. Adasse was always complimenting him, after all; like Cyril's flirtations, it had little meaning except to show what Sorrel already knew by other means:

That Adasse was kind, and generous, and that he was thoughtful of others. That last was tempting enough to have Sorrel nervous again; in some things, he wanted the truth, not the polite fiction, but then if the truth were harsh, perhaps he didn't want it after all. So what could be done? Nothing for it but to ask.

"You ah... you really like them, though? My scribbles."

He didn't want this glowing moment to fade. Sorrel wanted to put it down in reality, not leave it to the mutable whims of the Fade-landscapes of memory. It was beautiful. And... and if as if it mattered at all! They were only scribbles.

Adasse turned his head towards Sorrel again, pressing his lips together for a moment before he looked back out to the horizon. He rubbed his neck, speaking with great consideration that he ... was opening himself up to something that he wasn't entirely sure he could take back.

More frighteningly, that he did not want to take back.

"... Most people, when they see me, just see two things. Elf. And thief. I mean, I get it. I've got the ears, I've got the look. Just the hand nature dealt me. I've always sort of ... judged myself by that standard. Yet ... when I saw your drawing I saw ... how you saw me, through your eyes. And ... it's beautiful. You make me feel - like someone so much better than I ever thought I could be. Someone strong, someone capable. Someone ... someone worth trusting. Someone good."

"You are all of those things, Adasse!" Sorrel replied, as if by getting upset he could somehow fix... whatever it was here that was wrong. But from what Adasse said, from the serious, solemn way he spoke, it seemed like possibly nothing was wrong; that Sorrel had already fixed it, "You can't let this great dirty pack of shemlen tell you what you are just because you're... you."

The words crowd up at the gate, but cannot come out. Beautiful is among them, and less graceful words like skinny and bendy and brilliant.

"They don't get to decide. Besides, how anyone can see you pull yourself up by one arm like that and not think of you as strong, I can't understand."

One day, he'll be able to get through three whole heartfelt sentences without either breaking down or issuing a wisecrack.

This is not that day.

Adasse looked over at him, his smile tipping all the way up to brilliant. He leaned over, gently pushing his hand against Sorrel's arm, gaze bright. "See? That right there. That is in every aspect of your work. I love your art because it's so ... it's like finally being able to see yourself clear in a dirty mirror. I would really love to see more of your work, because I know ... I know you would show the world of good hues. Good things in the world that we never see."

He shrugged, folding his hands around his cup of tea. "... You're right, though. I shouldn't be letting anyone define me." Gives him a quiet look, "Maybe ... if you stay ... you can point out when I'm being an idiot about myself, yeah?"

Edited 2018-01-10 13:50 (UTC)

"You know, that might just be worth staying for," He says, meaning it as a joke, but the way it comes out is unexpectedly sincere in a way that makes Sorrel's ears flush. Well. Well, alright, then, "But I ah... what I meant-- It's just..."

He had had a point in asking, hadn't he? Before all this emotional outpouring and the close, bumbling pleasure of Adasse's hand on his arm, his praise in Sorrel's ears.

"...Look, do you. Have anything to write with? I could-- you know."

Draw something. Specifically: this.

"It won't be much, but..."

Adasse's dopey, happy look is instantaneous, and then he feels himself looking like an idiot, so he pulls it all back again. A pause, a moment, as he blinks for a second and then went digging into his pocket for a piece of charcoal. Always carry something to write with - he learned that long ago.

"...This do?"

"Oh."

And just like that, he's presented with a rough, soft little stylus of charcoal, easy as that. Sorrel had been hoping Adasse would need time to find one, and Sorrel would have time enough to collect himself and breathe but... Alright. Alright, then, calm down. You can do this, Sorrel.

You can do this.

"Yes," He takes it on a deep, steadying inhale, and turns back towards the fire and its little pile of fuel. He pokes around a moment, stalling more for time than anything, and comes up with the flattest bit. It looks like it was once furniture, something that had been smoothed and then used and reused until it was shabby and finally broken beyond repair, then thrown out. But the Alienage elves didn't care if something was in a rubbish heap, now did they? If it could be used, it would be. This would do.

"Now...don't... Don't judge me," He can't seem to banish the heat in his face, too conscious of Adasse watching him, "I've never done this with someone watching before."

Not since they were kids, at least, he and Beleth.

Then he sat down, and as best as he could-- began.

"...I would never." He stated firmly. "And I'll try not to watch too closely."

Adasse, in the meantime, went ahead and started to make them both another cup of tea. Heated the water, put the tea leaves. Let it all brew together and poured them both another cup while Sorrel looked. He felt that watching him, while he was creating art, was almost like watching something divine.

He sipped his tea, his gaze intent and interested, but made sure to look aside.

Sorrel glanced back at Adasse once more, found him studiously not-looking, busying himself with the tea. Alright, then, let's go.

The first few strokes were selfconscious enough, awkwardly reptilian, unlovely things, but soon Sorrel settled into a sort of rhythm. It was the kind of thing he often associated with sleep, the unconscious ebb and flow of attention that pulled dream-logic along, the breaking waves of the Fade on a barely-aware mind. This was like that, looking between the vhenandahl and the paper. Here, the shadows went, inverted to their normal function, showing clean wood from below and charcoal shadows above. Little figures populated the shadowed suggestion of the alienage, elven-eared but indistinct, blocked in with primitive smudges; he spent little enough time on them.

He forgot to think about being watched, let it fall away as he blocked in, near the bottom of his uneven canvas, the lip of the rooftop on which they sat, and the merest edge of the little fire. Sorrel stopped and then, before he could think himself out of it, let his hands outline a rough shape, legs bent, casual posture, hair just so-- rough sketch of a man, seated looking outward at the tree, but meant to be Adasse. It was then that nervousness reestablished itself and he looked up at Adasse, not to check some detail of the work, but to see a reaction.

Adasse glanced over at Sorrel when the other elf looked over at him. He offered a comforting smile, because Sorrel did look unbelievably nervous. Tipped his head down to the piece of refuse wood that Sorrel had been sketching on, his gaze sweeping over the entire scene.

A little smile touched his lips, and he looked up at Sorrel, "Damn, Sorrel. That's bloody amazing. With only a piece of charcoal. And that's a particularly dashing fellow over looking it all."

Sorrel snorted, as if to reject the sincerity of Adasse's compliment, but he couldn't help the creeping smile; the words penetrated, even if he resisted the message. Nervously, he reached without thinking to rub along his cheek, leaving a smudge of coal over the line of scar there.

"Oh him? He's a terrible influence, you know. Keeps you out after dark, takes you to brothels and bars and all these unsavory places," The smirk is real now, and Sorrel bends absently to smudge a shadow into the curve of his drawing's cheek, "Well, I like him anyways. He's always there when I need him most."

Adasse's gaze softened, as Sorrel brushed charcoal across his cheek. This boy, honestly. He was too damned adorable for his own good. He burst out laughing at Sorrel's wry commentary about Adasse. Gaze flicked down back down to himself in charcoal, then up at Sorrel again.

He leaned forward without thinking, brushing at the charcoal with his thumb. "Well, he likes you too, and he'll always be here for you. No matter what."

Here, this is the moment when, if Sorrel were the kind of man who simply did things, when they felt right to do... he'd stare into Adasse's eyes, and slowly lean in, and they'd kiss. It would be sweeping and soft and romantic.

But Sorrel is not that man.

Sorrel is the kind of man who comes up against the fact that this, what he's been doing all evening is... if not flirting exactly, then... something. Something emotional and strong, and prone to leading to kisses. He'd started in on this thinking about freedom and lives well lived, and the wise advice of the dearly departed and yet-- when Adasse's fingers touched his cheek, every black feeling of certainty welled up in him as if to remind Sorrel that it was all impossible.

He flinched away from Adasse's hand, flush with embarrassment, srubbing fitfully at the smudge which had attracted it, "Th- thank you, ma'nehn."

Love who you want to love, yes. But don't fool yourself into thinking they love you back. Adasse was only being kind, after all; that was the kind of person he was. Kind.

"Here," He shoved the board at Adasse in a desperate attempt to mask his own pathetic nature, "You can have this. Keep it, burn it, whatever you like. It's yours."

Adasse jerked back when Sorrel did, and there was a flash of hurt there before he pushed it back under. Yeah, well, of course not. He was nothing but a thief, after all. If someone like Sorrel wanted a man, he could have his pick. He was a mage, and Dalish, and ... Maker's Balls. Cyril would probably snap him up in a minute.

He swallowed, schooling his expression as quickly as he could, before he nodded, "You're welcome. As always."

He jerked again when Sorrel shoved the plank at him, before his lips pressed together and he took it gingerly. "Well, if you don't want it."

Of course you don't. I'm just a Good Friend. Dirt underneath your finely crafted boot that's been good to you. Why did I ever think anything could be different? You're a fool, Agassi.

Yet his hands curled around the drawing and he hugged it against his chest.

"...right. Well. I should be getting you back. Don't want Beleth thinking I stole you." He felt the bitterness creep up into his face and he sternly told it to shut up and wait until he got a decent bottle in him.

[Closed] I'd Take Another Chance

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