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001; like a streak of lightning
WHO: Fenris & Astarion
WHAT: Two elves fighting six feet apart because they're definitely not gay
WHEN: Now
WHERE: The Foundry rooftop
NOTES: Can you imagine just looking up and you see two white haired elves fighting on a rooftop for the second time within a month, like, wouldn't you think it was part of some kind of flash mob kinda thing, I would.
WHAT: Two elves fighting six feet apart because they're definitely not gay
WHEN: Now
WHERE: The Foundry rooftop
NOTES: Can you imagine just looking up and you see two white haired elves fighting on a rooftop for the second time within a month, like, wouldn't you think it was part of some kind of flash mob kinda thing, I would.
[Of course he goes. How could he not? It's a goading challenge, and he's sure they'll end up fighting, but there are worse ways to spend an afternoon. And frankly, he could use the distraction. It's been . . . mm, somewhat easier to be in Kirkwall lately, but that doesn't mean it's easy. There are still dark circles beneath his eyes, and though he is starting to socialize with the others, still, he keeps his guard up. It isn't that he doesn't trust them, it's just . . .
It's hard.
Anyway. None of that matters now, not really. Everything feels different up on the rooftops, and Fenris walks around a little, his ears pricked for the sound of footsteps suddenly approaching. He assumes Astarion is going to try and sneak up on him, perhaps to stab him; that really ought to be more concerning a fact than it is.]
Astarion?
[He knows you're up here, you little shit. Probably. Maybe.]
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Of course, that’s hardly surprising. This time, neither of them are drunk or high or stupid with— well, no. They might still be afflicted with excitement, just a different shade of it than before.
The point is, their instincts are sharper this time around. Their reflexes honed.
And Astarion— petty Astarion, wicked Astarion, malicious Astarion— is silent as death itself as he stalks in close, daggers already clutched in hand (his calves are a little raw from having hunkered somewhere below the rooftop’s rusted lip for the better part of an hour in predatory wait, but it doesn’t detract from the shapeless fluidity of his strides); there’s no warning save for the slightest brush of displaced dust across stone underfoot when he lunges like a serpent bursting from the brush—
And this time he isn’t holding back.
Which is to say that if Fenris isn’t careful, he’ll absolutely be visiting a healer with gouge marks embedded in both shoulders.
Bite marks from Astarion's second set of fangs.]
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Well. Even he can't anticipate everything.
Which is to say that yes, Astarion's blades sink in successfully: sharp mettle slicing through leather padding like so much tissue paper, piercing through skin and muscle to bite deep. It's not anywhere vital, nothing that he can't heal from, but oh, it hurts. Of course he shouts, stumbling back, the scent of blood thick in the air as it stains his leather; he sees a flash of white hair in the corner of his eye, and oh, that little shit—]
Brat.
[Seethed out, but he's grinning fiercely. He's armed with a blade today, not a sword, and it's because he suspected something like this would happen. A rematch of sorts, neither of their sense dulled by alcohol or grief, and oh, there have to be safer ways for them to have fun, but none that gets his blood racing quite so quickly. His wounds throb painfully in time with the thundering of his heart; idly he notes the blood welling in his wounds, but dismisses them. They'll clot soon enough.]
Do you stab everyone who questions you, or am I special?
[He absolutely is going to have to challenge Astarion to a fight with swords soon. He's not bad at blades, but not bad isn't worth much compared to someone who wields them spectacularly well. He's going to get stabbed again, he thinks with a cheerful sort of resignation; it's worth it.]
I take back impotent, at least. Though I note you still have not bit me.
no subject
But beneath the hungry beating of adrenaline, the widened spread of dilated red eyes, maybe it should bother him, the idea of wounding someone so uniquely important to him. Someone he’s already committed to safeguarding: all the more diligent now about who roams close to his Lowtown flat by way of crowded streets at night.
It doesn’t.]
You’re special whether I stab you or not.
[Having already torn himself free (he isn’t so naïve as to think Fenris won’t phase right out of existence when he needs to, and all it takes is a second of turning, a flash of lyrium—), there’s a substantial difference of feet now set between them, nimble preparedness living in how Astarion’s perched across the frontmost points of dark boots.
Predatory grin drawn wide across features that aren’t anything but wild, coiffed curls tumbling nearer to his eyes.]
But that only makes it more fun.
[One blade flips in his hand. He holds it by its blood-soaked tip, ignoring how the scent of it is almost maddening to his own addictive mind.]
Now, hold still, and I’ll show you what a vampire spawn is capable of.
[He throws it, that glassy dagger. Quick as a whip— though he doesn’t expect it’ll connect, given the warning he’s left exposed in goading showmanship. It is, in essence, nothing more than bait: a means to force Fenris to move without thinking—
Just so he can catch him unawares, the overlong edges of his jagged fangs already gleaming as he strikes.
A serpent, maw open, ready to clamp down across the span of Fenris’ throat.]
no subject
It's a fleeting thought as he pulls out his own weapon (so terribly uninteresting compared to Astarion's sleek blades, but on the other hand, it's sharp and gets the job done). He loves this so much, for only when he's fighting does he forget everything else. All his lonely, bitter thoughts or paranoid musings, all his grief and rage and hurt, all of it gets swept away in favor of absolute primal urgency to survive.
Adrenaline thunders through his veins, but Fenris is utterly still, his eyes riveted on Astarion as he drawls all that out so coyly. It's ever a game of stop-and-start when they play with knives: waiting with baited breath and tensed limbs, focusing on too many things at once, every cell in his body primed towards trying to anticipate what next. What next, what next—
There!
A knife easily dodged, a bark of laughter in his throat— a feint, he realizes a second later, movement catching in the corner of his eye. He twists, grabbing the front of Astarion's shirt swiftly— but ah, not swiftly enough, for in the next instant teeth slice through flesh, latching and tearing messily as Fenris uses their joint momentum to throw them both on the ground.
No lyrium. Not now. Just Fenris scrambling to straddle him, to pin him down with his thighs, dropping his own blade so he can try to pin down both of Astarion's hands. There'll be time enough for slicing the other elf up, but after he disarms him.]
Drop it.
[Blood dripping from his throat, thick crimson drops beading and dripping down onto the other man, and he doesn't notice. The pain is a steady throb— his teeth must have sunken in fairly deep, and absently he takes note of that. He's not losing too much blood, but still, he can't afford another wound.]
Or I will take it from you forcibly.
hoo boy fair cw for blood and violence at this pt
He isn’t a slave to it anymore, blood.
Not to Cazador or his curse so long as Thedas cares to leave him leashed to it instead, and that’s its own mercy. Its own pristine, utterly perfect bliss. What he feels in response to the febrile slick of blood across his lips (across his tongue, quick to coat the back of his throat when he swallows) isn’t the oppressive grip of sanguine hunger, just his own malicious taste. His wretched preference, defined.
(But this—
It almost scalds, it’s so potent. Bold heat carrying like spice through that bitter iron tang, coiling in the back of his throat. Mellowed in the aftermath, but oh, that tailing bite. Electric-spark and overwhelming, and he thinks—
No, he knows.
Lyrium. It must be.)
And gods, it's lamentable, how much of it is going to untouched waste as it trickles down along the sleek lines of Fenris’ throat, dripping in pattering rhythms to stain the front of Astarion's shirt. His nostrils flare when he inhales. His muscles strain, fingernails biting in against both the grip of his dagger and the flat of his pommel. More animal than preening elf.
More animal than most anything, in fact, though his voice rumbles in his throat when he speaks.]
A tip, darling: [Red. All red. Crimson eyes hooded, dark as a shark that’s just been fed. His chin streaked with it. His fangs coated as he grins, all but purring.]
Don’t threaten what you’re unwilling to carry out.
[And there, that barely-stilled demeanor twists: a split-second snap of his jaw towards the hand that clutches at his wrist. It’s too far to properly reach, he’s only banking on apprehension; once bitten, twice shy, as they say.
A narrow hope that it’ll throw Fenris’ balance enough that he’ll be able to turn the figurative, bloodied tables.]
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You stay right here, as his fingers shifts, slipping down to squeeze the delicate bones of Astarion's wrist, painfully tight. Fenris draws his hand up off the ground— and slams it down hard against the stone roof. Again and again, swift and methodical, battering and bruising, until at last those gloved fingers are smashed loose and he releases his prize. Astarion's dagger clatters to the roof, and Fenris grins.
Hah.]
What was that, now . . .?
[Quick as a flash: their positions shifting, one hand cinching tight around both wrists. Not a secure hold by any means, but after a few seconds it doesn't matter, for he's got the tip of that pretty blade kissing the hollow of Astarion's throat.]
Tell me, Astarion: can a vampire survive a slit throat?
[Maker, but he's fearsome prey like this. That familiar face smeared with Fenris' own blood, and oh, it's nauseating and fascinating all at once. It's rare to see something so primal, but oh, if it isn't just thrilling. In the same way seeing a perfectly balanced blade is thrilling; in the same way watching someone slice through enemy after enemy, a hurricane of skill and deadly grace. The thrill of something new and deadly and competent, in ways Fenris had not imagined before.]
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Feral. Cutting. Wrenching agony sings throughout the whole of Astarion's arm under iron pressure, radiating from split knuckles downwards in the surging aftermath of that exchange (even his gloves hadn’t been enough to dull the savage slam of soft tissue over stone, utterly ruthless in its make), it burns—
And yet all he can do is stare, open-mouthed and panting, heart hammering high within his throat, rabbiting just beneath the bloodied tip of his own dagger. Nauseating and elating all at once, as though even his senses were beaten into relenting, just for a moment.
Astarion doesn’t realize he’s smiling in the gaps between breaths.]
No— [Not anymore, and it isn’t a distinction he has room to make between the pinch of metal against his skin and the swimming high of a wicked fight.
If anyone from Riftwatch saw them they’d no doubt assume it was a murder in progress.
Or maybe just an assassination.]
No.
[He repeats again, his throat working to swallow in the aftermath. It hurts beautifully.]
Not anymore.
You've won, little pup. We're even.
[Beaten fingers curl. Flex. Docile as a thoroughly scruffed cat, Astarion doesn't dare lurch up into the tip of that blade (or risk it twisting across his throat by kneeing Fenris without restraint). But given the flickering back-and-forth of hollowed irises, it might be safe to assume that Astarion's only biding his time for another opening. Another moment of approaching, perceived weakness.
Let him up. Show him your back, Fenris.]
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The blade sinks just a little deeper, slicing through that first layer of skin.]
Little wolf, if you are to call me anything. That is what my name means.
[Oh, yes. Fenris, a Tevene bastardization of the elven word for wolf, Fenrir, coupled with a traditional diminutive . . . it is what it is, and he has long since stopped being resentful over it. The blade lifts, slipping out of Astarion's throat, as he scoffs.]
And we are not near even. You stabbed me twice, you bit me . . . in what world does my bruising your hand count as even?
[Hm . . . really, by all rights, he ought to be allowed to stab Astarion in both shoulders, but it just isn't as satisfying after a pause. The blade's tip rises, drifting upwards, as Fenris regards those darting eyes.]
Left or right?
[Before he has a chance to answer, the blade strikes: flicking upwards once, twice, the blade's tip dragging viciously—
— to leave two neat slices spanning from chin to lower lip: a perfect mirror of the ones mirrored in lyrium on Fenris' own face.
There. Now they're even.]
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[He sucks in air between his teeth in a gasping hiss as that blade flicks high— once, twice— wincing as he feels a sting he can’t quite place for a lone, bracingly tensed beat—
And then, glancing up into that smug expression shadowed overhead, it clicks:]
You cut me— shit, you actually— [He shouldn’t laugh. In truth, the ratcheted noise squeezed out from the base of his throat is more of a balking bark than anything else: incredulity slapping straight into sadistic (or would this be masochistic, he wonders) amusement, all stitched through with wonderment beneath. What is this wild thing curled over him now? He barely recognizes him (no, that’s not right: he recognizes him perfectly), and it strikes him then that for all his condescension, Fenris is right. A wolf. A wolf that’d too long been collared like a dog, baring wild eyes and jagged claws.
A bite that matches his own.
Hells.
Heat marks his lips, the underside of his jaw, his neck. With the mess of their shared injuries now intermingling via lines of vivid red, Astarion imagines he looks unhinged to say the least.
(He also, for good measure, shamelessly dips his tongue to the edge of his mouth— curious to snare a glimpse of what his own blood tastes like, now that he’s not trapped behind the barriers of propriety. Now that he knows they’re both beyond etiquette of any sort.
Equal, yes. Just so.)]
I stand corrected about you. [Is that respect? Low-strung and darkly voiced, it must be.]
Now, unless you intend to spend the rest of the evening cutting away at my skin until we perfectly match, [Gloved fingers flex once more, twisting the bones pinned beneath Fenris’ grasp. He is, for the record, far more deliberate when he shifts the edge of his hip low against the inner edge of his companion’s thigh.] I think it’s time you let go.
...please.
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Please, and wouldn't he sound fantastic whispering that in another context? Flat on his back and all stretched out beneath Fenris' thighs, reddened mouth parted and all of him arching upwards in trembling need, please, gasping and stunned by someone who could overpower him, who could subdue him properly, bratty little thing that he is, please Fenris, and how triumphant, how fantastic it would be to grant it to him in a show of triumphant benevolence—
— oh, but only ever to a point. Submissive and bratty only until he could turn the tables, and oh, it would be fantastic to hear that voice in other contexts, hot and heavy against his ear, something hard and hot tapping between his legs, little pup—
No.
Absolutely not. Absolutely not, no, and he shoves that thought firmly to the side, banishing it after one long, heavy second. Things that are not helped by that (surely accidental) nudge of Astarion's hip against his thigh. Fenris exhales sharply, a dismissive thing, as he releases Astarion all at once, hands and hips, hopping to his feet with nimble grace. It's too abrupt, but he can't manage anything smoother, not now.]
I— yes. Of course.
[It's ugly, is the thing. Ugly and unworthy, and so, so stupid when he's so fresh back in the city. Is he really going to isolate his only ally— his newfound ally, at that— in such an easy way? Sex is fun and fine in its place, but sex is dangerous. Frankly, feelings are dangerous, and it's risky enough he's so endeared to Astarion as a companion, never mind—
Look. It's just too risky, all right. It's too risky when he has so few allies, when Varania might still be out there, when he is new and lonely and so, so afraid of giving his heart away and getting hurt again . . . so better to ignore it, and treasure what he has. Better to blame that momentary rush on battlelust and his own years-long abstinence and move on.
He glances away, making a bit of a show of checking the streets below— though surely if anyone was to have gotten the wrong idea, they would have long since called for guards. (Or, possibly, started to place bets on who would kill whom; this is Kirkwall).]
Next time, your throat.
[It's a weak joke, his fingers swift as they gesture at his own: see? He means his lyrium. Hah . . . ugh.]
Is that another tie? Or do I get to claim that as victory?
[Mm, better, but not great. It's just that he's distracted, all right; it's just that it's hard to dart back into that competitive space when he's still thinking about— no he damn well isn't, he snarls at himself, but look, he's doing his best, is the point here.]
We ought to set up wagers if we're going to keep doing this.
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He knows better.
Really, he does. It’s meanness in the way that’s fond and self-serving besides: pushing the boundaries without fooling himself. Without forgetting just where it is that they stand. He isn’t a ghost, for one. Not one of the echoes roaming Kirkwall’s streets, haunting the peripheral edge of Fenris' passing stare. He can’t wrest an unwilling heart from its longing binds.
And he can’t fill the gap that’s been left behind.
He knows.
He’s tried.
So. There’s a muted laugh as Fenris rushes back to his feet (and that’s further proof, isn’t it) at that absurd little nudge, proudly rolling up onto his forearm— his side— even as he bleeds, dripping gruesome rivulets when he grins. They’re likely going to have to avoid Hightown entirely in search of a healer. Hells, they might need to resort to Darktown, come to think of it. Better that than stir up enough unsightly concern, capping off their night by dealing with the Kirkwall guard.]
Oh. [Sly hiss, slyer shiver, mocking in the most stupid sense, considering he’s just been thoroughly (read:violently) struck on the figurative nose.] Try not to threaten me with a good time, darling.
I’ll never learn to behave.
[That they match in part right now is... hm. No, not the time to think on it.]
Anyway, much as I’d like to cite damage as the dominant driving force in this exhilaratingly wicked game of ours, I’m fairly certain it’s all about who yields as far as traditional exchanges go. [In other words:] You’ve won, little wolf.
Don’t let it go to your head.
[Compared to earlier banter, Astarion doesn’t sound unhappy when he says it; warmer scolding, nothing more. His fingers flex over chalky stone, tacky blood clinging to dust and silt.]
I’ll have my revenge next time, to be sure. [Consider that him voicing his opinion as to whether or not they'll likely do this again.]
But... [a sweeping segue, the word drawn out long.] Do you even own anything to wager with?
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Remind me, Astarion: which of us resides in a mansion in Hightown . . .?
[There. Pretend it's easy and it is, just like that. He falls back into the swing of banter swiftly enough, dabbing at his throat with one (dusty, bloody) sleeve.]
Then again: you do live in a magpie's nest. Even if I owned a great deal, is there anything you would want? You seem to be stocked full as-is.
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It’s only the high of a vicious battle fading, surely. Or rejection, natural-born and nothing new. Or both. Distance always a sure sign of discomfort at its most baseline measure.
That said, he’s never minded the loneliness of being himself; he’s certainly never known anything softer. Or warmer. Or kinder. He doesn’t feel as if he’s missing out by virtue of Fenris having nothing in the way of physical interest. No— in fact he knows he isn’t.
(Sitting alone beside frosted panes, sharing glimpses of old scars and fresher memories— bared in meandering repetition until the worst of their seething fears subsided. Soft laughter becoming kindled defiance, when all the world outside felt hopelessly bleak.
He isn’t masking his pain anymore, not since that night.)
He doesn’t need anything more than this.]
Want isn’t the same thing as need, I’ll remind you. [Easy wording, even easier tone as he moves to the edge of the roof (namely where he’d crouched for the better part of an hour) to pluck up the kit he’d brought beforehand: simple salves and soaked gauze, plunking himself down behind Fenris and— without asking— nudging the marked elf's head to one side, for the sake of getting a look at how deeply he’d actually bitten.]
And I'll need every last piece of that nest— and more— if I’m to make something of myself in this city. [Gauze to raw skin, freezing cold with ointment. It won’t heal anything, but it’ll at least stem the bleeding.] Unlike someone who won’t be named, not all of us are so lucky to live in sprawling fortune.
So.
Unless you’re fussing over sharing sleeping space on my floor with a few extra bottles of wine, I’ll take whatever that mansion of yours has to offer.
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[Is it the chill or the sheer touch that leaves Fenris flinching? Both, maybe, but Astarion's fingers are careful, dodging lyrium and touching only skin. And it feels . . . nice, frankly. He always forgets how much he enjoys touch until he feels it again, brief flickering bursts that never last long enough and that he refuses to chase after. Fenris stares idly out at the city, letting Astarion finish setting that gauze into place before regarding him once more.
(He should probably ask for gauze on his stab wounds, but that would involve taking off his shirt, and honestly, he'd rather not, not when it's still so frigidly cold).]
Ah, so my losing a bet to you is an act of charity now. I see. And my winning will be robbing you of something that you might otherwise have used to make something of yourself . . .
[He's teasing, amusement coloring his tone.]
. . . you are welcome to stay there, you know. If it pleases you.
[Stupid, after all that he'd just gone through, but it's not as if he's offering Astarion his bed. The arrangement would be no different— better, even, for it's not as if Astarion would have to sleep on the floor. There's a thousand rooms (or so it seems sometimes) filled with dusty beds and unused sheets . . . why shouldn't they be put to good use?
And yet it feels different, somehow. He doesn't know why. Perhaps because there's a difference between crashing on a floor as opposed to pointedly sleeping in another room. There's a certain haphazard quality to the former, an idle oh-if-you-must, despite the fact they've gotten so used to the arrangement that there's a little spot that's definitively Fenris' now. A comforter that he's used to curling beneath; their morning habits neatly scheduled (Astarion does everything first, from washing to dressing; Fenris grumbles and stares at the wall, gnawing at some kind of breakfast roll, until he's through).
It has the feel of coincidence, even if it isn't. But inviting someone over, preparing a guest room . . . it's pre-meditated. It suggests a sense of forethought and planning, an open desire for company and friendship, and oh, it's pathetic how that makes him nervous, but it does nevertheless. Besides: he has never once done it before. Isabela would always creep out before morning came, and no one was ever drunk enough after cards to need to stay the night.
But it's pleasing in the morning to wake up to someone else.
Whatever. Before Astarion can answer, Fenris reaches past him, nabbing some of that gauze.]
Hold still.
[Oh, he had cut him deeply, he's certainly going to need a healer for this, but it won't scar if he takes care of it. Fenris catches his chin in one hand, his mouth tensing into a thin line (perhaps a bit too thin, a bit too focused) as he cleans him off.]
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When, what? It’s such a whirlwind, that shift. Or it will be when he recalls it later, wondering what actually happened versus the snippets of absolute nothing that Astarion recalls (less than nothing, in fact: only the deadened hang of silence surrounding them, offsetting the churning of the Foundry’s machinery and billowing smoke; the way Fenris hardly inhaled before he asked, or the hum of his low-set voice catching across level syllables)— over something so nominal as being offered an arrangement they already have.
But it isn’t the arrangement they have, is it?
He’d given Fenris the option that first night because they were drunk and injured and— above everything else after a revelation as overtly sundering as the one they put behind them— exhausted. And he left that offer open in part because it meant Astarion could keep watch in a sense, selfishly offsetting the risk of reprise. A better chance at keeping still more loss at bay when he's already tired. Already wounded from its endless reach.
(And, of course, Astarion is Astarion: he’d opened his door more than once to the others in Riftwatch that struck a chord with him, a claustrophobic sanctuary. A narrow den of iniquity.)
But Fenris isn’t Astarion. He values his privacy, so far as the pale elf can tell: slinking around like a hungry stray when the itch strikes, looking for an open space by the fire (knowing that it’s there, alongside a blanket and a meal and whatever else suits whichever night of the week it is— cards, chatter, silence and an uncorked bottle of wine— sometimes he comes in just to sit and sleep, curling up without a word) but he’d wander out on his own time, sure enough.
Astarion doesn’t need it. He doesn’t distinctly crave it, either, sating his gnawing urges by roaming for touch, rather than secure space and simple companionship.
Or.
Or that’s only what he tells himself.
He’s stilled completely in Fenris’ grasp, meeting his stare for a few dumbstruck seconds before dropping it entirely— opting not to make the work of wiping away whole smears of blood more uncomfortable than it could be. Like the turning of gears in his head, like the snap of learned instinct taking over, his momentary flicker of doe-eyed bewilderment passes, giving way to a paper thin smile.
(It pulls at those cuts on his chin, making them well a touch more.)]
If it pleases me.
[Oh, Astarion, always so afraid of a kind hand that he has to shy from it.]
...It might. [It does.] Taking up space in Hightown does sound like the perfect way to bring yet more discomfort to Kirkwall’s pampered elite.
[It isn’t just about that, but those are the words that slip from between his fangs all the same. Easier, always, to make light of everything. To laugh.
He’s never been offered something like this before. Not without an ulterior motive. A lustful heart.]
But first, [He starts mildly, putting a few fingers to the edge of that gauze to brush it aside, assuming he looks passable enough to roam the streets in search of a healer.] you and I ought to find some actual treatment for these wounds.
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The reminder startles him, and he exhales a little laugh, drawing his hand back.]
Yes, I suppose so.
[Oh, yes, his shoulders are just aching, throbbing in pain as if in reminder. The adrenaline is ebbing out of his system, and oh, he'll be wincing the entire walk towards the healer. Is he still bleeding? He is not, but only because his shirt has stuck to his back.]
Do you have one in mind? Lowtown may be our best bet, though they may ask a few questions . . . especially for you.
[Ha ha, because he's all marked up, remember . . .? Fenris smirks, there and gone.]
Come on.
[It takes a few hours, actually, for there aren't many healers who treat elves and don't overcharge, but sooner or later they locate one. The man is clearly more interested in profit than do-gooding, but he seems reliable enough. There's stitches and gauze for Fenris; Astarion gets a touch of healing magic, coupled with an ointment and a stern warning not to strain his mouth too much over the next few days.
(He does not make a rude comment, but it's close).
It's dark by the time they emerge. And Kirkwall is Kirkwall, vice-ridden and awful no matter where you go, but some parts are safer than others; it makes sense for them to both go up to Hightown. Better that than splitting up and risking further dismemberment at the hands of some opportunistic gang— Astarion could handle it, surely, but sometimes it's nice to just go directly home, you know?
So. So here they are, and though Fenris will never apologize for how he chooses to live, ah . . . it would have been nice, perhaps, to have picked up a bit before allowing someone else in.
The mansion was in a state of disrepair from the moment Fenris inherited it, and fifteen years has done it no favors. Broken tiles litter the floor; moonlight streams in from the open rooftop, providing more than enough illumination for him to navigate by. Some of the fallen paintings and old boxes have, at least, been cleared away and thrown out, but there are no hints of personal decoration or habitation. Nothing to say that an elf haunts these halls, and has for over a decade now.
He leads them towards the back, in the room he's claimed as his bedroom— and here, at least, things have improved. He has a small bookshelf set up, filled with a startlingly eclectic range of subjects; his bed is a nest of blankets and sheets stacked ridiculously high, a semi-successful ward against the perpetual chill radiating off the walls and stone floor. Clothes are kicked haphazardly into a small pile in the corner; his armor is set much more carefully up on a stand, with polish and oil not far. A small rug is laid out in the center of the room; a banked fire is swiftly stoked, Fenris balancing on the balls of his feet, prodding at it with a poker.]
We can hunt for a bed, but be warned: it will be dusty. It has been a long time since I bothered going through the guest bedrooms. Still, you are welcome to them.
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Times like this, he misses Derrica’s numbing touch. Or Adrasteia’s. The differences between the healer they’d seen (competent, fine) and the ones that’ve brought Astarion back— quite literally— from the brink of death never more apparent than in this very moment. A little bliss would go a long way.
For now, he settles by huddling down beside a fire soon to warm, legs tucked in almost childishly close, arms folded around them; it isn’t that he hates the cold, he barely feels it, but heat. Light.
Like friendship in the truest sense, it’s all so damned new.
He can’t help but lean towards it, even if only by the barest of degrees.]
You’re practically sleeping outside. [He scoffs, acidity catching against the roof of his mouth as he eyes the creeping decay of a place too long left to rot, treated more like a den than a home.
Furnished as even this space might be, it’s...]
No wonder you came skulking to my doorstep so often.
[Astarion.]
Dust is doable. I endured an ocean of it while I was in Cazador’s care. I don’t imagine I won’t be able to handle a bit more of it now. [Not that it’ll be cozy, but it’s better than trudging all the way back to Lowtown. Or risking the aches of same-bed proximity now, when his chest still feels as raw as his chin (so itchy that he has to fight not to touch it).
That said, there’s one defining question that’ll tip the scales either way, asked while he eyes the distinctly dustless bookshelf nearby:]
What about blankets, though?
I can stoke a fire as thoroughly as anyone, but if you haven’t got a set to spare, I might as well just stay shut away with you in here till morning.
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Understand: he isn't hoarding them all for himself in a fit of greed, but rather necessity. Fires only do so much, and there's nothing worse than waking up at three in the morning shivering because you've too few layers piled up. And yes, there are other blankets in the mansion, surely, but nothing particularly heavy. Nothing suited for those last biting few weeks of awful chill, where your toes are always numb and you've begun to feel as though you'll never get fully warm again.
So he hesitates. Balks for a moment, torn between the obvious solution and, hm, literally any other. But ugh, he's being stupid. It's a full bed; it's not as if they'll be lying in a twin. And they've already shared a bed once before, so what is he balking over, exactly?]
You may share the bed with me tonight.
[It sounds more declarative than it's meant, but that's just how he speaks.]
We can huddle beneath mine. There have to be other comforters in the mansion, but I do not know where, and it will take too long to find them tonight. And having at least a few layers is necessary, especially as the fire dies.
[So. There, and he goes to roll up the sheet he sticks at the crack between floor and door, insulating them.]
And I do not skulk at your doorstep. I visit. There is a difference. I am not a waterlogged stray hoping for a scrap of food.
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[Again, he draws the curtain high over his own apprehensions; it’s nothing, after all, given that they’ve slept beside one another before. It’s not as if he’ll be forced to look at the stitches etched across either one of Fenris’ shoulders, the bite marks on his neck—
Don’t look at the bite marks on his neck.
Red eyes snap to the floor, away from the other elf’s well-practiced work at insulating a room that seems determined to defy it all. Faintly— fingers pressed light to his own chin, feeling the subtly dipping differences between mending lines— he wonders if the insulation’s gone sour by way of crumbling stone. Or if Danarius, much like Cazador, had never bothered with details half as much as grandeur.]
How very merciful of you, darling. [They are, in their own ways, absolutely strays. But that isn’t the hill he’s going to slog through to die on tonight, giving his palms one last flex against radiating heat before he draws himself upright only to slither beneath every last one of those heavy covers. Cold, from being left alone all day. Biting faintly against his skin through silk.
He isn’t suffering— though he imagines Fenris might be once he deigns to join in. Astarion’s face peeks out from behind the heap.
It’s mostly hair.]
Next time you’ll have something suitable ready for me, yes?
Or at the very least, I’ll leave one of mine here, so you can choose the room that’s most intact for my needs.
[A beat, before:]
…there is at least one that’s mostly intact, isn’t there?
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[Much like trying to judge whether Fenris' neutral stare is that of disapproval or simply how he looks, so too is it difficult to distinguish deadpan humor and sincerity. Which is just how he likes it; it's amusing to keep people guessing.
So it goes now, Fenris idly answering as he stands, heading towards a small dresser, pulling out a long, loose shirt. It's more than he usually wears to sleep, if you want to know the truth, but there's taking a risk by sharing a bed and then just leaping wholeheartedly into foolishness by sleeping in only his underthings.]
No, all of the other rooms in this house have crumbled. Open any door— ah, [ow, god, taking off a shirt is hard when you've been stabbed, who knew?] —and you will find nothing but two or three walls apiece, if that. Dogs and rats wander in and out, making themselves at home; I believe a litter of kittens was just born three doors to the left.
[There, now. Comfortable and changed (with only a bit more protest from those stitches), and Fenris moves to slip in next to Astarion. And it's—
It's fine. It's nothing. They're buried under so many sheets and quilts that it's hard to think of other ways a bed might be used. Really, the trouble comes from rolling over and seeing two crimson eyes peering at him. It's stupid and funny and intimate, and if he's not careful he'll enjoy it too much, and then where will he be?
So. A solid foot between them, Fenris settling onto his side, staring at flatly as Astarion as he can manage.]
Yes, Astarion. There are a few for you to choose from, and perhaps it will be ready for you when next you come.
[Ugh, it's freezing beneath the sheets, and Fenris scowls, kicking his feet once or twice in a vague attempt to generate friction. He'll warm up soon enough, he knows, but right now, the tips of his ears are going numb.]
Is his lordship settled? [And then, swiftly anticipating a possible answer:] I am not getting up again if you find you wish for a glass of water.
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[Is it possible for someone already white as a sheet to go at least twelve shades paler? Because somehow Astarion manages it, imagining already rooms devoid of anything but absolute rot: metal bones jutting up through graveled stone, finery and deft wooden craftsmanship exposed to snowdrift and slush, with fleets of critters bedding down in every half-formed crevice, looking for sanctuary from the cold— and right at the heart sits Fenris, lording over ruin.
It does, at the very least, distract Astarion enough that he doesn’t look too deeply at those marks as they’re exposed.
Alongside everything else.]
Oh you bratty thing. Don’t play coy with me when your estate looks like— [looks like—]
This.
[The gap between words comes as Fenris turns around to crawl into bed beside him, shirt slung loose around his shoulders and its hemline long but— ah, don’t. One snapping reset of his own comportment (complete with blinks) and he isn’t looking towards the softly glowing lines roaming along Fenris’ inner thighs as heavy blankets draw back. He’s not.]
Anyway, his lordship trusts you can find just the right spot for him on your own.
[Thick as the covers are, there’s a half-dip in the space between them. A gap where shared heat starts to pool over time, blooming as the seconds tick on, warmer than fringe edges.
Astarion ignores it. He shifts, in fact, turning his eyes towards the ceiling instead.] And after splitting his chin, a glass of water seems like the least you could do.
[It’s...shockingly fond, that nitpicking. Easy, despite the tension strung light beneath his ribs.
When he looks back over the mess of blankets, he’s wearing a tiresome grin.]
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[This is fine. This is a normal, fine conversation, and as the seconds tick by, Fenris finds himself settling into it. His momentary flare of lust was just that: momentary. An abnormality, prompted by hormones and amplified by fondness, but things are back to normal now, and the fond swell of affection he feels as he catches sight of that tired grin is platonic, nothing more.
He likes Astarion. That's no bad thing. And perhaps he is more hurt than he realized, that he recoils so nervously from even that. Calm down, he scolds himself. Is he so unpracticed in having friends, then, that he does not know how to distinguish between platonic affection and something more? He's being stupid, and to that end, he pointedly shifts in closer towards the middle of the bed, edging towards that heat. Why not? He isn't overly fond of touch, but they aren't touching: just huddled a little closer together, temporary refuge.
He could continue the joke. But ah . . . Astarion's comments, rude though they are, aren't entirely incorrect. Tucking one arm beneath himself, Fenris adds:]
. . . I had not realized how much it had fallen apart in my absence. Though in retrospect, I do not know what I expected. It's a wonder they haven't tried to repossess it, but I suppose Danarius bribed them off long ago. It was a wreck when I inherited it.
[Why not? What do the wealthy care if their toys rot away? If he'd ever settled in Kirkwall, he would have paid to have it redone, but it was only ever a temporary distraction at best. Danarius enjoyed Minrathous. He would never leave it to come to somewhere so backwater as Kirkwall.]
I suppose sooner or later someone will notice an elf squatting here, and call the guards. But until then . . . I doubt I could sell it, but I refuse to live in the alienage.
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Because Fenris is there beside him, only a few inches away at best; that dip in the covers now leveled, and Astarion— is stiff (no, not like that), rigid from his shoulders down, his arms flat at his side and his eyes circling a winding crack in the ceiling. It branches twice. Three times. It looks a little like lightning. Or roots.
He feels so much warmer, now.
But then the subject changes, and something in Astarion goes that much colder for it. Silver brows dropping, tone tangling with audible irritation.
....or is it distaste?]
No. Not the alienage. [It’s an agreement. A hard-drawn line. Not there, no matter what.
There’s a reason why Astarion pays such a wretched amount in rent, and it’s because he won’t slink in beneath rotting wood to hunker down like a wet, shivering burden— only halfway tolerated by a city that doesn’t want him in it.]
If it ever comes to that, there might still be a way to pay off the guardsmen regardless in exchange for a little more discretion. As I've said before, my coffers are far from empty. [And the high and mighty do so forget to properly compensate their underlings at times, expecting far more than they grant. So long as no one pays to have Fenris removed, there's a decent chance of staving off that problem right at the root the moment it crops up.]
And, barring that, you can stay with me.
[There’s no rushing inflection. No waver in his pitch; the most simple determination— the only logical step.
No alienage. No desperation.]
But the better way to prevent having anyone called on you might be to actually start making the place look more presentable. Or at the very least put together well enough on the outside to keep anyone from giving enough of a damn to look inside.
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Like sheep bleating in a pen. Hopeless and helpless, whimpering for pity from the wolves, crying out in shock each time one of them is ripped to shreds.
No. Not the alienage.
Instead, there's that offer. You can stay with me, and Fenris' expression goes so odd for a precious few seconds. Startled, yes, but . . .
Well, he'd offer Astarion the same, of course. He knows he would. He would not offer his bed (he would not offer to fix up an entire other room) if he would not offer him permanent shelter, so really, it shouldn't be a shock that it goes both ways. And yet still such a casual statement so easily asserted leaves him blinking, looking dumbfounded for all of three seconds before he settles on his back.
It's easier to quell his odd emotions while staring at the ceiling. Easier to shove away the startled affection, the rush of uncertainty, so pleasing it almost stings— like sinking into a pool of water expecting it to be freezing and finding it warm instead. Oh, and he should not be flinching in shock, but give him a moment to grow acclimated.
Thank the Maker Astarion moves on. Fenris nods, one hand daring to rise out from beneath the sheets to shove through his hair, pushing it back from his eyes.]
I suppose. Though that would involve knowing something about home repair.
[Which he assuredly does not. Even keeping a house is a difficult task— clearly, Fenris thinks wryly, but it is. Figuring out how to keep himself fed, how to plan out meals, how often to do laundry or take out the garbage— it's almost laughable in how simple the tasks are, but he's had to learn them all. It's been a so-so process.
A short exhale, and he adds:]
Most of the foundation is intact. Windows will need to be replaced, as will the roof. The door is solid, as is the lock. Perhaps cleaning the exterior— whitewashing it, though I have no doubt someone will huff and gossip about such a thing.
[He is not unaware of his surroundings. He knows very well, in fact, where all the weak points are. He just hasn't bothered to think about fixing them. It still curdles his stomach, a faint twist of nausea that he pushes away.]
Most of this is built from stone, not wood. It has not rotted. The interior . . . there is more work to be done there, but the exterior is not too enormous a task. The trouble comes from how to afford it— I will not take from you, [before Astarion can offer.] But I do not doubt I will be overcharged no matter where I go, and while I have enough to live comfortably . . . mm, my wealth is not endless.
[It's not really wealth at all, to be honest. He has enough to make it from month to month, especially without rent to worry about, but he isn't rich.]
In any case. I will figure something out, but . . . you are right.
I . . . it is difficult not to see it as an extension of Danarius. And I do not like the thought of repairing what was his.
[And yet here he stays, day after day. What a strange, paradoxical form of existence.]
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It isn’t charity or pity, gods know they’re both better served with an address like this in their relative pockets— and still he's surprised to see an would-be offer like that go untouched. As if Fenris is trying to somehow avoid burdening him. Or...hm.
He flicks that thought aside in favor of the rest:]
Was, yes. [It isn’t condescension; Astarion isn’t blind to what Fenris means— he certainly isn’t numb to the pain that haunted spaces carry. A different sort of haunting than the folklorishly ghastly type most people think of: the way a building can bottle glimpses of a past you’ve already sworn to forget, dragging old wounds right to the surface. How a presence can seep its way into the air, the walls— even the most cramped of corners can still reek of someone long gone.
In a sense, he imagines it might even soothe somehow, that this place wallows instead of flourishes. A blow against Danarius as much as what a restored building could do in terms of conjuring up discomfort just by miasmic proximity.
So, yes. He gets it.
But Fenris lives here. Which, in other words, means he’s also actively punishing himself.]
If I had my hands wrapped around Cazador’s estate, I’d make damned well sure I twisted every little piece of it into something that’d leave him writhing in his ashy little grave. So furious his legacy was uprooted by what, his pet? His amusing little distraction at best.
Insult to injury. [But Cazador isn’t dead. And this mansion isn’t his estate— and between the two of them only Fenris knows what that feels like.
He lets the fantasy slip there, sighing somewhere beneath the covers.]
And I’m not saying my vision has to be yours— although let’s be honest, my opinions soar well beyond exceptional— but shivering or sweltering or sweeping away dust with your bare feet certainly isn’t doing you any favors.
Or, more importantly, me.
And I’d still argue it’s better off in your hands than in some spoiled Hightown toff’s. [The sort of place most likely in Astarion's mind to go to the nearest second heir of absolutely no import. The type to brag about its sordid past, its declining state before they'd gotten their glossy, fine-boned, useless little hands on it.]
So. Think on it. Figure it out on your own if you have to.
But all the same: figure it out.
[Enough years have been burned already.]
Anyway, I'm off to sleep now before a flock of local birds finds its way in through the cracks and makes a nest in my hair. [At least if he passes out early, he supposes he won't be aware of anything but the backs of his own eyelids— because it certainly isn't vermin that has him so tensed still.
He curls his lips into a thready little smile, glancing briefly at Fenris from over his heap of shared covers before adding, surprisingly gently:]
Sweet dreams, darling.
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So what is he doing, exactly? What purpose does living in decay serve? Is it to spite Danarius? Or is it just that he's not used to thinking of the mansion as home?
For years he had used this as an informal base, a temporary shelter while he waited for his master to come find him. It had served its purpose well, but Fenris had never once considered it his home. How could he? So wrapped up in the ever-terrifying thought of his master, unable to predict when he would come, and all around sharp reminders of the horror he had fled. No, this was never home; this was, at best, a warm place that kept him out of the rain each night.
Now, though . . . there is no denying that he lives here. That this, for better or worse, is where he intends to reside for years on end.
It merits further thought. Further contemplation. Tonight, likely, for he can feel his mind spinning. How do you make a mansion a home? How do you take something so overwhelmingly enormous and turn it into something that you enjoy entering? He is not sure, but . . . the first step is repairs, certainly. The roof first, and then perhaps the floors (how hard can it be to put down tile? Perhaps he can do some of this on his own. Perhaps he can bully Astarion into helping him). The windows, some fresh paint, and—
Sweet dreams, darling, Astarion says so gently, and Fenris' thoughts come to a screeching halt. He stares back at him stupidly for a half-second, eyes wide, before jerking his head into a nod.]
— yes.
[What?]
You too.
[Not great.]
Good night.
[Acceptable, and that will have to serve, for in the next moment he's rolling over, his back to Astarion. To his quiet horror, he can feel heat in the tips of his ears, a flush that he's almost sure Astarion won't notice in the dark. He shoves this thoughts firmly back towards home management, struggling to keep them on tiles and foundational bases, rather than why exactly such a sweetly spoken sentiment might leave him reeling.]