Naming it’s only going to make sure that it stays.
[Plunk, as he drops to the floor beside them both in total resignation, looking at the animal panting (tongue lolling from her great maw) between them with a withering unsurety.
[Oh, he's adorable in his helplessness. Completely pathetic and utterly endearing, and Fenris doesn't bother hiding his grin this time.]
You begin by calling her her, not it.
[Taking his hand, he guides it down to the wolf's stomach, his own hand atop Astarion's own as he demonstrates. Like this, his hand an odd amalgam of warm skin and cool lyrium, lingering a little longer than strictly necessary.]
Like this. Briskly, and more roughly than you'd think. She is anything but delicate. And if she is anything like the dogs I have known, scratching behind her ears will endear her endlessly to you.
[But ah, that's a good point. He's sort of been working off the assumption the wolf was here to stay— and indeed, perhaps she is with or without Astarion's permission, but still, his decision does matter.]
Do you truly wish to have her leave? Fade-touched or not, I imagine she would prove a great asset once she was trained properly. Though if it's a question of—
[Ah. No, best not go down that silly route. Fenris leans back, releasing Astarion's hand (although he'll guide him right back if he pulls away), distracting himself with scritching just beneath the wolf's chin. Whosagoodgirl, and he doesn't quite say it, but that's sure the face he's making at her.]
In any case. You could hurt her, I suppose, if you truly wished to dissuade her— but I think her more of an asset than you realize.
[Look, he’s not a lovesick teenager; he doesn’t turn into a hopeless puddle the second Fenris’ hand closes around his own—
All right, fine. Yes. Sometimes he very much does, and it’s not unpleasant even now, either, the weighty feel of Fenris’ dichotomous touch as it so patiently pulls him through his own listing apprehension (and maybe his shoulders are a little more rounded in the aftermath, his expression a little milder), heart a softer patter high in his chest as he watches the animal calm warmly beneath his palm.
But he’s still weighing it all. Still thinking. Plotting with a racing fervor as he tries to decide which is better: the security of being otherwise unremarkable when already they’re both so distinctly odd— or a doting wolf that might come blinking out of the void in a second to rip apart their enemies.
And for a second he thinks of Cazador. The packs of dire wolves he commanded. The raw threat that control had made him in conjunction with all his other gifts. He feels the heavy rise and fall of her chest as she strains with all her might to work her face farther into Fenris’ scritching fingertips, the broadness of his grin something the marked elf might not even realize exists at all.] Can’t imagine there’s a better guard dog than a hulking beast that can leap through walls.
You train it— train her, then. So that she’s useful.
I don’t want it pissing on any of my belongings. [Good luck with that dream, Astarion.] And if she starts terrorizing the local populace, I—
[And, almost as if on cue, she whips around to roll towards her other side, caking Astarion's fingertips in drool as she licks at them in elated greeting.]
Oh. No. No no no no— stop—
[ugh!! UGH!!]
Edited (shhhh I'm not tired after a long day don't look at my 800 typos) 2022-04-11 00:19 (UTC)
[Oh, he can't help it: he laughs. Not the wry little chuckles he offers when someone says something sly— no, this is a proper laugh, too loud and too bright, startled out of him as Astarion makes the most ridiculous little wail.]
It's slobber, fussy thing, cease your complaining.
[He grabs for his wrist, keeping his hand absolutely within range of the wolf's enthusiastic greeting. Is this mean and petty? Yes! Does he regret it? Absolutely not, laughter still visible in the crinkle of his eyes.]
She's saying hello. And I will train her, if you wish, but not without you. You are her master now, if that is what you choose; it will do her good to see you while she learns commands, and make the association between the two.
But she will drool on your things. And in all likelihood piss on them too. I suggest you grow used to the idea now.
[But fine, fine, he'll release him. A few seconds, and then, deliberately:]
Just wait until she licks your mouth to try and rouse you from bed. I'll hear the screams from Hightown, I'm sure.
Fenris’ laughter only barely clearing the farthest brunt of Astarion's high-shouldered bristling as he's so viciously attacked by loving puppy-dog licks. A prelude to the rubber band snap of his arm as it’s released from a taloned grip, voice a withering cry of irritation that sort of squeezes itself from the base of his throat. Fussy, yes.
But not exactly irate, either.]
You’ll hear the screams from beside me. [He puffs out in petulant protest, wiping his hand across silk. The wolf, now satisfied with all her greetings, collapses on her (extraordinarily) heavy side entirely within Fenris’ lap— paws stretched out to rest against Astarion in turn.] I don’t intend to be left alone with it until I can be sure it’s not about to go utterly wild on a whim.
[Ah, that’s the lie right there. First one of the night— maybe the only one, depending. But seeing as how it’s easier to ask for a dogsitter rather than a nightmare warder, maybe it’s not a cardinal sin.
Confessing in the most roundabout way possible that he doesn’t want to be left alone right now.]
And you’re already here, besides. No point in going back.
Edited (I changed my mind I want better icon transition as is my nerdy right) 2022-04-12 09:46 (UTC)
[The tips of his ears have gone red, not that anyone ought to be noticing. He certainly isn't going to draw attention to it, but there it is, stark against white hair as he busies himself with giving Possibly-Razikale some really good scritches. His legs have gone numb, but that's the price of having a wolf in one's lap.]
Beside you, then.
[Yes. Of course he'll stay. It takes no persuasion at all to spend the night here nowadays, with this person who has roused him from so many terrifying nightmares. It's been weeks, the two of them trading off, and sometimes Fenris ends up moving up to Astarion's bed, and then again sometimes he lingers on the floor. They don't talk about it, really— it isn't a forbidden subject, no, but most times it's easier not to think about the nightly horrors their minds put them through.
Anyway: Razikale, and it takes him a few seconds to remember where he'd heard that name before. It's familiar. It's—]
You're going to name her after a Tevinter magister of old.
[An impatient wuff from his lap, and his fingers resume their steady pace.]
In the Free Marches. While we're at war with Tevinter.
Razza for short. [He amends slyly— without actually amending anything at all, all of his attention (and his clever little smile) aimed directly down at those gargantuan paws— looking surprisingly pleased now that she’s such a docile thing.
Maybe it’s just the acclimation he needs. The little breaks where everything is calmer. After all, Astarion is a spoiled creature at heart. One that feels settled by control.
Hm.
His eyeline lifts.]
Think about it, my darling. Tevinter sorts are so often— no offense intended— surprisingly superstitious. Ritualistic, let's say. [He presses down on her middle paw pad like a button, which has the added effect of splaying all her little toe beans in a fan.]
I imagine the ones serving a god-magister are even more so.
So.
Having a tough fight? Bark out the name of one of their old gods and watch them buckle as something comes bursting out of the Fade.
Also. [He adds, grin widening by degrees.] It’s just funny.
[Is it????]
But if you have a better idea, I’m all pointy ears.
[All right. Fenris can . . . grudgingly concede that such a tactic would be useful (and amusing), exemplified by the short huff of breath he offers, a brief laugh under his breath. But still, she's such a good girl, Fenris thinks fussily, she surely deserves better than to be associated with Tevinter.]
Ataashi is Qunlat for dragon, but it can be understood to mean glorious one. Revered not just for their abilities, but their freedom and wild behavior. Not to be emulated, but at least revered. It slips off the tongue easier.
[For someone who is fluid in Qunlat, anyway, not necessarily for the rest of it. Ah-tah-she, three syllables, and he mouths it silently to himself as he stares down at this wolf sprawled with lazy contentment atop his lap. Even as he watches, she presses her cold nose gently against his palm.]
. . . mm. Perhaps not. Lazy girl, you aren't so fearsome like this.
[Hm. A moment, and a wry smirk slips over his lips.]
You could always name her after a wolf proper. Fenris, my master called me, and it truly does mean little wolf. Do not call her Fenris, but . . . Fen is the elvish word for wolf here. You can conjugate it as you see fit, and remind all just what kind of person wields such a Fade-touched creature.
[And ah, it's . . . odd, right now, to be the one initiating a discussion of elvish. He's never once cared for it before. But it's different with Astarion, who so casually calls him Eladrin and cares not how he identifies himself, so long as it pleases him.]
[Her tail swishes only softly now, but there’s no denying the look of pure love she wears for the attention washing over her now between the pair of them. Kept in a cage all her life, packless and poorly socialized, she is a hungry thing when it comes to gentle affection.]
An excellent idea. But why stop there? Why not go all the way? What’s elvish for 'massive furry animal that drools too much and probably will eat you if I say so'?
[His grin a teasing thing now, so dagger-sharp and yet so utterly fond even as he commits to digging however he pleases. Preening about it for a good half-second before the wolf’s back foot shoves itself hard against his leg, coarse claws dragging over leather.]
What— you’re taking his side? Calling a dog a dog isn’t exactly the height of creativity, you know.
Still. I suppose Ataa... [Err. Hang on, he’s going to cast one somewhat unsure glance Fenris’ way as he tries to remember exactly what it was again.] Ataashi...? That one wasn’t all bad.
And thematically speaking it does match with what I had in mind. Old gods. Formidable creatures.
Something to strike fear into our enemies.
[There, she yawns wide— culminating in a single, clumsy sneeze before dropping her head into Fenris’ lap, blazing eyes drifting shut. It’s been a long journey for her from Antiva, after all.]
[So terribly fearsome, yes. Such a savage beast, currently falling asleep atop Fenris' very numb thighs. How is he meant to get out from under her, exactly? But eh, he'll figure it out in a few minutes. She's warm and her weight is pleasing, and there are worse places to be than on Astarion's floor. He leans back, one hand petting her absently, the other bracing his weight behind him.]
Ataashi, yes. Though I suspect you may have to put your dreams of her being a weapon to rest. She has a wolf's coloring, but a dog's bearing.
[It's a compliment, clearly. But ah, that makes him think of training her. Truly, Fenris knows very little about how to train animals, beyond the vague knowledge they can be trained. Possibly treats are involved. There has to be some sort of book about it in the library; he'll go later today. But either way, she'll need exercise. Astarion's flat is a refuge, oh, yes, and there are fewer places he'd rather be, but it isn't much in the way of space.]
Have you been to the coast yet?
[It's a stupid idea. Stupid and sentimental, but still, he asks it.]
We should take her, now that the weather is turning warmer.
[Is this an elaborate plan so he can heave Astarion into the water and watch him sputter and hiss like a cat? Maybe!]
It would be good for her to have space to run. She'll get fat and lazy if she spends all day in your home.
[The puff of air Astarion lets out is such a narrow little huff of a gesture. Go figure the only beast that binds itself to him is one that is, beneath the surface, utterly useless for anything substantial. Not the snarling forces his master commanded, no— a doting layabout, and one that’s presently keeping Astarion from settling in at Fenris’ side.
His life is suffering.
...but then again, at least he’s suffering in good company.]
Ataashi, then.
[Soft, that. Spoken as his hand glides once along her side, ruffling pitch dark fur.]
Hm? The coast here? Only a few times, but not in any sort of decent weather. [Is he looking at Fenris a little too long as he mulls this over? Probably, yes— which is why Astarion divorces himself from her paws in favor of standing up: prowling over towards that rickety table by the hearth, beginning to pour out two glasses of sweeter smelling wine.] She’ll get fat and lazy if you keep spoiling her darling, but if you two want to run around until your limbs start falling off, I certainly won’t stop you as I watch from a very pleasant distance, thank you.
[Glasses lift, fingers curling around their edges; no more than a stride or two and Astarion is back down where he’d started, offering Fenris a glass— with only a flicker of a teasing attempt to play keep away once offered. Just a single, clever little pull before ceding.
Fenris, though. Now that the wolf is dozing, his mind wanders back to it: Fenris, my master called me, and it truly does mean little wolf.]
Fenris...
Was that his name for you? [Has Fenris been wearing it all this time, or was that always his name—
[So it's settled, then: the first warm day he'll drag Astarion down to the coast, and perhaps by then the water will have warmed enough that he won't be an absolute bastard when he dumps Astarion in. Something to look forward to, and he smiles faintly, pleased at something so simple.
Though for that bit of teasing, Astarion earns a wry smirk and a falsely threatening sort of look. He's lucky, the look suggests, Fenris is trapped beneath Ataashi (and never mind the warmth he feels furling in his chest as he realizes Astarion truly is using his suggestion). But no, he gets his prize; with a little sigh he sips at it, resigning himself (for now) into being nothing more than pillow.
But ah, what a question . . . he drinks a little more, not because he strictly needs to, but because it's all a little easier when he's tipsy.]
Yes.
Fen, as I said, is the elven word for wolf, while ris is a masculine diminutive in Tevene. He took an elf and, with ancient Tevene magic, made him into something worthy of a magister. And so, too, he bastardized an elvish term, turning it from something— what was the word he used? ah, crude, that was what he deemed me— into something more suitable.
[A crude elf, and funny what the mind remembers decades later. So much of those first few weeks are lost in a haze, but he remembers his first party oh, so well.
He finishes his glass (he does go through them so quickly when they talk of the past).]
Leto is the name I was born with. Varania told me, right before she sold me out. I suppose it is my real name, although in truth, I have little connection to it. I cannot remember my past, and so it feels no more right or wrong than any other name.
[That's not necessarily true. It's just that he's deliberately avoided thinking about it.]
. . . I do not mind you knowing. [And then, the wine loosening his tongue, glancing over:] There is very little about me that I would mind you knowing, truthfully. But I would prefer Leto to stay between us. It is . . .
[Hm.]
Too many people know things about me that I do not remember offering up.
[And in response to that feigned, threatening look, Astarion acts at being shaken beneath the weight of it— just for a single, playful second, posture jolting as though taken aback—
Before the subject itself does, in fact, cover the room in a blanket of sobriety.
There, he sips his wine in response, a way to mask exactly just how far his smile falls. Again, so much like the collar, there’s such a flexing of symbolism as if it were nothing short of a blunted weapon. Like an iron brand or a binding leash: Fenris’ master on one end, Leto on the other. Cruel and crude and effective nonetheless— and there’s nothing shown for contempt on Astarion’s part aside from the way his grip has gone a little paler around the base of his glass. There’s more to be said. More to discuss, but—
'Too many people know things about me that I do not remember offering up.'
And that— that is the only thing that stops Astarion from pressing the point outright; a truth too undeniable to argue against, even by Astarion’s own standards.
No, especially by them.]
Mm.
Well I don’t know if I can keep that promise, I’m afraid.
[Another sip, expression grave as death itself. The shortest pause before he leans in oh-so-conspiratorially— gesturing to the creature tucked between them.]
[So it happens like this, over the course of roughly three seconds: his heart is a little heavier right now. His mind is distracted, tangled in faint cobwebs of the past. He had offered that stipulation for formality's sake, really, for he had not expected Astarion to run around and tell others. So it's a shock, then, when he hears that familiar voice say, well. It leaves him off-kilter, his heart pounding too swiftly, his mouth opening (keep that promise, I'm afraid)—
Astarion leans in conspiratorially. And Fenris, a little unaware of his surroundings, more than a little distracted, glances up to protest— and in that way ends up nose to nose with Astarion, their heads tipped at opposite angles, the heat of his breath ghosting against the other elf's lips.
Close. Too close, too close— close enough he can count each individual freckle (faint, now, after winter, but surely that day on the coast will draw them out more). Close enough he can see each individual lash framing those crimson eyes (and oh, they're longer than he expected, how had he never noticed that before?). Close enough that all it would take is the slightest bit of effort to close the gap between them, to press his lips against Astarion's own (and how many times has he thought of that, dreamed of it, fantasies sparking each time his heart swells with fondness— laying in the dark in his bed, guilt and adoration at war with one another as he stares over at his sleeping form, his face finally relaxed, his lips soft and inviting, oh he would taste so sweet)—]
[Oh my god! Oh my god! Say something, anything, literally anything, but now he's caught, his mind sparking in panic as he scrambles to get a foothold, oh my god—]
[Yes! Yes! Thank god! Yes! Okay! That is a perfectly normal thing to say to your bro, yes, okay, fantastic, we're back on track! Okay! Just keep playing it cool and it'll be fine! Jesus Christ!]
If there are betrayals to be had, I assure you, it will be against you, not me.
[SMITE HIM NOW, O MIGHTY SMITER, let him die. But no, he has a grip on himself, he thinks, and allows himself to take a goddamn breath.]
First you keep your wine from me, and now this . . .
I clear out an entire room for you, complete with furnishings, and this is how you repay me.
[There are things Astarion does to elicit response, the necessities of what he once was made for. Made into. Two hundred years of servitude coursing through his veins.
And every bit of Astarion is still— even so far away from Faerûn— attuned to it completely: conversational back and forths, brushing contact sweet as poured wine. He’s been to Wycome and fit unfamiliar hands deftly to his waist with a grin; he’s whispered sweetly in a Tevinter merchant’s ear, drawing them in like fish fluttering along a wound line.
Accidental or not, this isn’t any different. Just contact. Just the heady scent of ozone and wine intermingling in a coursing exhale that pools across his lips. Close enough that it’s an inch of negative space between them.
Maybe less.
(So why is his heart in his throat? Why is his eyeline lowered beneath the shade of his own dark lashes? Why is he drifting nearer by the subtlest difference of degrees, swayed as easily as any prey he’s ever caught?)
He could’ve been wrong. All this time, all the assumptions about what Fenris wanted from him, and there’s such unanticipated avarice in that hope: already imagining where tonight might lead— ]
Yanks himself away, startled and unhappy for the mistake.
(Because that’s all it was, wasn’t it? Ah. Right.)
And Astarion does the same. Coughing once into his glass. Dropping his now-acidic stare somewhere else— anywhere else, in fact, just as Ataashi’s whines snare at a feverishly unhappy pitch, making the entire scene that much more upsettingly chaotic.
Which, you know what? On second thought, maybe he’s done for the night.
Maybe he’ll just stand up (which he does), finish his wine (which he also does), drag himself over to his own fucking bed and— ]
[Ah, Ataashi is tired of her jostling pillow, and the release of his legs is distraction for a precious few seconds, pretending to be far more preoccupied with shifting than he is.
Did he guess? Does he know? The questions flit through his mind rapid-fire, anxiety provoked by that abrupt movement, but surely he wouldn't be asking questions if he was embarrassed or disgusted. He's ignoring it, which means Fenris should too, and they'll put it down to the wine and exhaustion both tomorrow.]
You wished for it, did you not?
[That's not an explanation, and it's not fair for him to take his embarrassment out on Astarion. So:]
Dante volunteered his services to help me rebuild the mansion. Clearing debris was the first step. We began in your room.
[Oh, embarrassed, yes (disgusted, no), but all of it melts away into the background— something he’ll shutter away and force himself to forget about later, in the wretched depths of the night between fitful dreams— as Fenris goes on. As the wolf uproots herself with a shuffling of paws and paces over to the hearth with a lowing huff, leaving the two standing across from one another with no distractions.
And that’s fine.
Really it’s—
Warm. Thoughtful. Kind.
Everything Astarion’s never been capable of touching without breaking.
(How very much like Fenris, he thinks.)]
Does that mean I’ll get everything I ask for? [Lips curling into a slyer grin, one that never reaches his eyes as he moves to drop his emptied glass somewhere along the edge of that withered, miserable little table.]
What a sweetheart you are.
[Oh, Astarion, don’t be mean out of fear.
And maybe he realizes that, just this once. Just this one time, that that’s precisely what he’s doing— dreading kindness still. Because it falls away only a moment later, fingers stilled along the lip of that glass. Hanging just so.]
...I....
Thank you. For doing that.
[A breath. A held beat. Expression lowered and soft, backed purely by fading firelight. And he’s looking at Fenris peripherally now, when he adds in a lower tone:]
[For a few awful, teetering seconds the world is sour. He stands there, cold now that both Astarion and Ataashi have moved away, his fingers curling helplessly at his side. There's a gulf between them, a great yawning void a thousand miles wide, invisible and yet utterly impassable. What was once almost a guarantee (for he has become so used to Astarion at his side as to regard it as a steady fixture, and when had that happened?) now seems so much more fragile, and he does not understand why.
Perhaps I should leave, he thinks of saying, hearing the acidity in that response— but Astarion softens in the next moment, and any thoughts of leaving slip his mind entirely.]
I know.
[No, he knows full well he didn't have to. Astarion might have whined or complained, but it would only ever be in jest. But . . . he shifts his weight, fingers curling and uncurling, but he does not glance away. Not for something this important.]
You have made a space for me here in your home.
[And it's different than just allowing him to stay. Astarion has found him extra blankets; he's cleared a space on the floor, a spot that's now exclusively Fenris'. They share a bed more and more often nowadays, and that brings its own intimacy, but still. There is a place for him here, always waiting no matter what. There is no toll nor tax; he does not need to feign a bright mood or offer up conversation. All he has ever needed to do in this home is be exactly who he is, jagged edges and softened ones alike.]
And now there is a space for you in my home, too.
[A bed. A dresser. A mirror. The sheets turned down and the window opened to give it some air— it's too much, but it isn't, all at once. Not a guest bedroom, but Astarion's, waiting exclusively for him alone.]
It hurts, funnily enough. That’s why he’s so still, like an animal afraid of being bitten for even the slightest shift. This isn’t poise. It isn’t make-believe painted in blissful, pointless sex. It hurts to want so deeply, and to care so undeniably, and to be so stupidly close to the sort of mercy his world— for the only two hundred years he'll ever remember— lacked completely. It hurts to look at Fenris and to see just how stunning he is, within and without alike: an open book, bewildered as to why the companion previously at his side has yanked himself across some terrible divide.
So, since he can’t offer up touch as a distraction. Since he can't distance himself with the taste of wine or sweat, or the brace of humor Astarion can’t bear to feel right now, he pours it out instead.
Himself.]
I’m.
Not used to this.
[An explanation that sticks in his throat.
He feels thin as glass. Brittle as snapped bone. His heart so overfull it might damned well die when he clings to the words now there is a space for you in my home, too. And when he glances up fully there’s no hiding any of it: eyes wide and doggish and lanced through with hope and the knotted uncertainty he’s housing in his chest alike, wondering where the boundaries might actually lie.
They’re tired. They haven’t slept. They’re still hounded. When do the scales tip too far? When does Fenris tire of him, needing nothing else of comfort.
—no, he wouldn't. That's what having a room means.]
I’m not used to being given...anything. Let alone a place in someone else’s life. [Little obligatory gifts, yes. Tokens he could never keep. Small favors in tribute, all different than an open door and a searching stare.] I grant comfort. That’s what I was made for, you understand.
Everything else— anything else— was always just a game played at my expense. Another way to make me seem like a fool for thinking I could have more.
[He swallows just once, stare dropping again in abrupt dismissal of a held train of outdated thought.]
...but I don’t think that’s what you want. [His eyebrows lift in a muted, paper-thin show of forced levity, pulling pitifully at the corner of his mouth:] I mean, I suppose it’d be easier for me to stomach if you did.
At least they’re predictable. All those old horrors.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
2/2
[Plunk, as he drops to the floor beside them both in total resignation, looking at the animal panting (tongue lolling from her great maw) between them with a withering unsurety.
Fingers flexing in midair.]
Ugh.
What do I do. Do I just. Touch it or something?
no subject
You begin by calling her her, not it.
[Taking his hand, he guides it down to the wolf's stomach, his own hand atop Astarion's own as he demonstrates. Like this, his hand an odd amalgam of warm skin and cool lyrium, lingering a little longer than strictly necessary.]
Like this. Briskly, and more roughly than you'd think. She is anything but delicate. And if she is anything like the dogs I have known, scratching behind her ears will endear her endlessly to you.
[But ah, that's a good point. He's sort of been working off the assumption the wolf was here to stay— and indeed, perhaps she is with or without Astarion's permission, but still, his decision does matter.]
Do you truly wish to have her leave? Fade-touched or not, I imagine she would prove a great asset once she was trained properly. Though if it's a question of—
[Ah. No, best not go down that silly route. Fenris leans back, releasing Astarion's hand (although he'll guide him right back if he pulls away), distracting himself with scritching just beneath the wolf's chin. Whosagoodgirl, and he doesn't quite say it, but that's sure the face he's making at her.]
In any case. You could hurt her, I suppose, if you truly wished to dissuade her— but I think her more of an asset than you realize.
no subject
All right, fine. Yes. Sometimes he very much does, and it’s not unpleasant even now, either, the weighty feel of Fenris’ dichotomous touch as it so patiently pulls him through his own listing apprehension (and maybe his shoulders are a little more rounded in the aftermath, his expression a little milder), heart a softer patter high in his chest as he watches the animal calm warmly beneath his palm.
But he’s still weighing it all. Still thinking. Plotting with a racing fervor as he tries to decide which is better: the security of being otherwise unremarkable when already they’re both so distinctly odd— or a doting wolf that might come blinking out of the void in a second to rip apart their enemies.
And for a second he thinks of Cazador. The packs of dire wolves he commanded. The raw threat that control had made him in conjunction with all his other gifts. He feels the heavy rise and fall of her chest as she strains with all her might to work her face farther into Fenris’ scritching fingertips, the broadness of his grin something the marked elf might not even realize exists at all.] Can’t imagine there’s a better guard dog than a hulking beast that can leap through walls.
You train it— train her, then. So that she’s useful.
I don’t want it pissing on any of my belongings. [Good luck with that dream, Astarion.] And if she starts terrorizing the local populace, I—
[And, almost as if on cue, she whips around to roll towards her other side, caking Astarion's fingertips in drool as she licks at them in elated greeting.]
Oh. No. No no no no— stop—
[ugh!! UGH!!]
no subject
It's slobber, fussy thing, cease your complaining.
[He grabs for his wrist, keeping his hand absolutely within range of the wolf's enthusiastic greeting. Is this mean and petty? Yes! Does he regret it? Absolutely not, laughter still visible in the crinkle of his eyes.]
She's saying hello. And I will train her, if you wish, but not without you. You are her master now, if that is what you choose; it will do her good to see you while she learns commands, and make the association between the two.
But she will drool on your things. And in all likelihood piss on them too. I suggest you grow used to the idea now.
[But fine, fine, he'll release him. A few seconds, and then, deliberately:]
Just wait until she licks your mouth to try and rouse you from bed. I'll hear the screams from Hightown, I'm sure.
no subject
Fenris’ laughter only barely clearing the farthest brunt of Astarion's high-shouldered bristling as he's so viciously attacked by loving puppy-dog licks. A prelude to the rubber band snap of his arm as it’s released from a taloned grip, voice a withering cry of irritation that sort of squeezes itself from the base of his throat. Fussy, yes.
But not exactly irate, either.]
You’ll hear the screams from beside me. [He puffs out in petulant protest, wiping his hand across silk. The wolf, now satisfied with all her greetings, collapses on her (extraordinarily) heavy side entirely within Fenris’ lap— paws stretched out to rest against Astarion in turn.] I don’t intend to be left alone with it until I can be sure it’s not about to go utterly wild on a whim.
[Ah, that’s the lie right there. First one of the night— maybe the only one, depending. But seeing as how it’s easier to ask for a dogsitter rather than a nightmare warder, maybe it’s not a cardinal sin.
Confessing in the most roundabout way possible that he doesn’t want to be left alone right now.]
And you’re already here, besides. No point in going back.
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...a name, then. Only because you insist. Something fitting for such a fearsome terror.
[So menacing is she.]
Hm. Razikale, I think.
[Astarion.......really.]
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Beside you, then.
[Yes. Of course he'll stay. It takes no persuasion at all to spend the night here nowadays, with this person who has roused him from so many terrifying nightmares. It's been weeks, the two of them trading off, and sometimes Fenris ends up moving up to Astarion's bed, and then again sometimes he lingers on the floor. They don't talk about it, really— it isn't a forbidden subject, no, but most times it's easier not to think about the nightly horrors their minds put them through.
Anyway: Razikale, and it takes him a few seconds to remember where he'd heard that name before. It's familiar. It's—]
You're going to name her after a Tevinter magister of old.
[An impatient wuff from his lap, and his fingers resume their steady pace.]
In the Free Marches. While we're at war with Tevinter.
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Maybe it’s just the acclimation he needs. The little breaks where everything is calmer. After all, Astarion is a spoiled creature at heart. One that feels settled by control.
Hm.
His eyeline lifts.]
Think about it, my darling. Tevinter sorts are so often— no offense intended— surprisingly superstitious. Ritualistic, let's say. [He presses down on her middle paw pad like a button, which has the added effect of splaying all her little toe beans in a fan.]
I imagine the ones serving a god-magister are even more so.
So.
Having a tough fight? Bark out the name of one of their old gods and watch them buckle as something comes bursting out of the Fade.
Also. [He adds, grin widening by degrees.] It’s just funny.
[Is it????]
But if you have a better idea, I’m all pointy ears.
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Ataashi is Qunlat for dragon, but it can be understood to mean glorious one. Revered not just for their abilities, but their freedom and wild behavior. Not to be emulated, but at least revered. It slips off the tongue easier.
[For someone who is fluid in Qunlat, anyway, not necessarily for the rest of it. Ah-tah-she, three syllables, and he mouths it silently to himself as he stares down at this wolf sprawled with lazy contentment atop his lap. Even as he watches, she presses her cold nose gently against his palm.]
. . . mm. Perhaps not. Lazy girl, you aren't so fearsome like this.
[Hm. A moment, and a wry smirk slips over his lips.]
You could always name her after a wolf proper. Fenris, my master called me, and it truly does mean little wolf. Do not call her Fenris, but . . . Fen is the elvish word for wolf here. You can conjugate it as you see fit, and remind all just what kind of person wields such a Fade-touched creature.
[And ah, it's . . . odd, right now, to be the one initiating a discussion of elvish. He's never once cared for it before. But it's different with Astarion, who so casually calls him Eladrin and cares not how he identifies himself, so long as it pleases him.]
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An excellent idea. But why stop there? Why not go all the way? What’s elvish for 'massive furry animal that drools too much and probably will eat you if I say so'?
[His grin a teasing thing now, so dagger-sharp and yet so utterly fond even as he commits to digging however he pleases. Preening about it for a good half-second before the wolf’s back foot shoves itself hard against his leg, coarse claws dragging over leather.]
What— you’re taking his side? Calling a dog a dog isn’t exactly the height of creativity, you know.
Still. I suppose Ataa... [Err. Hang on, he’s going to cast one somewhat unsure glance Fenris’ way as he tries to remember exactly what it was again.] Ataashi...? That one wasn’t all bad.
And thematically speaking it does match with what I had in mind. Old gods. Formidable creatures.
Something to strike fear into our enemies.
[There, she yawns wide— culminating in a single, clumsy sneeze before dropping her head into Fenris’ lap, blazing eyes drifting shut. It’s been a long journey for her from Antiva, after all.]
Mm...
[well.]
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Ataashi, yes. Though I suspect you may have to put your dreams of her being a weapon to rest. She has a wolf's coloring, but a dog's bearing.
[It's a compliment, clearly. But ah, that makes him think of training her. Truly, Fenris knows very little about how to train animals, beyond the vague knowledge they can be trained. Possibly treats are involved. There has to be some sort of book about it in the library; he'll go later today. But either way, she'll need exercise. Astarion's flat is a refuge, oh, yes, and there are fewer places he'd rather be, but it isn't much in the way of space.]
Have you been to the coast yet?
[It's a stupid idea. Stupid and sentimental, but still, he asks it.]
We should take her, now that the weather is turning warmer.
[Is this an elaborate plan so he can heave Astarion into the water and watch him sputter and hiss like a cat? Maybe!]
It would be good for her to have space to run. She'll get fat and lazy if she spends all day in your home.
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His life is suffering.
...but then again, at least he’s suffering in good company.]
Ataashi, then.
[Soft, that. Spoken as his hand glides once along her side, ruffling pitch dark fur.]
Hm? The coast here? Only a few times, but not in any sort of decent weather. [Is he looking at Fenris a little too long as he mulls this over? Probably, yes— which is why Astarion divorces himself from her paws in favor of standing up: prowling over towards that rickety table by the hearth, beginning to pour out two glasses of sweeter smelling wine.] She’ll get fat and lazy if you keep spoiling her darling, but if you two want to run around until your limbs start falling off, I certainly won’t stop you as I watch from a very pleasant distance, thank you.
[Glasses lift, fingers curling around their edges; no more than a stride or two and Astarion is back down where he’d started, offering Fenris a glass— with only a flicker of a teasing attempt to play keep away once offered. Just a single, clever little pull before ceding.
Fenris, though. Now that the wolf is dozing, his mind wanders back to it: Fenris, my master called me, and it truly does mean little wolf.]
Fenris...
Was that his name for you? [Has Fenris been wearing it all this time, or was that always his name—
Or does he not have anything else to go by.]
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Though for that bit of teasing, Astarion earns a wry smirk and a falsely threatening sort of look. He's lucky, the look suggests, Fenris is trapped beneath Ataashi (and never mind the warmth he feels furling in his chest as he realizes Astarion truly is using his suggestion). But no, he gets his prize; with a little sigh he sips at it, resigning himself (for now) into being nothing more than pillow.
But ah, what a question . . . he drinks a little more, not because he strictly needs to, but because it's all a little easier when he's tipsy.]
Yes.
Fen, as I said, is the elven word for wolf, while ris is a masculine diminutive in Tevene. He took an elf and, with ancient Tevene magic, made him into something worthy of a magister. And so, too, he bastardized an elvish term, turning it from something— what was the word he used? ah, crude, that was what he deemed me— into something more suitable.
[A crude elf, and funny what the mind remembers decades later. So much of those first few weeks are lost in a haze, but he remembers his first party oh, so well.
He finishes his glass (he does go through them so quickly when they talk of the past).]
Leto is the name I was born with. Varania told me, right before she sold me out. I suppose it is my real name, although in truth, I have little connection to it. I cannot remember my past, and so it feels no more right or wrong than any other name.
[That's not necessarily true. It's just that he's deliberately avoided thinking about it.]
. . . I do not mind you knowing. [And then, the wine loosening his tongue, glancing over:] There is very little about me that I would mind you knowing, truthfully. But I would prefer Leto to stay between us. It is . . .
[Hm.]
Too many people know things about me that I do not remember offering up.
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Before the subject itself does, in fact, cover the room in a blanket of sobriety.
There, he sips his wine in response, a way to mask exactly just how far his smile falls. Again, so much like the collar, there’s such a flexing of symbolism as if it were nothing short of a blunted weapon. Like an iron brand or a binding leash: Fenris’ master on one end, Leto on the other. Cruel and crude and effective nonetheless— and there’s nothing shown for contempt on Astarion’s part aside from the way his grip has gone a little paler around the base of his glass. There’s more to be said. More to discuss, but—
'Too many people know things about me that I do not remember offering up.'
And that— that is the only thing that stops Astarion from pressing the point outright; a truth too undeniable to argue against, even by Astarion’s own standards.
No, especially by them.]
Mm.
Well I don’t know if I can keep that promise, I’m afraid.
[Another sip, expression grave as death itself. The shortest pause before he leans in oh-so-conspiratorially— gesturing to the creature tucked between them.]
There is an Antivan in the room, after all.
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Astarion leans in conspiratorially. And Fenris, a little unaware of his surroundings, more than a little distracted, glances up to protest— and in that way ends up nose to nose with Astarion, their heads tipped at opposite angles, the heat of his breath ghosting against the other elf's lips.
Close. Too close, too close— close enough he can count each individual freckle (faint, now, after winter, but surely that day on the coast will draw them out more). Close enough he can see each individual lash framing those crimson eyes (and oh, they're longer than he expected, how had he never noticed that before?). Close enough that all it would take is the slightest bit of effort to close the gap between them, to press his lips against Astarion's own (and how many times has he thought of that, dreamed of it, fantasies sparking each time his heart swells with fondness— laying in the dark in his bed, guilt and adoration at war with one another as he stares over at his sleeping form, his face finally relaxed, his lips soft and inviting, oh he would taste so sweet)—]
2/3 just kidding
Ah— aha—
[O MY MAKER THAT IS THE STUPIDEST NOISE IN THE WORLD]
i'll just tell you when i'm done
okay yes now i'm done
[Yes! Yes! Thank god! Yes! Okay! That is a perfectly normal thing to say to your bro, yes, okay, fantastic, we're back on track! Okay! Just keep playing it cool and it'll be fine! Jesus Christ!]
If there are betrayals to be had, I assure you, it will be against you, not me.
[SMITE HIM NOW, O MIGHTY SMITER, let him die. But no, he has a grip on himself, he thinks, and allows himself to take a goddamn breath.]
First you keep your wine from me, and now this . . .
I clear out an entire room for you, complete with furnishings, and this is how you repay me.
[SMOOTH.]
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And every bit of Astarion is still— even so far away from Faerûn— attuned to it completely: conversational back and forths, brushing contact sweet as poured wine. He’s been to Wycome and fit unfamiliar hands deftly to his waist with a grin; he’s whispered sweetly in a Tevinter merchant’s ear, drawing them in like fish fluttering along a wound line.
Accidental or not, this isn’t any different. Just contact. Just the heady scent of ozone and wine intermingling in a coursing exhale that pools across his lips. Close enough that it’s an inch of negative space between them.
Maybe less.
(So why is his heart in his throat? Why is his eyeline lowered beneath the shade of his own dark lashes? Why is he drifting nearer by the subtlest difference of degrees, swayed as easily as any prey he’s ever caught?)
He could’ve been wrong. All this time, all the assumptions about what Fenris wanted from him, and there’s such unanticipated avarice in that hope: already imagining where tonight might lead— ]
2/10000
Yanks himself away, startled and unhappy for the mistake.
(Because that’s all it was, wasn’t it? Ah. Right.)
And Astarion does the same. Coughing once into his glass. Dropping his now-acidic stare somewhere else— anywhere else, in fact, just as Ataashi’s whines snare at a feverishly unhappy pitch, making the entire scene that much more upsettingly chaotic.
Which, you know what? On second thought, maybe he’s done for the night.
Maybe he’ll just stand up (which he does), finish his wine (which he also does), drag himself over to his own fucking bed and— ]
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Wait, you what?
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[Ah, Ataashi is tired of her jostling pillow, and the release of his legs is distraction for a precious few seconds, pretending to be far more preoccupied with shifting than he is.
Did he guess? Does he know? The questions flit through his mind rapid-fire, anxiety provoked by that abrupt movement, but surely he wouldn't be asking questions if he was embarrassed or disgusted. He's ignoring it, which means Fenris should too, and they'll put it down to the wine and exhaustion both tomorrow.]
You wished for it, did you not?
[That's not an explanation, and it's not fair for him to take his embarrassment out on Astarion. So:]
Dante volunteered his services to help me rebuild the mansion. Clearing debris was the first step. We began in your room.
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And that’s fine.
Really it’s—
Warm. Thoughtful. Kind.
Everything Astarion’s never been capable of touching without breaking.
(How very much like Fenris, he thinks.)]
Does that mean I’ll get everything I ask for? [Lips curling into a slyer grin, one that never reaches his eyes as he moves to drop his emptied glass somewhere along the edge of that withered, miserable little table.]
What a sweetheart you are.
[Oh, Astarion, don’t be mean out of fear.
And maybe he realizes that, just this once. Just this one time, that that’s precisely what he’s doing— dreading kindness still. Because it falls away only a moment later, fingers stilled along the lip of that glass. Hanging just so.]
...I....
Thank you. For doing that.
[A breath. A held beat. Expression lowered and soft, backed purely by fading firelight. And he’s looking at Fenris peripherally now, when he adds in a lower tone:]
You know you didn’t have to.
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Perhaps I should leave, he thinks of saying, hearing the acidity in that response— but Astarion softens in the next moment, and any thoughts of leaving slip his mind entirely.]
I know.
[No, he knows full well he didn't have to. Astarion might have whined or complained, but it would only ever be in jest. But . . . he shifts his weight, fingers curling and uncurling, but he does not glance away. Not for something this important.]
You have made a space for me here in your home.
[And it's different than just allowing him to stay. Astarion has found him extra blankets; he's cleared a space on the floor, a spot that's now exclusively Fenris'. They share a bed more and more often nowadays, and that brings its own intimacy, but still. There is a place for him here, always waiting no matter what. There is no toll nor tax; he does not need to feign a bright mood or offer up conversation. All he has ever needed to do in this home is be exactly who he is, jagged edges and softened ones alike.]
And now there is a space for you in my home, too.
[A bed. A dresser. A mirror. The sheets turned down and the window opened to give it some air— it's too much, but it isn't, all at once. Not a guest bedroom, but Astarion's, waiting exclusively for him alone.]
Did you think I had forgotten?
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[Words stopping just as they start.
It hurts, funnily enough. That’s why he’s so still, like an animal afraid of being bitten for even the slightest shift. This isn’t poise. It isn’t make-believe painted in blissful, pointless sex. It hurts to want so deeply, and to care so undeniably, and to be so stupidly close to the sort of mercy his world— for the only two hundred years he'll ever remember— lacked completely. It hurts to look at Fenris and to see just how stunning he is, within and without alike: an open book, bewildered as to why the companion previously at his side has yanked himself across some terrible divide.
So, since he can’t offer up touch as a distraction. Since he can't distance himself with the taste of wine or sweat, or the brace of humor Astarion can’t bear to feel right now, he pours it out instead.
Himself.]
I’m.
Not used to this.
[An explanation that sticks in his throat.
He feels thin as glass. Brittle as snapped bone. His heart so overfull it might damned well die when he clings to the words now there is a space for you in my home, too. And when he glances up fully there’s no hiding any of it: eyes wide and doggish and lanced through with hope and the knotted uncertainty he’s housing in his chest alike, wondering where the boundaries might actually lie.
They’re tired. They haven’t slept. They’re still hounded. When do the scales tip too far? When does Fenris tire of him, needing nothing else of comfort.
—no, he wouldn't. That's what having a room means.]
I’m not used to being given...anything. Let alone a place in someone else’s life. [Little obligatory gifts, yes. Tokens he could never keep. Small favors in tribute, all different than an open door and a searching stare.] I grant comfort. That’s what I was made for, you understand.
Everything else— anything else— was always just a game played at my expense. Another way to make me seem like a fool for thinking I could have more.
[He swallows just once, stare dropping again in abrupt dismissal of a held train of outdated thought.]
...but I don’t think that’s what you want. [His eyebrows lift in a muted, paper-thin show of forced levity, pulling pitifully at the corner of his mouth:] I mean, I suppose it’d be easier for me to stomach if you did.
At least they’re predictable. All those old horrors.
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someday I will write you less novels I swear
i love them??
;v;
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