001; like a streak of lightning

[doggish]

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.

[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.]

Comments

[doggish]

Mm? Oh. No.

[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.

[illithidnapped]

A litter of—

[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.]

[doggish]

Again I remind you, Astarion: you bit me.

[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.

[illithidnapped]

[Strewth, he’s slipping closer. Why is he slipping closer? This is Hell. No, the Hells, in fact. Retribution for all of Astarion’s lecherous misbehavior— the relationships he’s ruined and the myriad souls he’s swept wickedly into his bed here in Thedas at last come circling around full bore just like Gwenaëlle might've warned. Her Maker's wrath swinging back towards him with a pendulum's countering momentum.

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.

[doggish]

[It's not as if he hadn't guessed at Astarion's disapproval of the alienage. Why wouldn't he? Hailing from another world, a world in which elves are treated as equals, as superiors— of course he thinks the alienage barbaric. But it's one thing to vaguely guess and another to hear it confirmed, that distasteful tone a mirror of Fenris' own disgust and derision.

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.]

[illithidnapped]

['I will not take from you.' and much as it catches Astarion off guard, some part of him still finds itself wondering why not?

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.

[doggish]

[He has a point, Fenris knows. Shivering or sweltering or sweeping away dust with your bare feet certainly isn’t doing you any favors, and Astarion is absolutely right. It does curdle his stomach if he thinks of it as fixing up something of Danarius', but . . . was indeed, for Danarius and his bastards are long dead, and letting the mansion rot serves no one. It isn't really spiteful insult to his memory, not when this was only ever a vacation home, not Castellum Tenebris.

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.]