WHO: Fenris, Jone, & YOU. WHAT: Fenris & Jone are back in Kirkwall. WHEN: When... people... are back in Kirkwall... waves hand. WHERE: KIRKWALL NOTES: None yet.
Fenris' attention snaps back to Astarion. He can't keep the accusation out of his voice, even though he doesn't, truly, mean it. Some ugly things are just reflexive.
Astarion, more than he cares to, knows exactly what that’s like. Recognizes the figurative flash of teeth without thought.
“Because then I can’t protect you if something goes wrong.”
Scoffed lightly, as though their conversation remains casual. Cards ribbing as they clack and clatter a few more times, flattened keenly to the table— the whole of his own focus. “If you bite off too much trouble for your frequently intangible self to manage entirely on your own.”
“Your world isn’t exactly stable, you know. Much as I’ve come to appreciate it.” He fans the cards he’s drawn, letting them sink into place against his fingertips before adding, quick as a breath:
Fenris shakes his head, getting up from the table. "I need your protection as much as you need mine."
Which presumably means none. Yet the man is possessive; friendship is clearly, for him, a rare commodity, and he does not have Fenris' indelicacy with the prospect of inserting himself into another's life. Astarion waltzes in, announces himself, and lets the chips fall.
Fenris is somewhat envious of that confidence.
"You won't be alone," he says, "even if you're moving."
He attempts-- poorly-- to inject some of Astarion's witty bitterness into the word. In truth, he doesn't much care; Astarion may go as he likes.
Then again, considering everything Fenris has already lost, maybe it should. Astarion doesn’t know. And he doesn’t like not knowing. Just as he doesn’t like losing. Not at cards— well, yes at cards— but more than that: Fenris might think he doesn’t need looking out for, but Astarion knows better.
Fighting isn't the only bloody sport out there, after all.
He folds the deck in on itself one last time, placing it squarely in the center of the table. Precisely where it always sits when not in use.
Fenris considers where he stands-- metaphorically; he didn't have that much to drink. There are things he could ask. Where is it? What is it like? But those are all facts Fenris will uncover by himself, without needing to waste conversation, a thing he treats as a limited commodity at the best of times.
And it occurs to Astarion then that maybe there’s more to the picture than he’d initially assumed. Or— maybe that’s the wine talking. Hard to say.
Either way, he hadn't expected Fenris to care enough to ask.
“For one, I didn’t relish sleeping huddled in cramped quarters with a man that smells like muck and earth— not you, my dear, obviously. Don't ask. For another, I’ve existed long enough under someone else’s thumb, even if Riftwatch casts a much more mild shadow.” Infinitely more mild, in fact.
“I’m not a damned rat. I won’t live like one any longer.”
No more huddling over prickling straw, no more cramped quarters, no more thin, chafing blankets; if he has to beg, borrow, and steal the comforts he wants in life, he'll stoop low enough to scrape them up from the dirt without hesitation. “And yes, I know it’s impossible for someone like me to flourish in Hightown, but— well. I don’t care: I’ll start in Lowtown. I’ll figure it out. Make something remarkable of all this yet.”
Though he pauses there. Mind flicking back to dwell on that witty bitterness Fenris had shown, conversational momentum slowing to a halt.
“You know, a lot of the coin I used to purchase it came from fighting at your side. I realize you love your dust and your cobwebs but.” his tongue clicks against the back of his teeth as his lips purse ever so slightly, edging into a smile that shifts sidelong when his head tilts to one side.
“If you ever tire of it....consider my door perpetually open to you.”
Fenris' lip twitches. He's proud of this man. It's absurd; he has no right to. He taught the man nothing, helped him with little, and yet... an elf with aspirations, and damn the consequences... usually, it would be worrisome. Yet Astarion's feckless pride engenders only confidence in Fenris.
"In Tevinter," he says, "they call us rattus."
He lifts his glass, almost entirely empty, in the offer of a toast.
“To being procer.” Astarion agrees, lacking in linguistic comprehension, but not context.
Rattus, after all, speaks for itself: he doesn’t need to guess to know what that means, or how procer might somehow be its opposite. And the sneer he adopts in its wake only twists into a vivid smirk when his own glass is retrieved and raised in turn— whatever they haven’t yet polished off quickly undone in a single sip— before it's cast aside to shatter across the floor.
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no subject
Agitation doesn’t always mend.
“You won’t hear any complaints from me,” spoken over the snap of the cards as he folds them with a flourish, putting deft fingertips to use.
“I don’t like having you out of reach.”
no subject
"Why?"
no subject
“Because then I can’t protect you if something goes wrong.”
Scoffed lightly, as though their conversation remains casual. Cards ribbing as they clack and clatter a few more times, flattened keenly to the table— the whole of his own focus. “If you bite off too much trouble for your frequently intangible self to manage entirely on your own.”
“Your world isn’t exactly stable, you know. Much as I’ve come to appreciate it.” He fans the cards he’s drawn, letting them sink into place against his fingertips before adding, quick as a breath:
“And I don’t enjoy being alone.”
no subject
Which presumably means none. Yet the man is possessive; friendship is clearly, for him, a rare commodity, and he does not have Fenris' indelicacy with the prospect of inserting himself into another's life. Astarion waltzes in, announces himself, and lets the chips fall.
Fenris is somewhat envious of that confidence.
"You won't be alone," he says, "even if you're moving."
He attempts-- poorly-- to inject some of Astarion's witty bitterness into the word. In truth, he doesn't much care; Astarion may go as he likes.
no subject
Maybe it shouldn’t.
Then again, considering everything Fenris has already lost, maybe it should. Astarion doesn’t know. And he doesn’t like not knowing. Just as he doesn’t like losing. Not at cards— well, yes at cards— but more than that: Fenris might think he doesn’t need looking out for, but Astarion knows better.
Fighting isn't the only bloody sport out there, after all.
He folds the deck in on itself one last time, placing it squarely in the center of the table. Precisely where it always sits when not in use.
There won’t be any rematches tonight, apparently.
“No, my darling. I absolutely won’t be.”
no subject
Instead, he asks, "why did you need to leave?"
no subject
Either way, he hadn't expected Fenris to care enough to ask.
“For one, I didn’t relish sleeping huddled in cramped quarters with a man that smells like muck and earth— not you, my dear, obviously. Don't ask. For another, I’ve existed long enough under someone else’s thumb, even if Riftwatch casts a much more mild shadow.” Infinitely more mild, in fact.
“I’m not a damned rat. I won’t live like one any longer.”
No more huddling over prickling straw, no more cramped quarters, no more thin, chafing blankets; if he has to beg, borrow, and steal the comforts he wants in life, he'll stoop low enough to scrape them up from the dirt without hesitation. “And yes, I know it’s impossible for someone like me to flourish in Hightown, but— well. I don’t care: I’ll start in Lowtown. I’ll figure it out. Make something remarkable of all this yet.”
Though he pauses there. Mind flicking back to dwell on that witty bitterness Fenris had shown, conversational momentum slowing to a halt.
“You know, a lot of the coin I used to purchase it came from fighting at your side. I realize you love your dust and your cobwebs but.” his tongue clicks against the back of his teeth as his lips purse ever so slightly, edging into a smile that shifts sidelong when his head tilts to one side.
“If you ever tire of it....consider my door perpetually open to you.”
no subject
"In Tevinter," he says, "they call us rattus."
He lifts his glass, almost entirely empty, in the offer of a toast.
"To being procer."
no subject
Rattus, after all, speaks for itself: he doesn’t need to guess to know what that means, or how procer might somehow be its opposite. And the sneer he adopts in its wake only twists into a vivid smirk when his own glass is retrieved and raised in turn— whatever they haven’t yet polished off quickly undone in a single sip— before it's cast aside to shatter across the floor.
“And to the Hells with Tevinter.”