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

[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.]