faderift | [CLOSED] You hate my bad behavior

“Assassin. Spy. Informant.” He corrects mildly, working a grin over his own shoulder. “Musician still, in addition to the rest, but— definitely all of the above.”

A job that hardly seems to suit Dante, much as Astarion struggles to picture even the vaguest possibility of the man going undercover within gilded halls.

"Hmmm...let's see the last time I assassinated anyone it was a vicar giving a sermon in front of a pew full of people," it could be considered an assassination, even though there was very little ceremony or subtlety to it, "I was about as stealthy as a bull in an antique shop."

Crashing through windows and dropping down on a demon disguised as a holy man was hardly the stuff of assassins, spies, and informants, "I mean they could put me on the payroll if they want less orthodox."

But the reality was Dante would not be inclined to assassinate a person, he was already doing is best just to disable on the battlefield.

"You killed a..."

His brow tangles for a moment, as if he's trying to translate something that doesn't quite fit. Sermon he's more than familiar with in theory, having never truly ventured beyond Baldur's Gate itself in memory— and not praying at any altar save for his master's own besides.

Or hedonism. That altar, too.

Bag mostly packed, he shifts to sit down beside it, fitting Dante with the whole of his stare as one hand scuffs gently beneath his own chin.

"What, a cleric of sorts?"

"Yes, a cleric, a religious leader," Dante punctuated religious leader with air quotes as he naturally didn't believe the vicar was a religious leader in any capacity. He then proceeded to stuff the rolled-up tarps into the pack successfully balling them in there like a heathen.

Once properly stuffed he knelt in front of Astarion his canting his head to the side a bit before adding, "he was a demon disguised as a human pretending to be a holy man. He also wanted to use my blood to power a titan-sized demonic statue of my father, so he had a bullet to the face coming."

Granted that's probably not what it looked like to the hundreds of people bowing their heads in prayer.

"...oh. Well that sounds pleasant." Said in the distinct way of something decidedly unpleasant, his head lifting to meet Dante's focus in passing just before he rises.

"I'm sure everyone attending was very pleased to be so liberated."

"I doubt they were initially, no, they spent their entire lives on Fortuna in this cult that believed a whole lotta bullshit about Sparda that was only half true," Dante rolled back into a sitting position, legs stretched out in front of him with his arms propping his body up as he leaned back, "taking out their puppet master was an upset to their orderly lives."

Seemingly perfect lives if you didn't care to look too deep.

"But it was a necessary upset," Dante said it as simply as if it were nothing more than a fact.

Their puppet master.

It isn't the same, of course, but something about that phrasing ticks along the back of his neck, practically making the hairs stand up on their own. With little ceremony, he steps beside Dante, leaning over where he's fallen into recline and plucking up that heavy pack. Still wearing Dante's coat, it means the longer tails brush loosely against his legs for the effort.

"That, my dear, is why heroism never pays." He scoffs lightly, tucking the pack across his own shoulder.

"No one will ever thank you for bleeding on their behalf."

Tipping his head back Dante looks up at Astarion as he leans over to pick up the pack still wearing Dante's coat as if he were right at home and it was fine. He took in the expression on his companion's face trying to make heads or tails of what was going on inside of his head and then decided it was probably an exercise in futility.

Rolling all the way back onto his shoulders, Dante flipped himself onto his feet sensing, at the very least, that Astarion was ready to head out and he seemed intent on shouldering their bags. For his part he scooped up his sword and slug it over his shoulder.

"I don't do what I do for recognition, rank, or reward," Dante said in what was perhaps the most serious thing he's probably ever said as he opened the door for both himself and Astarion, "I have to live in the world as well, and there's no way in hell I'm sharing it with hostile demons wanting to take a dump all over it while subjugating people to their power."

Maybe there was honor and duty in it as well, maybe part of him was his father's son, but he liked to think he had his own reasons.

"I can be a hero or a monster to that end, I can be whatever I need to be."

“And now that you’re here,” words trailing off as he moves to stand by the crooked doorway, swollen wood turned slanted at its hinges, “I wonder what you’ll become.”

The demons in Thedas aren’t like the ones from either of their worlds. No cambions, no incubi or succubi or anything in between. Dante can fight them the same as he’d done days before now to his heart’s content, but it certainly won’t be the same battle he knew prior to his trip through the Fade.

So. What does a man like that have left? Corypheus? The noble cause? Himself? Or...perhaps nothing leashing at all.

"Come on, darling." Astarion's head cants towards his shoulder, toeing the door open to reveal a swath of daylight outside.

"Road's waiting."

Dante stood in the frame of the door wondering about the strange exchange and what it was all about. V was cryptic in a similar way as well, except V constantly spoke in riddles or poetry, so much William Blake that Dante had it all nearly memorized by now. Astarion wasn't that extreme but he couldn't help wondering what the other man kept so close to the chest that it broke to the surface like this every so often to say hello.

If it was really bothering him he'd say something, Dante figured, but he often figured more about people than he expected and rarely pried for the information himself. If it was private then it was private.

Nudging the door closed with his foot after exiting the shanty, as if it was some kind of house he'd be returning to one day, he watched Astarion for a moment. It should be kind of silly, Astarion marching down the hill, pack on his back, and Dante's overly large coat billowing around him like a miniature Dante missing only a sword. Instead of laughing he gamboled up behind him and slung an arm around Astarion's shoulders.

"Alright, now that you're acting all impressive, smooth, and mysterious...is it my turn to ride on your back?"

Because that really would be the cherry on top of this entire strange scene.

In truth, Astarion could probably manage it. He's stronger than he looks, after all, though he picks and chooses precisely when he's keen on burning that much energy, now that blood consumption doesn't technically do a thing for him. Now that his limbs tire easily, now that he is— aside from the sharpness of senses and teeth alike— essentially mortal in nature, he's not exactly inclined to be generous.

But...

Well, it would be funny, wouldn't it.

Astarion pauses there under the heavy hang of that arm, stopping long enough to consider the man at his side. Sizing him up once more.

"All right," he scoffs out abruptly under the weight of a dagger-edged grin. Pulling away just far enough to turn in offering. "Hop on."

Dante wasn't expecting Astarion to humor him, but he's enjoying the frivolity of it while essentially having his bluff called. Not expecting to be carted around at length, he is more than accommodating when Astarion turns his back to him in offering and while he doesn't hop on in the literal sense, he does in fact shinny his way onto Astarion's back, minding weight distribution and the pack.

And it absolutely is as ridiculous as it anyone might have expected considering how Dante engulfs Astarion all arms and legs. Unfettered by appearances, however, Dante's here to enjoy the ride for as long it lasts no matter how silly it looks, and with Dante's chin propped on top of Astarion's head like a excited child it couldn't be anything but.

"This is more fun than I thought it would be," and giving Astarion's shoulders a playful squeeze he added for good measure, "and cozy too."

They look ridiculous, not that Astarion much cares out here, so far away from society that only the rocks and trees will remember this. His head tips upwards slightly, knocking into the underside of Dante's jaw where it rests.

“Try not to get too used to it. This is a one-time-only special: not to be repeated.” And then, teasing more apparent than ever, he somehow manages to work the sound of a mild, long-suffering grin into his voice.

“But I suppose someone around here has to carry your weight.”

As Astarion tips his head up to look at Dante, he bows his head just enough to somewhat lock eyes with the other man still grinning as the situation was both novel and entertaining. It wasn't everyday he got to be carried around so why not enjoy himself while he could.

"Getting a one-time treat like this? I guess my birthday's come early...or late," of course Dante is well aware that if the situation was different and there were people with which to concern his appearances with, then this wouldn't even be a one-off scenario.

"Carrying my weight is a tall order, I am a pain in the ass at the best of times. It's a good thing you're so impressive and surprisingly beefy."

“The more compliments you give— accurate as they are— the more your timer on this little trade extends.”

Just for the record.

“...thank you, by the way.” He adds after a lone, tepid little beat. Something clearly weighing on his mind regardless of the fact that he’s currently carting his companion along like an oversized satchel, tipping his own chin once more to knock damp curls from his eyes.

He doesn’t specify what he’s thanking Dante for, but tone itself might hint: it’s not the shallower flattery that preceded it.

"You mean like beautiful and clever," Dante was more than a little amused by the idea that his piggy back ride is fueled by compliments, "brave...and you smell good too."

The last one was an afterthought, but it was interesting, considering what they've endured over the past few days, that Astarion didn't smell overwhelmingly like a bog. Whatever that floral smell was, it was the most enduring scent that had clung to him through all of it, or maybe Astarion rolls around in flower beds when no one is paying attention.

Now there's a mental image that holds his attention for several moments until he's snapped out of it by Astarion's gratitude.

It's not done out of self-adulation and it doesn't hold the levity Dante would associate with accepting compliments. It's certainly information Dante doesn't know what to do with especially since there could be a few things he's being thanked for. He doesn't require it, but accepts that this is probably not an everyday occurrence either.

"Anytime," Dante offers in return, smoothing his fingers through Astarion's wilted curls to keep them out of his face.

It's that kindness that always catches Astarion so off-guard. Strikes that oh-so-familiar chord of once-blooming trust that served to make a fool of him, once. He likes to think he's better suited to rejecting it now. Smarter, or harsher, or—

Or he doesn't know, tipping his head into the softer slide of those fingertips for as long as it lasts.

Dangerous, always. Getting attached. He wears that warning like the coat across his shoulders, leaning into the set of a smile under the weight of an easy exhale.

"If you remember one thing from all this trouble, it had better be that flattery will always get you everywhere."

Even back to Kirkwall— on foot— for as long as it can be managed.

...or until Astarion just doesn't want to anymore.

Dante was not unfamiliar with the hurt and the pain or even the fear that paired with letting people close or trusting their intentions. He's been burned, but it's not a lesson that he's learned anything from, it doesn't stop him from feeling as much as he can and embracing the better parts of his nature when he can even if he shares himself with others just so, just enough so they can endure it.

It's a different kind of pain, Astarion hasn't dipped into many details of his own past, but Dante's aware that whatever darkness is there it's different.

"Hmmm...that is true, but even if it is you can always say no, or hell no, or fuck in the direction of off," Dante mused propping his chin back on top of Astarion's head, "and when you get there, fuck off from there too. Then fuck off some more. Keep fucking off until you get back here. Then fuck off again."

Giving Astarion a pat across the chest for reassurance.

"Even if you do have seductive eyes, flirty lashes, and a soothing voice," he tacked that on just to ham it up.

It makes him laugh more than it should, that ridiculous commentary. Or— maybe just as much as it should, given the way it somehow seems to come from a place of sincerity just as much as it does pure, unfiltered humor.

So that pat eases something in him. Prompts the faintest, rumbling little breath let out without pretense, already hefting Dante a touch higher for good measure.

"Flirty lashes?" He snorts in sheer amusement, his boots sinking slightly in the muck as he works his way across the muddied edges of a waterside road. The temptation to put Dante down lingers, of course, but...well, he's a prideful thing at heart. The half-demon's earned a few more steps at least. "That's a new one."

Not unfond. Not anything but warm, despite the ever-present cooler temperature of Astarion himself.

"Is that what won you over, then?"

A joke, of course. All teasing humor.

"It was the flirty lashes one-thousand percent. I was a goner before, but I just fell in love even harder," it was so playful and blasé, but Dante enjoyed banter and leaning into the absurd. He felt comfortable enough with Astarion and his thick skin for humor to let it fly, "in fact I think the mop has competition in you that is unconquerable."

Dipping his face forward Dante gave his companions ear a nudge with his cheek. A conspiratorial nod to his awful anecdote when they first met.

"That dance card is full though mmmm?" Dante would be surprised if it wasn't honestly.

While he was all for ribbing and compliments it didn't escape his notice that Astarion might be sinking into the mud a bit under his weight. He was impressed that the smaller man had hiked him this far, but he didn't want him to suffer for pride. He'll indulge himself a bit more before turning the tables, however, this is pretty enjoyable after all.

In competition with a mop. Truly, he’s come so far.

“My dance card? Oh, darling. Sweet of you, but Thedas is...mm.”

Difficult, to say the least.

Spoken while ignoring the way fine boots have to tug with every step until they’re finally out on the main road: stony pathway quick to knock the mud loose, affording him a significantly easier time of trudging along.

“There’s the occasional pretty face, true, but when you dwell in Lowtown with my— everything, you very quickly learn just how difficult it is to snare anything worthwhile.”

Wycome had been kinder. There at least Astarion was a novelty. A curiosity, well entertained and appropriately admired (barring the nuisance of one initial, decidedly irritating incident). Sometimes he thinks if he could just make it to Hightown, something in Kirkwall would finally, properly give.

“No, my dear, my card remains uniquely unmarked these days— though even if it were full, I’d still happily make room for you.”

Once they were on stable territory Dante shimmied off of Astarion's back, giving him a break knowing that he would probably keep going and could keep going, but aside from stretching his own legs he was more than aware of his own burden. He still kept an arm slung companionably over Astarion's shoulders while they strolled and he listened to Astarion discuss the ways in which this world bottlenecked Astarion from reaching his potential for simply being himelf.

"Trying to snare anything in particular?" Lowtown wasn't exactly reeking with prosperity and opportunity, it was urban and industrial and reeked of other things. It didn't really pair with Astarion, based on what Dante had assessed, while clearly able to rough it when he needed to, those fine boots covered in mud told a different story. So naturally he was curious, he knew Astarion's direction was up, and Dante wasn't beyond giving a boost if he could and when he could.

"You'd pencil me in? I'm flattered...but that's probably good all around, ignore me for long periods and I'll have to ugly cry and no one wants that," not that he's one for crying easily or anything, but he might just have to cut in in a very show stopping way if it ever came to that.

With someone else, he’d feign innocuity. Mischief. Always easier to let the most obvious impression be read as truth, even if it isn’t the entirety of it.

But he supposes he’s kept more than enough from Dante for one evening.

“Fortune. Security.” An anchor in a world rife with uncertainty. “I refuse to spend my time in this Realm plucking at spare coin or rotting in the arms of fate.”

Fate, after all, has never been kind to Astarion in any respect.

Expecting Thedas to be any different would be a fool’s folly; he knows that now.

“But like I said: you’re nice enough that I’d be willing to make an exception— it can’t be all work, after all.” Damp curls settling easy against Dante’s shoulder, grin gone sharp as a knife.

“That, and I’d hate to see you weep.”

Dante pondered the word fate as it was breathed into the universe, not being a huge believer in fate. Still he understood how fate could be comforting to people who have suffered, that there had to be meaning to it, some grandiose plan in the endless chasm of reality. In the hands of the cruel and deranged it was a way to abdicate responsibility for their own actions to some inglorious design.

Maybe Dante was pessimistic in that regard, maybe he was pragmatic, or maybe he thought determination and grit were more cogent than things like fate and luck. Sometimes it paid you a visit and sometimes it didn't.

"I think you'll silence any opposition with a master stroke," Astarion had plenty of guile and charm, reputation and fortune took work and time, but Dante didn't think it was impossible in spite of Astarion's...everything.

"And when hobnobbing with the rich and powerful starts boring you to tears I'll be easy to find," a life of luxury meant security and predictability, Dante couldn't imagine how that would be endlessly enjoyable without breaking it up somehow.

"That's very merciful of you, I'd hate to see me weep too."

He laughs for that final little quip, clear and easy. Arching high in one beat before silence simply carries it away into an almost pensive juncture.

“I didn’t use to find it so tiresome, you know.” Astarion confesses gently, devoid of all pretense. “Strange, how things change when one isn’t looking.”

It feels like a blink, his time in Thedas. Over half a year, yet so much has already shifted. Microcosms and macrocosms.

“What I mean is...well. You might not need to wait all that long, I suppose, after I start working my way back into those gilded halls once more.”

Without the occasional thrill of the hunt? There’s no telling how much he might tire of old games.

It's all so different now.

[CLOSED] You hate my bad behavior

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