[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.
[He has never wanted to kiss Astarion more than in this moment.
The urge swells within him, stunning in its sudden ferocity— oh, he wants so badly to do it. Three steps, catching Astarion's face within his hands, tipping his head up, pressing their lips together with searing adoration, pouring everything his heart is suddenly wailing into that motion. You have a place in my heart, you always have, I adore you, you are unlike anyone I have ever met, you bring me comfort and joy and peace such as I have never once known before with anyone— all of it so jumbled together in his mind and heart, communicated in one single fluid motion with no chance of misunderstanding. I love you, and it doesn't matter how you slice it, for it has no qualifiers. It is not inherently romantic, and then again it is not inherently platonic, either. He would love Astarion even if they stayed chaste for years on end; he would love him if they tumbled into bed tonight.
Like sleeping on the floor or the bed. Like going from the flat in Lowtown to the mansion in Hightown. The details are utterly unimportant, and it does not matter where or when or what, so long as Astarion is near. So long as he has him in some kind of way, that's enough.
And perhaps he would have kissed him. He is no coward when it comes to romantic desires, and he is old enough to know what he wants. But . . . I grant comfort, and Fenris wonders how many times Astarion has endured being sought out in such a way. How many people, over the course of two hundred years, have looked at him as an object of desire and little more. Pretty eyes and clever tongue, and oh, how often people mistake intimacy and lust. How easy it is for a heart to yearn for more, only to be left in the morning with cold sheets and an aching loneliness.
No. No, no, he will not hurt Astarion in such a way. He will not mar this bond between them with his own lust, groping and grabbing. Too often had Fenris endured people looking at him as a weapon, savage and unfeeling; a snarling beast and little else. Too often had people seen him as the weapon Danarius had rendered him, and only that.
That's what I was made for, his voice echoing in his mind. I did better on my back than my heels, and how terrible it would be if Fenris reached for him now. How awfully he'd be proving that unspoken assumption right— you want me for lust and little more, no, he will not do that to him. Not him, dearest to his heart, the most important person in his life, no.
So he bites his tongue and curls his fingers, and ignores that desperate urge, for it has no place here. And platonic affection is enough.]
No.
[A lie and yet not, all at once, and he doesn't dare step any closer.]
All I wish is for your happiness, Astarion. And your companionship, if you will have me. I— you are—
[How to say this? How to verbalize everything that Astarion has come to mean to him? There's some measure of desperation in his gaze as he stares at the other elf, willing him to understand.]
I have had friends in the past. Companions who have meant a great deal to me. And when they left, when the Chantry was destroyed and we all went our separate ways, I thought that I was done with others. Friendships could only ever hurt, I knew. Nothing good would stay. People would use you until they were satisfied, and then they would leave you. That is . . . that is how it always has been.
But you . . .
[Oh, Maker, but he loves him. Fenris realizes that so suddenly and swiftly it's as if he's always known (and perhaps he has). Staring at him framed in the firelight, offering him such raw honesty as he never does . . . oh, how could this anything but love? Astarion is beautiful like this, staring at Fenris so beseechingly, begging him not to hurt him— oh, I know, dearest heart, I know, and he wants to quell that worried stare, kissing the lines out of his furrowed brow.]
I could not have imagined someone like you. I have never felt so at peace as when I am with you, Astarion. I have never known contentment and comfort as when I slip past your doorway, you are— [His hands waving in front of him, cutting through the air, trying to illustrate and tame an intangible, wild feeling.] I have never known anyone to understand all the horrors of my past and my present as you do; I have never known anyone who fits to me as you do.
Astarion . . .
A room is the least of what I would offer you, and want nothing in return save you.
[Amatus, I—]
Your friendship. Your companionship. Your time. Whatever you would offer me, I—
[Oh, it's too much. He's gone too far, he realizes all at once. His ears flush darkly, his eyes darting away as he falters.]
You mean more to me than I can say. These past few months have been . . . better than I could have imagined. [Lamely, gently, apologetically. Trying to quell his own ardor without making it a falsehood.] A room is the least of it.
[The thing about being a slave destined for carnal persuasion is that so much of intimacy— of feeling— becomes a tool in all its brilliant luster. And in the same way a fighter learns precisely what job demands a dagger versus a longsword, Astarion knows keenly the tricks of his wicked trade.
There are pretty words. Things like, you've stolen my attention all night, captivating as you are (the way he wound his little finger around a narrower set with incense slithering through altered air). Bewitching words, you’ll have me until dawn (breath pooling light across parted lips, fingers arched over coarsely scarred skin, normally hidden from sight). Manipulative words I’ve never wanted anyone but you (nearer to the edge; the scent of iron overpowering). A thousand different shades of beguilement. Appeasement.
None of them are anything like what Astarion hears now.
Because Fenris says what he means. Ugly or kind. Hurtful or hopeful— he’s always laid every last drop of himself bare for the insightful and insipid alike (the first person Astarion had ever met that didn't actually care what others thought of him: too proud to be cowed by it, unwilling to bend his knee for yet another master). And it means that Astarion, so prone to looking at every conversation as though it comes like a blade to his throat, doesn't do anything but believe him. Understand him.
He feels the walls of his long-upheld fear crack and splinter. Hands curled as though he might cling to them still.]
Fenris....
[No.]
Leto. [They should be who they really are for this. Not who they were made to be.]
I’ve said a lot of empty words over the years. Made a lot of wretched choices— had infinitely more made for me. Every step of the way bathed in blood. Fear. The knife's edge between trying desperately to stay useful to my master, and being broken by too much of his focus. [One step closer, floorboard creaking underneath his heel for such a slow shift in balance.]
When I came here, I thought things would be different. That I’d truly feel free. Unafraid. Able to find happiness without always twisting around to look over my own shoulder towards the past I left behind.
[He’d been wrong. Thedas a nightmare at times for its own reasons— between the Blight and Corypheus and enslavement and the yanking tether of magic that might do its worst to throw him back into Toril without warning.
But...]
With you, I am.
['Friendships could only ever hurt, I knew. Nothing good would stay. People would use you until they were satisfied, and then they would leave you. That is...that is how it always has been.'
Yes, that's how it's always been.
Over and over again until Astarion was exhausted from begging silently between honeyed words (look at me— just once). Until the world paled in its pallor. Until he drew back and grew bitter with a desperate, selfish sense of self-preservation so barbed it wounded anyone that dared to come too close. Towering. Constricting. Painful and protective all at once.
(How much did it hurt Fenris to lose his only sense of comfort— qunlat ringing in his ears? How much did it tear at him to see it turn its back and depart, shattered as surely as the Chantry itself?)
He wants desperately to touch him. To soothe him. To take that battered expression into both his palms and reassure him in every conceivable way that he's here. Not fickle. Not fleeting. Not anything but Fenris' shadow— whether they stand five feet apart, or between the divide of endless lifetimes— loyal, now.
Senselessly loyal.] I waited for you, when you left; I’ve spent every day since your return checking the alleys and byways of this broken city, making sure no Venatori come creeping in at the first opportunity, hoping to drag you back.
I won’t leave you. I couldn’t bear to. And I realize that it makes me into the very sort of fool I once hunted for Cazador’s contentment— but I don’t care.
It isn’t the anchor shard that keeps me here.
[No, he can’t imagine leaving Fenris on his own, still racked with scar tissue and blistering loneliness.
(What do you think love is? Ellie had asked him once— and he laughed. Nothing, he said. Love is nothing but lust.
What do you think is beautiful, she’d asked, perched over that table in the corner. White hair, he’d thought. Green eyes.)
White hair. Green eyes. That’s where he’s looking now, little more than a step away, no wine glass in his hand. No distractions left, no tricks up his sleeve. He’s forgotten his cadence minutes ago; clever pet names washed away.
'I have never known anyone who fits to me as you do.'
When did the courtesan fall hopelessly in love? He wants to kiss him. To touch him. Gods— Maker— have pity on him that he can’t. There’s no gratitude in taking a kindness like this and repaying it with the weaponry of ardor.
Instead his hand fits itself (carefully) around the back of Fenris’ neck, just where it meets his skull, artfully avoiding every tattoo as if by perfect memory— before he presses their foreheads together, deliberately, this time. Face downturned, eyes shut.
Funny, when he himself had just poured his heart out and offered it to Astarion on bended knee. It's not that he doesn't want it to be reciprocated, for he does, desperately. But understand: so much of his life has been framed by loss. So many times has he had something he thought was real only to helplessly watch it trickle between banded fingertips (his family, the Fog warriors, his Kirkwall companions, oh, nothing ever stays, no one ever lingers, and sometimes he feels he is no more stable than a leaf on the wind, battered by gusts, desperately clinging to anything for a handhold). It's easier not to try to hold onto anything at all, and yet here he is anyway, and how had it come to this?
There's a terrible, teetering moment in which he feels a protest rise within him like bile, thick and acidic. Don't, not because he thinks Astarion will deliberately hurt him, but because it's too good, and he does not know if he can bear the loss if it comes. Don't, for he cannot take his heart shattering into pieces again; he cannot live in a world in which he does not have this comfort. Devotion is one thing, but reciprocation is another; his aching ardor has no limits, but that does not mean the same for Astarion.
But it never makes it to his lips. Leto Astarion says, and it might as well be an invocation, for the moment Astarion murmurs it he is lost. Leto, and the rest washes over him, easing his terror, leaving his heart aching for a very different reason. I've spent every day since your return checking the alleys and byways of this broken city, and he realizes in that moment that what he is terrified of has already come to pass for Astarion. Fenris was the one who left. Fenris was the one who had forgotten him. I waited for you, and how hard must it have been that first time, to wake up one day and realize he was gone with no real explanation or farewell? How many hours did Astarion spend grieving, mourning, raging—
And yet still they stand here again. Drawn to one another like moths to a flame, and perhaps it is simply an inevitability. Perhaps, Leto thinks, his eyes closing and Astarion's breath gusting against his lips, perhaps they were always fated to find one another again. Bound to each other by some invisible string, and he reaches out to him, snagging a bit of cloth with his fingers, keeping him close. You've been too good to a wicked thing like me, and that, that he cannot help but answer.]
I do not know what I did to deserve someone like you.
[It isn't cloying. It isn't pretty. He isn't offering him some sweet line in reciprocation, no, he truly does not know what he did to deserve someone so devoted, but oh, he treasures it. Maker, does he ever, and he could have happily spent the next few hours pressed against Astarion like that.
But it's good he steps away. Maker only knows what he might have done if they had stayed locked like that, his heart aching with joy and all of him thrilling with proximity and adoration. He sucks in a slow breath, his eyes flicking down and away for a few moments as he orients himself.]
It's yours, Astarion. You may see it whenever you wish. But if you wish to make the trek to Hightown now, I would not say no.
[That said: there still is the issue of the Fade-touched giant wolf currently dozing in front of the hearth.]
Will she follow us the moment she senses us leaving? I would not mind her in the mansion— it would do her good to have a place where she can roam freely, I suspect, but even her appearance might frighten others.
[The distance between them is a mercy (the distance between them is awful; what Astarion wouldn’t give to go rushing right back in and not break away from the feeling of Leto’s fingertips clinging gently to the loose silk of his shirt), if only so that he can breathe again. Find his footing again. Smile again, too, charmed by the sight of Leto’s flickering confusion— precious thing that he is.
(Oh, his heart skips a beat. Just a beat.)
And then he laughs.]
Mm. Well she did follow me all the way from Antiva. Can’t seem to shake her from my side, so the odds of pursuit are undeniably high— although [a click of his tongue, head tilting in delicately played-up amusement] she certainly likes you well enough, I've noticed. I imagine she’d be willing to chase after you instead. Or stay with you, if we split off from one another.
Of course that doesn’t help us right now, considering we're both going to the same place, so.
[Hm.]
Suppose we might just need to find out.
The city’s rife with mabari anyway. What if we— [He turns then, kneeling down to rifle through his own belongings until he tugs loose a thick silk scarf, slithering over and subsequently wrapping it around Ataashi’s neck where she rests warm by the fire, tying it off like a makeshift collar, complete with a demure little knot at its end.] There we go. Classy for a lady of her stature, if I do say so myself.
So long as we sort of... [err] shadow her distressingly glowy eyes with our bodies, I’m sure she can pass for a very large, very imposing, very heavily-fanged dog.
[At that, scarf rucking up the mane of dark fur around her face (making her cheeks look that much fluffier), she perks up to cast a tail-wagging little glance Leto’s way.
Still a horrifying unnatural wild animal, but it is pretty damn cute, okay.]
Right, then. That’s taken care of. Now come along then, my love. [My love, does he mean Leto, or the wolf?] I want to see my new home.
[It takes nothing more than that for him to whisk the both of them (ah, three of them— like clockwork Ataashi’s up on her heels and rushing after Leto and Astarion, phasing right through that locked front door, circling them with a quickly quieted whine that clearly communicates how much she refuses to be left alone), out into the cool night air and through quieter streets, careful each time they near the city guard or— once they clear Hightown’s outer borders— passing nobles that stare blatantly at them for far too long, disapproval lurking in their narrowed eyes.
Hm. Getting Ataashi properly trained to pad beside them unseen might be better off happening sooner rather than later. Here’s hoping Leto is as good with dogs as he seems to be.
And he can’t quite tell from outside at first glance if the mansion looks better this visit than it did before, but from the inside— well. Still dark, actually. Still smells of dust and winter's slowly fading chill, but there aren't any quips let out as they cross out into the foyer, no clever little remarks (intrigued by such a massive space, Ataashi immediately begins snuffling about, nosing her way into every nook and corner, overturning old bits and bobs, sticking her head into any open crates, suddenly forgetting the pair she'd come trotting along beside, her gait low, tail swishing back and forth).
In truth, he'd never considered just how big the manor is until just now. Just how empty and quiet it is. And as he follows behind Leto, wondering just which room might be his (is it on the upper floor? does it have a balcony? or the lower reaches, perhaps, opting for space over city views), he thinks it might be possible to change that last pair of observations.
That he might be able to give Leto more than just the luxury of company.]
....oh.
[Standing in the doorway to his room at last (his room, not a corner in a cellar that stinks of blood and fetid rot; not a formless memory of a warmer place in Baldur's Gate that could've been nothing but a dream for all he knows; not a hovel in Lowtown littered with the stubborn mess of his lofty designs), heels planted, reflective eyes sweeping over a bed larger than his own (larger than any he's ever possessed in memory), the nearby dresser and its glassy mirror (a mirror, intact enough to gaze into whenever he likes— a reminder that his reflection's been returned to him at last), a window capable of opening (not thick, warped glass that barely fits against its stony frame)...
Oh.
Oh.
Frozen where he stands, pale features locked in near-unreadable wonderment, Astarion doesn't move.]
[Truthfully, he hadn't considered such niceties as views or space when finding a room for Astarion. Prowling down the hallways, gathering blankets and stealing pieces of furniture from old guest rooms, Leto had brought them back to the only room he had ever considered for his companion— the only one that made sense, really, when the two of them have grown so used to falling asleep together. Right next to Leto's own, only a single wall (and doorway, locked for the moment) between them.
Stay close to me. Even here. Especially here.
His eyes flick over to Astarion as he stands there. He can't quite see his expression, but he doesn't have to, not for this. He remembers the awe he had felt those first few weeks after Danarius' death, when he had realized that the mansion was truly his own. Understand: it hadn't been before that. Oh, he'd squatted there for years happily, reveling in the ruins, fighting against the lingering ghosts that remained, audaciously smashing bottles or tearing up paintings, but it wasn't his.
But after his death . . . oh, then he had realized it was his own. Oddly gained, perhaps, but (after a few well-place bribes and some fortuitous legal advice from Varric) it's Fenris' name on the deed now. No one can take it from him; no guards can drag him out, no matter how his neighbors disapprove of an elf living among them. His, his to wreck and ruin— and here, now, his to fix up. To share. To offer to the one person who matters above all else, and it is not nearly enough to repay him for all he has done, but it's a start.]
Change it, if you like. Paint it or add a rug, throw out all the furniture . . . it is yours, and I will not begrudge you making it your own.
[He hesitates, but then:]
Here.
[Quiet. A cold bit of metal placed into Astarion's palm— a key, iron and slender.]
I would not ask you to give up your flat. But you will always have a place here, too. A door that always opens for you.
[His heart is beating in his chest, elated (and afraid, like it always is— only distantly this time; only because as he feels that metal slip into his palm he realizes he has something to lose, now), trying to swallow around the shape of it while Leto tells him he’s free to do as he likes with those high walls. With sweeping floors and a somewhat damaged (yet beautiful nonetheless) ceiling that doesn’t leak with cold or invite in animals, and he wonders if that’d been fixed deliberately. If there was damage here before, and Leto made certain it wouldn’t bring misery to his friend.
'A room is the least of what I would offer you, and want nothing in return save you.']
...Fuck it.
[A little absent. A little dazed, still. Staring right past (right through) Leto as crimson eyes lift to trace the ceiling overhead, swept up in the sight of it all. Feeling it heavy on his shoulders in the best way possible.
—but right. Leto won’t understand unless he says it aloud, so, attention snapping back towards his companion at last (pale fingers curling around that key) he shakes his head.]
Fuck the damned flat.
[Concise.]
That place is vile. I pay tithe for a hole in stone walls with my damned weight in gold, to a letch that never fails to look disappointed by the process. [Astarion always suspected the man was eagerly awaiting the day when the pale elf couldn’t make his payments— more fool him, for Astarion’s no penniless city wretch.]
The only benefit of it is that the sea air rolling in from the port doesn’t carry the stink of Lowtown with it in that particular spot. And that it isn’t the Gallows.
It was exciting, being on my own for the first time since I left Cazador behind. [Truly, it was.
But it was lonely, too. And a different sort of danger than being an elf in Hightown.]
I’m done with that now. Had all the fun I could stomach.
[A pause, and then:]
Although I know you enjoy it as an escape from these walls. [A thought he turns over for a beat, now that the thrill is— not dying down, but leveling, in a sense. Feeling undeniably real at last.]
If you want to keep that as an option, have some other place to den yourself down, I’ll keep it, you know.
Happily.
[And it isn’t a placating offer. Nothing pitying or eager— just there. Knowing. Open as an outstretched hand: I won’t take this away from you in exchange for your gift.]
[An immediate answer right at the tail end of Astarion's question, but it's not something he has to think about.]
It was you that was the draw, not the location. I will not pretend I did not use it as an escape, but . . . it will be different, I suspect, if you are to live here with me.
[It doesn't seem real until that moment. Live here with me, not just for a night (nor indeed several nights in a row, as has been their wont these past few weeks), but always. It's thrilling and not all at once— for though he is too used to having Astarion exist within his orbit, the two of them rising and fading each morning and night, never once has it felt so solid. This isn't an extended visit, and neither of them will be tentatively waiting for the other to get sick of them and order them home. This is their space now, divided in equal measure, a permanent place for the two of them to find one another.
It's the difference, he thinks faintly, between a house and a home. He had not understood that until now. The mansion has always been a worthy source of shelter from all the horrors of the city, but never once has Fenris looked forward to going back into it. Never once has he been giddy to wander these haunted halls or return to his carved out little space.
But he might be now, now that he knows someone will be waiting for him. A candle in the window, another set of footsteps against the stone tile . . . oh, and he had not realized until this moment just how much he craved that companionship.
He's smiling, Fenris realizes. Faintly, stupidly, but he is, his heart singing.]
We can bring your things up tomorrow, if that suits you. Magpie that you are, it may take more than one trip, but there's plenty of space to store it.
[Maker, yes; they could house half of Riftwatch here without any trouble.]
And in all the ways that matter, Astarion . . . you are still on your own. [Mm, no, that didn't quite come out how he meant it. Sometimes it's endlessly easy sometimes to articulate how he's feeling, and then again sometimes his tongue ties, his meaning becoming muddled. Ugh. He wrinkles his nose and waves a hand, dismissing that sentence.] You still have independence, is all that I mean. This is not charity, but a choice. And this room is as much yours as the flat was.
[So. There. Unsure if his meaning came across and too annoyed with himself to try again, he ducks forward, stepping into the room proper, shoving his hair back away from his face as he does.]
In any case. I will offer you a tour when you wish. The kitchens are not far, nor is the bathroom. But it is easy to get lost.
[It was you, Leto says, and again, Astarion finds himself so childishly struck by it that he simply stands there, turning the key over in his fingers— reality something he now has to touch to know it’s there (like the flexing of his fingertips; like the way he once counted painted stars, only better), he needs those precious seconds in silence. Needs the feeling of cold metal across his palm, and the sight of Leto standing just across from him, pulling stray strands of overgrown hair from his own eyes.
Two hundred years old and he’s as senseless as a newborn pup. It’d be shameful if he cared about appearances.
But he doesn’t. Not anymore.]
Darling, you’re a mess.
[All right, maybe some appearances— just not his own right now. The words low and absurdly overfond as they roll from his tongue. Key pocketed, abandoning astonishment entirely when he takes his first stride across the threshold in order to slip silently in at Leto’s side, reaching up with two fingers to fix one delicate tangle of white hair now half-tucked behind a downturned ear.]
When was the last time you saw to this growing little mane of yours?
[Which is to say yes, tomorrow is the perfect day to move. Yes, he’d like a tour— a real one, rather than how they limped through it before, bloody from fighting and thoroughly exhausted.
But his benefactor—
No, his friend is looking more wild and unkempt than the wolf left trotting around through open corridors.
[He stills, just for a half-second, as Astarion's fingers tuck his hair behind his ear. It's an absently intimate gesture, a there-and-gone touch that leaves his skin tingling as all of him aches for more. He's touched so rarely, and oh, he must really be starved for it if that's enough to leave him reeling.
Foolish. At least he didn't flush.]
I am not—
[Well, no, okay, he sort of is a mess, and Leto huffs faintly.]
An undercut is difficult to trim on one's own.
[But he hears the offer implied in Astarion's words, and honestly, he's grateful for it. It is difficult to care for one's hair on their own— and truthfully, Leto has never really gotten into the routine of haircuts. Oh, he'll trim it on occasion, but sometimes it's easier to just let it grow how it will. But ugh, long hair is a pain with the heat, and spring is coming. He'll resent long hair then, so yes, best to get it over and done with.
Scissors are easy enough to find, as is a basin of water and a towel. A razor is slightly more of a challenge (what use would he have for one, after all, unable to grow a beard as he is?), but eventually he locates one. They settle in Leto's room in front of the hearth, the door between their bedrooms hanging ajar.]
Have you ever cut hair before?
[Things to ask before you're settled in front of your crush when he's armed with scissor and razor, but eh, it's fine. He bows his head forward, feeling Astarion's eyes on the back of his neck.]
You ought to have seen it when I was younger, here in Kirkwall. It was far longer than I wear it now.
[The line between a solid set of bangs and hair that just sort of hangs in front of your face is pretty thin.]
[Deft hands nudge Leto’s head forward a few degrees more, mostly by way of the edges of his knuckles— little and ring fingers guiding him as the others stay curled around tarnished shears that somehow aren’t ruined with rust.
This’ll be easier now that he’s not allergic to scorched by water, and there’s careful time taken to wet and align and comb back slickened strands as he talks, towel used to keep trickling paths from snaking down underneath Leto’s collar, which would only make the experience uncomfortable otherwise. The weather too gross for errant spots of wet cloth and clammy skin, being far away from summer still.]
Oh. Far longer?
[He asks, his mind immediately flitting towards Thranduil’s flowing locks, cascading like a sort of waterfall about his back and shoulders. The mental image of Leto like that, though...
Hm. Hard to accurately picture. Either he must’ve looked shockingly regal (and handsome, but he’s not acknowledging that right now, thank you very much), or he looked a half-step away from communing with the wilds and wiggling his toes through dew-touched earth. Or both? Maybe both.
A small section of silver strands are combed out before he makes his first cut. The softest little snip of a sound.] And I did, yes.
For my master. For his guests— and the other spawn, too, though that was only ever when ordered to on occasion, as I never cared much for those wretched creatures.
By which I mean at all.
[Snip snip— the soft little plops of falling pieces of damp hair as they land across Leto’s shoulders.] We were like squabbling dogs, most days. Envy practically lived beside us, brought on by Cazador’s games and cruel favor alike.
It was only survival, in a sense. [Harsh necessity.] But that doesn’t mean we pitied each other, either. [No, not pity. They were only cutthroat. Resentful. Mean. hounding one another surely as their master and his ilk hounded them— and Astarion wasn’t any different.]
Awful beasts. I hope they’re rotting at his side.
[Anyway—
He leans slightly forward there, just across the edge of Leto's shoulder.] Just how short did you want this, my darling?
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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.
1/2
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.]
1/100
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— ]
3/3
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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The urge swells within him, stunning in its sudden ferocity— oh, he wants so badly to do it. Three steps, catching Astarion's face within his hands, tipping his head up, pressing their lips together with searing adoration, pouring everything his heart is suddenly wailing into that motion. You have a place in my heart, you always have, I adore you, you are unlike anyone I have ever met, you bring me comfort and joy and peace such as I have never once known before with anyone— all of it so jumbled together in his mind and heart, communicated in one single fluid motion with no chance of misunderstanding. I love you, and it doesn't matter how you slice it, for it has no qualifiers. It is not inherently romantic, and then again it is not inherently platonic, either. He would love Astarion even if they stayed chaste for years on end; he would love him if they tumbled into bed tonight.
Like sleeping on the floor or the bed. Like going from the flat in Lowtown to the mansion in Hightown. The details are utterly unimportant, and it does not matter where or when or what, so long as Astarion is near. So long as he has him in some kind of way, that's enough.
And perhaps he would have kissed him. He is no coward when it comes to romantic desires, and he is old enough to know what he wants. But . . . I grant comfort, and Fenris wonders how many times Astarion has endured being sought out in such a way. How many people, over the course of two hundred years, have looked at him as an object of desire and little more. Pretty eyes and clever tongue, and oh, how often people mistake intimacy and lust. How easy it is for a heart to yearn for more, only to be left in the morning with cold sheets and an aching loneliness.
No. No, no, he will not hurt Astarion in such a way. He will not mar this bond between them with his own lust, groping and grabbing. Too often had Fenris endured people looking at him as a weapon, savage and unfeeling; a snarling beast and little else. Too often had people seen him as the weapon Danarius had rendered him, and only that.
That's what I was made for, his voice echoing in his mind. I did better on my back than my heels, and how terrible it would be if Fenris reached for him now. How awfully he'd be proving that unspoken assumption right— you want me for lust and little more, no, he will not do that to him. Not him, dearest to his heart, the most important person in his life, no.
So he bites his tongue and curls his fingers, and ignores that desperate urge, for it has no place here. And platonic affection is enough.]
No.
[A lie and yet not, all at once, and he doesn't dare step any closer.]
All I wish is for your happiness, Astarion. And your companionship, if you will have me. I— you are—
[How to say this? How to verbalize everything that Astarion has come to mean to him? There's some measure of desperation in his gaze as he stares at the other elf, willing him to understand.]
I have had friends in the past. Companions who have meant a great deal to me. And when they left, when the Chantry was destroyed and we all went our separate ways, I thought that I was done with others. Friendships could only ever hurt, I knew. Nothing good would stay. People would use you until they were satisfied, and then they would leave you. That is . . . that is how it always has been.
But you . . .
[Oh, Maker, but he loves him. Fenris realizes that so suddenly and swiftly it's as if he's always known (and perhaps he has). Staring at him framed in the firelight, offering him such raw honesty as he never does . . . oh, how could this anything but love? Astarion is beautiful like this, staring at Fenris so beseechingly, begging him not to hurt him— oh, I know, dearest heart, I know, and he wants to quell that worried stare, kissing the lines out of his furrowed brow.]
I could not have imagined someone like you. I have never felt so at peace as when I am with you, Astarion. I have never known contentment and comfort as when I slip past your doorway, you are— [His hands waving in front of him, cutting through the air, trying to illustrate and tame an intangible, wild feeling.] I have never known anyone to understand all the horrors of my past and my present as you do; I have never known anyone who fits to me as you do.
Astarion . . .
A room is the least of what I would offer you, and want nothing in return save you.
[Amatus, I—]
Your friendship. Your companionship. Your time. Whatever you would offer me, I—
[Oh, it's too much. He's gone too far, he realizes all at once. His ears flush darkly, his eyes darting away as he falters.]
You mean more to me than I can say. These past few months have been . . . better than I could have imagined. [Lamely, gently, apologetically. Trying to quell his own ardor without making it a falsehood.] A room is the least of it.
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There are pretty words. Things like, you've stolen my attention all night, captivating as you are (the way he wound his little finger around a narrower set with incense slithering through altered air). Bewitching words, you’ll have me until dawn (breath pooling light across parted lips, fingers arched over coarsely scarred skin, normally hidden from sight). Manipulative words I’ve never wanted anyone but you (nearer to the edge; the scent of iron overpowering). A thousand different shades of beguilement. Appeasement.
None of them are anything like what Astarion hears now.
Because Fenris says what he means. Ugly or kind. Hurtful or hopeful— he’s always laid every last drop of himself bare for the insightful and insipid alike (the first person Astarion had ever met that didn't actually care what others thought of him: too proud to be cowed by it, unwilling to bend his knee for yet another master). And it means that Astarion, so prone to looking at every conversation as though it comes like a blade to his throat, doesn't do anything but believe him. Understand him.
He feels the walls of his long-upheld fear crack and splinter. Hands curled as though he might cling to them still.]
Fenris....
[No.]
Leto. [They should be who they really are for this. Not who they were made to be.]
I’ve said a lot of empty words over the years. Made a lot of wretched choices— had infinitely more made for me. Every step of the way bathed in blood. Fear. The knife's edge between trying desperately to stay useful to my master, and being broken by too much of his focus. [One step closer, floorboard creaking underneath his heel for such a slow shift in balance.]
When I came here, I thought things would be different. That I’d truly feel free. Unafraid. Able to find happiness without always twisting around to look over my own shoulder towards the past I left behind.
[He’d been wrong. Thedas a nightmare at times for its own reasons— between the Blight and Corypheus and enslavement and the yanking tether of magic that might do its worst to throw him back into Toril without warning.
But...]
With you, I am.
['Friendships could only ever hurt, I knew. Nothing good would stay. People would use you until they were satisfied, and then they would leave you. That is...that is how it always has been.'
Yes, that's how it's always been.
Over and over again until Astarion was exhausted from begging silently between honeyed words (look at me— just once). Until the world paled in its pallor. Until he drew back and grew bitter with a desperate, selfish sense of self-preservation so barbed it wounded anyone that dared to come too close. Towering. Constricting. Painful and protective all at once.
(How much did it hurt Fenris to lose his only sense of comfort— qunlat ringing in his ears? How much did it tear at him to see it turn its back and depart, shattered as surely as the Chantry itself?)
He wants desperately to touch him. To soothe him. To take that battered expression into both his palms and reassure him in every conceivable way that he's here. Not fickle. Not fleeting. Not anything but Fenris' shadow— whether they stand five feet apart, or between the divide of endless lifetimes— loyal, now.
Senselessly loyal.] I waited for you, when you left; I’ve spent every day since your return checking the alleys and byways of this broken city, making sure no Venatori come creeping in at the first opportunity, hoping to drag you back.
I won’t leave you. I couldn’t bear to. And I realize that it makes me into the very sort of fool I once hunted for Cazador’s contentment— but I don’t care.
It isn’t the anchor shard that keeps me here.
[No, he can’t imagine leaving Fenris on his own, still racked with scar tissue and blistering loneliness.
(What do you think love is? Ellie had asked him once— and he laughed. Nothing, he said. Love is nothing but lust.
What do you think is beautiful, she’d asked, perched over that table in the corner. White hair, he’d thought. Green eyes.)
White hair. Green eyes. That’s where he’s looking now, little more than a step away, no wine glass in his hand. No distractions left, no tricks up his sleeve. He’s forgotten his cadence minutes ago; clever pet names washed away.
'I have never known anyone who fits to me as you do.'
When did the courtesan fall hopelessly in love? He wants to kiss him. To touch him. Gods— Maker— have pity on him that he can’t. There’s no gratitude in taking a kindness like this and repaying it with the weaponry of ardor.
Instead his hand fits itself (carefully) around the back of Fenris’ neck, just where it meets his skull, artfully avoiding every tattoo as if by perfect memory— before he presses their foreheads together, deliberately, this time. Face downturned, eyes shut.
Thank you.]
You’ve been too good to a wicked thing like me.
[And then, when he pulls back:]
Can I see it?
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Funny, when he himself had just poured his heart out and offered it to Astarion on bended knee. It's not that he doesn't want it to be reciprocated, for he does, desperately. But understand: so much of his life has been framed by loss. So many times has he had something he thought was real only to helplessly watch it trickle between banded fingertips (his family, the Fog warriors, his Kirkwall companions, oh, nothing ever stays, no one ever lingers, and sometimes he feels he is no more stable than a leaf on the wind, battered by gusts, desperately clinging to anything for a handhold). It's easier not to try to hold onto anything at all, and yet here he is anyway, and how had it come to this?
There's a terrible, teetering moment in which he feels a protest rise within him like bile, thick and acidic. Don't, not because he thinks Astarion will deliberately hurt him, but because it's too good, and he does not know if he can bear the loss if it comes. Don't, for he cannot take his heart shattering into pieces again; he cannot live in a world in which he does not have this comfort. Devotion is one thing, but reciprocation is another; his aching ardor has no limits, but that does not mean the same for Astarion.
But it never makes it to his lips. Leto Astarion says, and it might as well be an invocation, for the moment Astarion murmurs it he is lost. Leto, and the rest washes over him, easing his terror, leaving his heart aching for a very different reason. I've spent every day since your return checking the alleys and byways of this broken city, and he realizes in that moment that what he is terrified of has already come to pass for Astarion. Fenris was the one who left. Fenris was the one who had forgotten him. I waited for you, and how hard must it have been that first time, to wake up one day and realize he was gone with no real explanation or farewell? How many hours did Astarion spend grieving, mourning, raging—
And yet still they stand here again. Drawn to one another like moths to a flame, and perhaps it is simply an inevitability. Perhaps, Leto thinks, his eyes closing and Astarion's breath gusting against his lips, perhaps they were always fated to find one another again. Bound to each other by some invisible string, and he reaches out to him, snagging a bit of cloth with his fingers, keeping him close. You've been too good to a wicked thing like me, and that, that he cannot help but answer.]
I do not know what I did to deserve someone like you.
[It isn't cloying. It isn't pretty. He isn't offering him some sweet line in reciprocation, no, he truly does not know what he did to deserve someone so devoted, but oh, he treasures it. Maker, does he ever, and he could have happily spent the next few hours pressed against Astarion like that.
But it's good he steps away. Maker only knows what he might have done if they had stayed locked like that, his heart aching with joy and all of him thrilling with proximity and adoration. He sucks in a slow breath, his eyes flicking down and away for a few moments as he orients himself.]
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[Oh, the room.]
It's yours, Astarion. You may see it whenever you wish. But if you wish to make the trek to Hightown now, I would not say no.
[That said: there still is the issue of the Fade-touched giant wolf currently dozing in front of the hearth.]
Will she follow us the moment she senses us leaving? I would not mind her in the mansion— it would do her good to have a place where she can roam freely, I suspect, but even her appearance might frighten others.
someday I will write you less novels I swear
(Oh, his heart skips a beat. Just a beat.)
And then he laughs.]
Mm. Well she did follow me all the way from Antiva. Can’t seem to shake her from my side, so the odds of pursuit are undeniably high— although [a click of his tongue, head tilting in delicately played-up amusement] she certainly likes you well enough, I've noticed. I imagine she’d be willing to chase after you instead. Or stay with you, if we split off from one another.
Of course that doesn’t help us right now, considering we're both going to the same place, so.
[Hm.]
Suppose we might just need to find out.
The city’s rife with mabari anyway. What if we— [He turns then, kneeling down to rifle through his own belongings until he tugs loose a thick silk scarf, slithering over and subsequently wrapping it around Ataashi’s neck where she rests warm by the fire, tying it off like a makeshift collar, complete with a demure little knot at its end.] There we go. Classy for a lady of her stature, if I do say so myself.
So long as we sort of... [err] shadow her distressingly glowy eyes with our bodies, I’m sure she can pass for a very large, very imposing, very heavily-fanged dog.
[At that, scarf rucking up the mane of dark fur around her face (making her cheeks look that much fluffier), she perks up to cast a tail-wagging little glance Leto’s way.
Still a horrifying unnatural wild animal, but it is pretty damn cute, okay.]
Right, then. That’s taken care of. Now come along then, my love. [My love, does he mean Leto, or the wolf?] I want to see my new home.
[It takes nothing more than that for him to whisk the both of them (ah, three of them— like clockwork Ataashi’s up on her heels and rushing after Leto and Astarion, phasing right through that locked front door, circling them with a quickly quieted whine that clearly communicates how much she refuses to be left alone), out into the cool night air and through quieter streets, careful each time they near the city guard or— once they clear Hightown’s outer borders— passing nobles that stare blatantly at them for far too long, disapproval lurking in their narrowed eyes.
Hm. Getting Ataashi properly trained to pad beside them unseen might be better off happening sooner rather than later. Here’s hoping Leto is as good with dogs as he seems to be.
And he can’t quite tell from outside at first glance if the mansion looks better this visit than it did before, but from the inside— well. Still dark, actually. Still smells of dust and winter's slowly fading chill, but there aren't any quips let out as they cross out into the foyer, no clever little remarks (intrigued by such a massive space, Ataashi immediately begins snuffling about, nosing her way into every nook and corner, overturning old bits and bobs, sticking her head into any open crates, suddenly forgetting the pair she'd come trotting along beside, her gait low, tail swishing back and forth).
In truth, he'd never considered just how big the manor is until just now. Just how empty and quiet it is. And as he follows behind Leto, wondering just which room might be his (is it on the upper floor? does it have a balcony? or the lower reaches, perhaps, opting for space over city views), he thinks it might be possible to change that last pair of observations.
That he might be able to give Leto more than just the luxury of company.]
....oh.
[Standing in the doorway to his room at last (his room, not a corner in a cellar that stinks of blood and fetid rot; not a formless memory of a warmer place in Baldur's Gate that could've been nothing but a dream for all he knows; not a hovel in Lowtown littered with the stubborn mess of his lofty designs), heels planted, reflective eyes sweeping over a bed larger than his own (larger than any he's ever possessed in memory), the nearby dresser and its glassy mirror (a mirror, intact enough to gaze into whenever he likes— a reminder that his reflection's been returned to him at last), a window capable of opening (not thick, warped glass that barely fits against its stony frame)...
Oh.
Oh.
Frozen where he stands, pale features locked in near-unreadable wonderment, Astarion doesn't move.]
i love them??
Stay close to me. Even here. Especially here.
His eyes flick over to Astarion as he stands there. He can't quite see his expression, but he doesn't have to, not for this. He remembers the awe he had felt those first few weeks after Danarius' death, when he had realized that the mansion was truly his own. Understand: it hadn't been before that. Oh, he'd squatted there for years happily, reveling in the ruins, fighting against the lingering ghosts that remained, audaciously smashing bottles or tearing up paintings, but it wasn't his.
But after his death . . . oh, then he had realized it was his own. Oddly gained, perhaps, but (after a few well-place bribes and some fortuitous legal advice from Varric) it's Fenris' name on the deed now. No one can take it from him; no guards can drag him out, no matter how his neighbors disapprove of an elf living among them. His, his to wreck and ruin— and here, now, his to fix up. To share. To offer to the one person who matters above all else, and it is not nearly enough to repay him for all he has done, but it's a start.]
Change it, if you like. Paint it or add a rug, throw out all the furniture . . . it is yours, and I will not begrudge you making it your own.
[He hesitates, but then:]
Here.
[Quiet. A cold bit of metal placed into Astarion's palm— a key, iron and slender.]
I would not ask you to give up your flat. But you will always have a place here, too. A door that always opens for you.
;v;
'A room is the least of what I would offer you, and want nothing in return save you.']
...Fuck it.
[A little absent. A little dazed, still. Staring right past (right through) Leto as crimson eyes lift to trace the ceiling overhead, swept up in the sight of it all. Feeling it heavy on his shoulders in the best way possible.
—but right. Leto won’t understand unless he says it aloud, so, attention snapping back towards his companion at last (pale fingers curling around that key) he shakes his head.]
Fuck the damned flat.
[Concise.]
That place is vile. I pay tithe for a hole in stone walls with my damned weight in gold, to a letch that never fails to look disappointed by the process. [Astarion always suspected the man was eagerly awaiting the day when the pale elf couldn’t make his payments— more fool him, for Astarion’s no penniless city wretch.]
The only benefit of it is that the sea air rolling in from the port doesn’t carry the stink of Lowtown with it in that particular spot. And that it isn’t the Gallows.
It was exciting, being on my own for the first time since I left Cazador behind. [Truly, it was.
But it was lonely, too. And a different sort of danger than being an elf in Hightown.]
I’m done with that now. Had all the fun I could stomach.
[A pause, and then:]
Although I know you enjoy it as an escape from these walls. [A thought he turns over for a beat, now that the thrill is— not dying down, but leveling, in a sense. Feeling undeniably real at last.]
If you want to keep that as an option, have some other place to den yourself down, I’ll keep it, you know.
Happily.
[And it isn’t a placating offer. Nothing pitying or eager— just there. Knowing. Open as an outstretched hand: I won’t take this away from you in exchange for your gift.]
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[An immediate answer right at the tail end of Astarion's question, but it's not something he has to think about.]
It was you that was the draw, not the location. I will not pretend I did not use it as an escape, but . . . it will be different, I suspect, if you are to live here with me.
[It doesn't seem real until that moment. Live here with me, not just for a night (nor indeed several nights in a row, as has been their wont these past few weeks), but always. It's thrilling and not all at once— for though he is too used to having Astarion exist within his orbit, the two of them rising and fading each morning and night, never once has it felt so solid. This isn't an extended visit, and neither of them will be tentatively waiting for the other to get sick of them and order them home. This is their space now, divided in equal measure, a permanent place for the two of them to find one another.
It's the difference, he thinks faintly, between a house and a home. He had not understood that until now. The mansion has always been a worthy source of shelter from all the horrors of the city, but never once has Fenris looked forward to going back into it. Never once has he been giddy to wander these haunted halls or return to his carved out little space.
But he might be now, now that he knows someone will be waiting for him. A candle in the window, another set of footsteps against the stone tile . . . oh, and he had not realized until this moment just how much he craved that companionship.
He's smiling, Fenris realizes. Faintly, stupidly, but he is, his heart singing.]
We can bring your things up tomorrow, if that suits you. Magpie that you are, it may take more than one trip, but there's plenty of space to store it.
[Maker, yes; they could house half of Riftwatch here without any trouble.]
And in all the ways that matter, Astarion . . . you are still on your own. [Mm, no, that didn't quite come out how he meant it. Sometimes it's endlessly easy sometimes to articulate how he's feeling, and then again sometimes his tongue ties, his meaning becoming muddled. Ugh. He wrinkles his nose and waves a hand, dismissing that sentence.] You still have independence, is all that I mean. This is not charity, but a choice. And this room is as much yours as the flat was.
[So. There. Unsure if his meaning came across and too annoyed with himself to try again, he ducks forward, stepping into the room proper, shoving his hair back away from his face as he does.]
In any case. I will offer you a tour when you wish. The kitchens are not far, nor is the bathroom. But it is easy to get lost.
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Two hundred years old and he’s as senseless as a newborn pup. It’d be shameful if he cared about appearances.
But he doesn’t. Not anymore.]
Darling, you’re a mess.
[All right, maybe some appearances— just not his own right now. The words low and absurdly overfond as they roll from his tongue. Key pocketed, abandoning astonishment entirely when he takes his first stride across the threshold in order to slip silently in at Leto’s side, reaching up with two fingers to fix one delicate tangle of white hair now half-tucked behind a downturned ear.]
When was the last time you saw to this growing little mane of yours?
[Which is to say yes, tomorrow is the perfect day to move. Yes, he’d like a tour— a real one, rather than how they limped through it before, bloody from fighting and thoroughly exhausted.
But his benefactor—
No, his friend is looking more wild and unkempt than the wolf left trotting around through open corridors.
And that’s something he can fix.]
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Foolish. At least he didn't flush.]
I am not—
[Well, no, okay, he sort of is a mess, and Leto huffs faintly.]
An undercut is difficult to trim on one's own.
[But he hears the offer implied in Astarion's words, and honestly, he's grateful for it. It is difficult to care for one's hair on their own— and truthfully, Leto has never really gotten into the routine of haircuts. Oh, he'll trim it on occasion, but sometimes it's easier to just let it grow how it will. But ugh, long hair is a pain with the heat, and spring is coming. He'll resent long hair then, so yes, best to get it over and done with.
Scissors are easy enough to find, as is a basin of water and a towel. A razor is slightly more of a challenge (what use would he have for one, after all, unable to grow a beard as he is?), but eventually he locates one. They settle in Leto's room in front of the hearth, the door between their bedrooms hanging ajar.]
Have you ever cut hair before?
[Things to ask before you're settled in front of your crush when he's armed with scissor and razor, but eh, it's fine. He bows his head forward, feeling Astarion's eyes on the back of his neck.]
You ought to have seen it when I was younger, here in Kirkwall. It was far longer than I wear it now.
[The line between a solid set of bangs and hair that just sort of hangs in front of your face is pretty thin.]
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This’ll be easier now that he’s not
allergic toscorched by water, and there’s careful time taken to wet and align and comb back slickened strands as he talks, towel used to keep trickling paths from snaking down underneath Leto’s collar, which would only make the experience uncomfortable otherwise. The weather too gross for errant spots of wet cloth and clammy skin, being far away from summer still.]Oh. Far longer?
[He asks, his mind immediately flitting towards Thranduil’s flowing locks, cascading like a sort of waterfall about his back and shoulders. The mental image of Leto like that, though...
Hm. Hard to accurately picture. Either he must’ve looked shockingly regal (and handsome, but he’s not acknowledging that right now, thank you very much), or he looked a half-step away from communing with the wilds and wiggling his toes through dew-touched earth. Or both? Maybe both.
A small section of silver strands are combed out before he makes his first cut. The softest little snip of a sound.] And I did, yes.
For my master. For his guests— and the other spawn, too, though that was only ever when ordered to on occasion, as I never cared much for those wretched creatures.
By which I mean at all.
[Snip snip— the soft little plops of falling pieces of damp hair as they land across Leto’s shoulders.] We were like squabbling dogs, most days. Envy practically lived beside us, brought on by Cazador’s games and cruel favor alike.
It was only survival, in a sense. [Harsh necessity.] But that doesn’t mean we pitied each other, either. [No, not pity. They were only cutthroat. Resentful. Mean. hounding one another surely as their master and his ilk hounded them— and Astarion wasn’t any different.]
Awful beasts. I hope they’re rotting at his side.
[Anyway—
He leans slightly forward there, just across the edge of Leto's shoulder.] Just how short did you want this, my darling?
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