[Why, Fenris wonders, does this kind of thing keep happening to him?
Not the tadpole bit. That, while horrific, is brand-new, and thank the Maker for that. Being strapped down, helpless to stop the mindflayer from shoving that creature into his eye, oh, he never wants to go through that again. He's never going to stop having nightmares about the way it had writhed against his eye, the feeling of it sliding into parts of his skull he'd never once realized had sensation . . . urgh.
But no. No, what Fenris had meant was the bit about being caught up with a rag-tag group of individuals united by a single purpose. It's the second time this has happened to him. That's not a lot, admittedly, but it's weird it's happened twice? And besides, this group isn't nearly as good as the first. He misses his Kirkwall companions desperately, though he doesn't say as such, even in his own mind. And yet though he'd started in Kirkwall the same way as here— lost, alone, distrustful of the others— he has no intention of slowly letting the people here grow on him.
That said: nor is he indifferent to them. Some are more tolerable than others. Wyll is his favorite thusfar. Shadowheart is snobbishly insufferable, and the less said about Gale, the better. Lae'Zel despises him, but she despises everyone, so she doesn't count. And as for Astarion . . .
Maker's breath, what an absolute asshole.
They've traveled for at least a week together. Their fearless leader seems to be oblivious to anything save the tadpole in her head, but Fenris isn't. He's noticed the dead animals drained of blood that mysteriously keep appearing outside of their camp. The fact that Astarion had flinched and winced when they'd crossed running water. The fucking fangs peeking out each time he spoke, though those ears give him away as an elf. It's not a hard puzzle to solve.
He waits, at least, until the others are asleep. He doesn't trust them enough to do this in front of them. And if Astarion attacks . . . well, Fenris is more than confident he can take him.
That night, when the vampire (for surely that's what he is) slips out of camp, Fenris follows.]
You might try hiding your animal corpses more effectively. Sooner or later someone is going to deduce the culprit.
[He calls it out softly, but his muscles are tensed, ready to go for his sword if need be.]
It isn't that difficult a puzzle to piece together.
[Trotting around with the herd is, as Astarion has so kindly voiced at least a handful of times in the past two or three days, absolutely miserable. These people are all varying degrees of unbearable, even if on the rare occasion he might agree with, broadly, the decisions of the group. It's necessity, nothing more. He has no interest in letting the thing in his head turn him into some other monstrous creature, and so here he is.
Among the unbearables. It has been a long week; nearly all of them are impossible to even speak to, except perhaps their fearless leader, if she is feeling amenable, but most nights in camp he sulks and complains about this or that; the lack of something to drink (like wine, thank you), the amenities...
Despite his better judgment, he'd had hope for Fenris. Shadowheart— well, half elves, for starters, plus her intolerable attitude had placed her well outside his interest. But Fenris, ah— for a moment, he'd thought, just maybe...
Of course, if his first response upon meeting the man had not been to tut disapprovingly at him and blithely insist that one of them would have to go home and change, well. He's really set the bar with that one, it seems, because some people completely lack a sense of humor! Someone with crueler implications than he would have surely pointed out the two white-haired elves thing eventually; he did them a favor.
So Fenris receives the same amount of scoffing and eye rolling as everyone else after that, and Astarion moves on. It's only a week later now, and he is hungry, and has yet to find even a particularly plump rabbit when Fenris' voice sounds out behind him. Astarion's shoulders tense, irritation from being caught mixed with something much more primal coursing through him, but when he turns to sigh at Fenris it's with his usual amount of languidness and idle gesturing.]
Ugh, it's you, of all people? I should have hoped for someone with a more... tender touch.
[Because Fenris is an asshole, see, but also because he's the elf equivalent of very dry jerky, all tiny and probably hard to chew on.]
What now, then? Have you come to chase me away in the dead of night?
[It's a retort, although as he says it, he wonders. Would he go? He seems no more enamored of their companions than Fenris is, and yet still he stays. Even when he complains about the more heroic actions they undertake, even when he (correctly, although Fenris will not admit this aloud) reminds their group they have a seemingly limited amount of time before this tadpole takes over, he stays.]
I am assessing a threat. They think you nothing more than a particularly dramatic elf. They would not sleep so well if they knew the truth, I think, and for good reason.
[Still: he isn't going for his sword. He really is more in this to assess whether or not Astarion is a threat. And if he isn't, fantastic, Fenris will be genuinely pleased to go back to being irritated by him in peace. But if he is . . .
[A dismissal of the question, not so much curt as drawling, either for asking it in the first place or assuming he can be chased off in the night so easily. It isn't— they are all very annoying, yes, quite so, but if luck is in numbers for this particular wriggling endeavor, then they will all have to endure each other. So be it.
Including the two of them, he supposes, which means he has to have this conversation now, and not find anything to eat, and be even more sluggish in the morning... Truly, Fenris is the worst.]
And here I thought you would roll over and call it a night if you caught me helping myself to a little midnight treat back at camp. Shame!
[But that's just blustering, as Fenris has already noticed the trail of blood-drained animals he's carelessly left behind, and so obviously he hasn't tried to help himself. Hmph. He crosses his arms, giving Fenris a look like he is being unfair, actually.]
I don't follow any of you around while you're eating your meals cooked.
That's because the chances of one of us deciding to cook and eat the others is nonexistent.
[I mean, hopefully, although you never quite know sometimes. Fenris stares back unrepentantly, not in the least bit guilty. It's hard not to mirror Astarion's pose, but he'd never hear the end of it if he did.]
North, in Finnish. A word Lalli is used to hearing day in and day out—and a word that Emil is, despite his best efforts, currently butchering. It should be annoying? It is, on some level, and yet, as Lalli abandons his absent study of the nearest tree—well. The sun has long since sunk out of sight; the fire the others are stretched out about is crackling softly in the background, just near enough to send warm light flickering across Emil's face as he leans back against this mossy rock, shoulder just barely brushing against Lalli's while he thinks of new ways to destroy Lalli's language. Pohjoinen! Pohjoinen. Pohjoinen.
...Terrible. Truly, hence the way Lalli's brow knits together as he attempts to work out where Emil is coming up with, like, syllables that simply do not exist—but here is the thing about Emil: Lalli doesn't mind him. Emil does not grate on Lalli's nerves in the way that, say, Reynir does; like, even when Emil is at his most frustrating—even when Lalli tells himself he wants nothing to do with the stupid Swede—it's only a matter of time before Lalli is drawn right back into Emil's orbit. Sometimes Emil even pulls Lalli back himself, because Emil, unlike so many others, never stops trying.
Lalli appreciates it.
It's a grudging appreciation, at times, but it's appreciation all the same? It's partly why he doesn't snap at Emil now, though the other reason for his continued silence is—hmm. Lalli likes Emil's voice; Lalli likes watching Emil's lips form these words that are not the word, and that... sure is something. He's certainly never paid such close attention to anyone else's lips...
Ah, well. Emil remains the exception to so many things, and thus Lalli decides not to think about why Emil's lips are so interesting as he stretches a hand toward them, lightly presses the tips of his bare fingers to them. Shh. That's enough, for the time being.]
Not good, [he says, quietly, in his slightly stilted Swedish, applying a tad more pressure.] Too fast.
[Slow it down a bit, bud? Even as Lalli's eyes fall to his fingers, just... soaking in—savoring?—this familiar-yet-unfamiliar sight.]
stop reading us both. i only have whiny icons and this one
[Already, Emil has decided to never in his life put himself into a situation in which he needs to tell Lalli that someone or something is north or face dire consequences. It's not worth it! This word is cursed! Like so many Finnish words, it sounds like gibberish no matter how hard he tries, the Swedish word is so much simpler, etc, etc. The usual.
Except— sitting in the dark mumbling to himself about pohjoinen this and that, without any of the others hovering around doing things- any things at all!- is... different! Nicer. He's the only one still putting in the effort to learn Finnish, here, but it's still embarrassing to utterly murder Finnish pronunciation where the others can hear him. Every time he makes eye contact with Reynir he wants to hit him in the face with his own stupid braid, but! Well, so, this is better.
And Finnish words sound nice when Lalli says them, at least. Much as he has been looking at a tree and not talking to Emil for several minutes now, something that is highly objectionable in a way Emil has too few words in any language to articulate, hmm...
He's destroying this poor word for the nth time, lamenting the lack of appreciation for his efforts, when Lalli's hand is suddenly in his face? On his face? He blinks, boggling for a good few seconds-- this kind of shushing, historically, has meant trolls nearby, so excuse him the moment it takes him to catch up with, ah.
This thing? This touching and not very good but still okay Swedish thing? Mmph.
He shrugs, first, and makes it a few more seconds before he lifts a hand to tug Lalli's away from his mouth.]
I can't say it any slower, Lalli. [his brain will shut down?] Give me a different one!
[Is it weird, touching someone like this? Of course it is. Even Lalli, oddball that he is, is aware that one does not continue pressing fingers to another's lips after the message has clearly been received—and yet it falls to Emil to pull Lalli's hand away. Ah. Maybe Lalli should be embarrassed by that; like, he certainly feels a twinge of uncertainty as he blinks first at Emil's lips, then up to Emil's eyes, brain strangely sluggish as it attempts to parse all this strange-sounding Swedish...
...But it is, as ever, easier to be petty, which is why Lalli twists free of Emil's (loose) grasp, mouth twisting into a frown.]
It's important. [Sir!] You are—
[Give him a second, please, to search his Swedish Word Bank™ as he drops his hand back into his lap. Odd, how he can still feel Emil's fingers wrapped about his wrist? Time to curl his own into a loose fist.]
Kärsimätön.
[Impatient. Rich, coming from Lalli, but this is how they be.]
i feel the unyielding gaze of the inevitable point purchase boring into my soul
[Is it a credit to Emil or not that he doesn't make anything of Lalli's momentary boggling... like, that seems just like normal Lalli stuff, and not particularly out of the ordinary, so! He lifts both hands in a shrug, very intent on defending his stance that this word sucks and Lalli should pick a better one. Why would he have to know, uh, cardinal directions...
That's silly!!! Anyway! Now there's another Finnish word, and fair enough in that he did ask for another one, but--]
Lalli! That's harder than the last one!
[How could he do this thing! To Emil! Emil, who sighs theatrically and slumps back, crossing his arms like a petulant little baby, which he is. Give him a second, as well, because he earnestly thinks this is the next word he's supposed to be learning and not criticism.
[It's been nearly eight months since the Chantry explosion, Fenris realizes one night.
He's changing, going from his usual battered day-to-day armor to something more formal. He does not care for the formal armor. It's not bad— far from it, in fact, it's easily the most expensive item he's ever owned— but it's, well, formal. It's not really meant for fighting, it's meant to look nice. It's shiny. It's white. It makes him look like a bit of a twerp, but he'd already insisted he wasn't going to wear a kilt, so there's only so much he can protest.
Or maybe the armor is fine and he's sulky for a different reason tonight.
But the point is . . . eight months.
The first month was the worst. He was so angry for a hundred different reasons, far different from Sebastian's own. The prince was furious on behalf of the Chantry, of the innocent lives lost in what seemed a senseless explosion, at Hawke's refusal to kill Anders . . . all of which were valid reasons to be angry, to Fenris's mind. He understood them, and to an extent, even sympathized. But that was not why he had wandered in a kind of stunned daze afterwards.
No, Fenris's reasons had far more personal. Fenris's reasons bounced around chaotic in his mind, distracted and distorted, flashbang impulses of emotions and scraps of thought all muddled until they became nothing but fury and grief. But what it boiled down to was this: Fenris was angry because once again, magic had taken away everything dear to him. It wasn't personal; it certainly wasn't intentional. But the facts are these: Fenris had spent seven years building a life, a family, and then suddenly the Chantry had exploded and with it, everything he'd grown to love. Magic was to blame, just as it always was. Everyone had split up, and of course they none of them had any obligation towards each other, but it had still hurt.
And then there'd been Sebastian. Come with me, standing in the foyer of a mansion that was not Fenris's own, haunted with the ghosts of the past. Come back to Starkhaven with me.
Of course he'd said yes.
Starkhaven is . . . different. Far different than the things Fenris has grown to know, but not in an unpleasant way. Cold, of course, everything is cold and damp, the food far stranger than the Tevene fare he still misses, but the people are friendly. They, to his great surprise, take to him far better than Fenris assumed they would. There are a few jokes, a fair bit of testing, but once he proves he knows what he's doing (and then some), there are few who care about his species. They're eager to learn and hungry for a commander who knows what he's doing, and Fenris so clearly does.
Not that he's their commander. He balks at the position, anxious about anything that would forcibly wrench him from Sebastian's side. No, he's the prince's bodyguard first and foremost. Training the guards, teaching them fighting both formal and decidedly informal, walking them through endless exercises and spars, showing them how to spot a threat or keep an eye out for blindspots . . . it's simply helping improve Starkhaven in general, and makes his life easier in the long run.
And it is not an easy life.
A prince with no heir, no spouse, and no immediate family to take his place? Oh, yes. Oh, there are far too many people eager to see if they can finish off the Vael line and take its place. None have gotten close yet, not least of which because the guards are getting far better at spotting threats, but still. It's a stressful thing, constantly having to be aware of one's surroundings.
And tonight's a party, which makes it even worse. Hundreds of people mingling around, they all of them with their eye on Sebastian for one reason if not another. Eight months is more than long enough for the noble families to plot about lineages and marriages; every eligible woman (and man, for some of Starkhaven's more openminded families) is going to be angling to catch the prince's eye. They're all plotting; it's just that Fenris has to make sure they're all trying to get into his bed for power instead of murder.
Ugh.
It's because of things like that that tonight will be stressful, he tells himself. That's why he's in such a sour mood. And honestly, that's not wrong, he's really not looking forward to being tensed up and ready to kill for an entire evening, but that's far from all of it.
Once upon a time, Fenris had thought . . . but no. It doesn't matter what he'd thought, back when Sebastian had so earnestly asked him to come home with him. The reality is this: they come from two different worlds. Sebastian is a prince and Fenris is an elven ex-slave, and yes, they are friends, but even that is a shock. Sebastian has a country to rule, and sooner or later he'll be married to some gentle, well-bred girl so they can have gentle, well-bred children, the heir and the spare, and that's just how it goes. And Fenris will . . .
Well. Fenris will guard him, of course. Because that's his job, and he is too in love with his prince to dream of doing anything but that.
But nights like tonight really, really suck. Fenris scowls at himself in the mirror, shoves a hand through his hair to try and make it look semi-decent, and then heads for the door. Not the main one, the one that leads out to the hall, but the other one. The one that leads directly to Sebastian's room, for what is the point of a bodyguard if he is not always near?
He knocks twice, a vague courtesy, before opening the door anyway.]
[Eight months away from Kirkwall feels like eight years and eight days at once; it feels like yesterday that the Chantry and half the people he'd held dear were reduced to rubble and ashes— yesterday that he'd stormed away from Hawke in blind fury and gone... well. Just gone, to sit amongst the rubble that was his home, too full of grief and rage and despair to do anything but sit there and stare at the wreckage. Yesterday that he'd descended the steps and gone not to apologize to Hawke and to everyone but to Fenris' empty mansion, to listen to his footsteps echo so much more confidently than he'd felt and the raw timbre of his voice when he'd looked up at Fenris on the landing and asked him to come to Starkhaven. Properly, this time.
To come home.
Because Starkhaven is his home, despite the fact that he's spent about half his life somewhere else, by now; the city welcomes its rightful prince back with open arms and it's bittersweet, yes, it's not easy to return nor is it easy to do right by Starkhaven with the weight of Kirkwall still lashed around his neck, but— it is home.
Fenris helps, which Sebastian assures him of probably too many times, those first weeks. That month they'd drifted around each other carrying a different grief, intersecting sometimes only for a few moments of silent company over a hasty meal, each throwing himself into the work that ought to be done. Fenris helps. Sebastian can't— won't stop to think about what he might have done with himself without someone there to act as ballast, and it kindles something warm in him he hasn't felt in a long time to watch Fenris thrive in Starkhaven. He'd known all along, of course, he'd always known that Fenris could do anything if finally given the opportunity he deserves, and Sebastian won't deny he's more than glad to have been a part of it.
So there's a kind of hazy, idyllic interim, after the grief subsides down to something manageable. Sebastian fixes the mess left by the murder of his family, Fenris trains the guard; Sebastian drags Starkhaven back to its rightful place and puts it back on its proper course despite several noble families' best efforts, Fenris stays at his side and mutters in his ear things that make him nearly lose his composure in front of one too many nobles. He hosts dinners and parties, Fenris fusses over his formalwear.
It's a nice routine. They work well together, and Sebastian is never shy about expressing just how much Fenris' presence means to him, and yet... hmm.
Well, he'd thought he'd been... clearer. Come back to Starkhaven with me, come share my home hadn't felt, mm, subtle all those months ago, but perhaps? Perhaps.
So there is a party, and nobles who hate and adore him alike are going to simper and fawn over him, and it's not dreadful but it is the last thing he'd like to be doing. He is dressed, at least, when Fenris enters the room behind him, standing at a full mirror and adjusting the shiniest bits of his formal gathering getup (not nearly as comfortable as his armor, but enough of his people have insisted he look the part of the returned prince, finally). There's an artfully slanted cape he just can't seem to clasp right, fiddling with it as he looks at Fenris in the mirror.]
Eager to get going? [he asks, as if Fenris has ever wanted to go to one of these parties, hah. Sebastian flashes him a grin.] The sooner we get downstairs, the sooner Lady Wilhelmina is going to tell you all about how charmingly single her many daughters are, again.
[Is it scandalously inappropriate to flirt by proxy with the prince's elven bodyguard? Not as much as it would be in, say, Orlais, but enough. Sebastian is a fan of the way Fenris' nose scrunches up in barely-contained displeasure when it happens and, hmm, nothing else. Pros, cons.
Anyway, come help him with this clasp, he is in dire straits.]
[There's no need for him to say that as grimly as he does, but here we are. Fenris comes to stand in front of Sebastian, his back to the mirror, his nose scrunched in absolutely-not-disguised-at-all displeasure. Sebastian's hands are swatted away, Fenris' fingers deftly taking their place.]
Hold still.
[His eyes flick up for a few precious seconds before he focuses back on his work.]
I suggest you stop grinning. If I am doomed to endure that, so are you. I will not be left alone in this torment.
[Is it strictly necessary for his fingers to brush against Sebastian so much? Probably. Almost definitely.]
[It's completely necessary, the same way it makes the party they're about to endure worth it. Sebastian does not stop grinning, anyway; not right away, as Fenris is doing the nose-scrunching thing and it's precious, and he deserves a moment of simple distraction before the two of them are pawed at for the next few hours.
He does, at least, obediently drop his hands to his sides, though not without lingering there for a moment, almost covering Fenris' hands and interrupting his clasping completely. Hmm.]
I pretended I was ill two weeks ago. [Hmm!] Am I to be the bodyguard tonight, then?
[Ah, that's— you know, don't think too hard about that sentence at all.]
Not that I condone shirking my duties, but... an hour ought to be long enough.
[There are plenty of reasons, as always, for Constantin to politely refuse to go on yet another hunting trip with Felix. He is absolute shit with any given weapon, let alone the sit still for a long time and take aim kind, of course, this is not a flaw he's improved upon at all in recent weeks— and that other thing, how much sitting still is involved, and how much it chafes against his entire soul and being to sit still and be quiet. Frankly, the long, seemingly endless days of these hunting trips are unbearable. He doesn't mind at all when Felix declares that he's going on one without inviting him, lord have mercy, it's fine...
But when Felix does ask, in his kind of gruff, mostly roundabout ways, Constantin always does say yes. He knows Felix wouldn't put up with him tagging along just to be polite, so on those rare few occasions he's actually invited - yes, he will endure sleeping on the ground and sitting still counting blades of grass or whatever he must do for hours on end.
It's worth it primarily for the nights, anyway; yes, watching Felix prepare what he's hunted is always fairly disgusting, and yes, Constantin splutters and huffs every time over the slightest suggestion that he stick his hands in some rabbit entrails, or whatever— he just throws sticks on the fire! That's his job! Sticks and the pleasure of his company, thank you very much sir!
—Still! That's part of the charm, the gross animal stuff, for it lead to talking in the dying firelight with no company but each other and the sounds of the forest; it leads to watching Felix soften around the edges, just enough to warm Constantin deep in his chest, and the hours spent flicking pebbles (until he's scolded for it) seem very much worth it in the end.
And sometimes it leads to just enough mutual tenderness that hastily retiring into the tent takes precedence over all that sappy gazing in the firelight stuff, hard ground and relative cramped space of the tent be damned.
Sometimes, a tent can be very romantic, actually.
So: there's that, and afterward somehow every time Constantin shifts even a little bit to get more comfortable, he manages to jostle the whole tent. It has not collapsed yet, but he is still fidgeting, so maybe.]
This is absurd, [he says, but like, in a fun and funny way. Help him, Felix...]
[The gross animal stuff honestly is part of the charm? Or so (some part of) Felix hopes, at least, because dressing a rabbit is honestly all that he currently has to offer. The meat is tossed into a simple, yet tasty, stew; the hide is left to cure by the fire; the bones are buried far, far away, in the hopes that Constantin will forget about them entirely. A rabbit is a rabbit, after all! A rabbit. Far be it from Felix to lose sleep over such a stupid creature.
But here Felix is, anyway! Stomach full as he stares at this side of the tent, feeling Constantin toss to and fro behind him. Ridiculous, given how comfortable this tent is; like, Felix is used to sharing such cramped quarters with at least three other individuals, whose combined snoring threatens to wake the dead. Sharing a tent with one (1) person is a luxury, really. Felix has plenty of room to straighten his legs—and to huffily turn about, glaring at the dim shape that is Constantin. Sir—]
What? [he hisses, pulling that much more of the shared blanket to his side of the tent. Suffer, Constantin.] Stay still.
[It's, like, 11pm? Local loser is trying to sleep, despite the warmth of the person pressed so close to him.]
[Felix, please love and cherish him, despite his wiggles? Sleeping at 11pm is wild enough, but demanding he stay still in this tent that is not his very large and way more luxurious bed is silly! Is romance truly dead...?
Evidently, since some people aren't even sharing blankets like gentlemen. Constantin makes a noise of protest and does not stay still, moving in even closer to Felix not to grab for the edge of the blanket and pull it back but to squish his cheek against Felix's shoulder instead; please, take pity on him, he is in peril.]
Felix... Next you'll tell me to relax! Are you relaxed, in this infinitesimal scrap of a tent?
[He doesn't have to be nice to the tent, just Felix. The tent deserves his whining. Felix cannot escape said whining, however, especially not as Constantin slides an arm around him, under the traitor blanket. Indulge him...]
[There is so much room in this tent? God damn? And yet there is so little room left between them, as Constantin's arm snakes over his side, and—ah. What should be too much simply isn't, because Constantin is Constantin; like, there is a brief moment of surprise, but while Felix stiffens, Felix is quick to huff out a breath. Sir, take two...]
I would be. [Hmph!] You make it difficult.
[He is just sayin', thanks, and he shifts ever so slightly, one hand coming to rest atop Constantin's shoulder. He should shove Constantin away, perhaps; this would all be easier to deal with, were Felix to face the opposite direction, and yet, as he struggles to find that familiar face in the darkness:]
Or maybe there are? It's hard to say, especially when so much of news is spread from person to person. I heard and they say aren't exactly reliable sources, but he knows this much: most of the Circles have fallen, either through pressure or rebellion. Mages— apostates, technically, although every mage is now an apostate— roam the countryside, and oh, the tales you hear . . .
It doesn't matter, though. He doesn't really care about mages as a whole. The moment he'd heard whispers of rebellion, Polnareff had headed north and east, towards the Free Marches. That's where Sherry had last written from: a little Circle near the border of Nevarra, though she'd mentioned there was talk of another transfer soon. And then the letters had stopped, and now this . . .
He's going to find her. It's not a question of if. It's just taking a little time, that's all, but he'll get there. And right now, his search has taken him into the wilds of the Free Marches. They're around fifteen miles out from Kirkwall, heading back west, in part because Polnareff has a lead, and in part because the sooner they get Kirkwall behind them, the better.
We. It's we now, despite Polnareff's inclination towards taking this quest on alone. We, which means a man with blazing red hair and a sharp tongue, one whose fighting prowess and general ability to take care of himself had been proven in a tavern fight three nights ago. Is he a mage? Well, technically, yes, although he's not exactly quick with the spells thusfar. Like, understandably, but also: it would've been nice to have a fire up and running about half an hour ago.
They're camping. Polnareff is actually pretty okay at camping. He can pitch a tent (can he ever, hur hur hur, and he almost made that joke tonight, but ah, not yet), dig a midden, even get a fire started. But it'd rained last night, and the wood is all damp, and it's just—
He's working on it, okay? It's hard. Don't pick on him. He's doing his best with a bit of flint and some wood that absolutely refuses to catch, no matter how much flammable bark Polnareff piles on.]
[So, how about those Circles! It looks different from the outside, surely, compared to being a Circle mage one day, going about your own damn business, just trying to get by without too much trouble, and then— well! Then you're a criminal for existing, which you technically already were, but now you don't even have a bed to sleep in!
In short: Kakyoin has been having a rough couple of weeks. He's been in the Circle since childhood, since his diligent practice of hiding-from-Mother when it came to magic suddenly became caught-by-Mother and she-cried-but-still-let-them-take-him, and like? Things could be better. Things could also be worse! Things are now unmistakably sideways, comparatively, neither better nor worse, as he finds himself homeless and very visibly a newly-apostate'd mage by virtue of not being visibly anything else.
He could have ditched the robes. But they're comfortable, and he doesn't have any money...
No matter. It's an ill-timed stop in a tavern - he thought it would be late enough that the most sensitive townspeople would have gone home, but no - and the ensuing fight that finds him attached to this... ah. This mouthy Orlesian? Whatever Polnareff is supposed to be, it's nothing like Kakyoin is used to, and if he spends the better part of their first day traveling together just kind of boggling and sometimes (often) frowning, that's just how it is.
They're more accustomed to each other now, he thinks. Polnareff has stopped asking so many questions (but he still asks questions), and Kakyoin hasn't elbowed him in the gut for a whole twelve hours now! It's going better.
Still, it's not cozier, but that's entirely because Kakyoin is just sitting here on this damp log, watching Polnareff fail to start a fire.]
Away from this gutter of a town, [is his first answer, delivered flatly, still annoyed about the last place they just barely skirted by instead of stopping in. That almost seems like... it? Like, he's done? But no, he picks it up again:]
We're still too close to Kirkwall. [This doesn't answer the question, thanks Kakyoin.] Where are you heading? Starkhaven?
[That's a really solid answer, but you know what, it's not as if it's any less flimsy than what Kakyoin had offered. Polnareff's scowl deepens as he keeps at it, because surely the fifth time is the charm. The damn things have to light sooner or later, surely.]
But I wanna check surrounding villages first. It's easy to hide in a city, but it's easy to get in trouble too. Sometimes the country is better— and way more amiable towards taking in strays, even nowadays.
[So long as those strays aren't too obviously mages, anyway. The flint scrapes again and again, irritating in a rhythmic sort of way.]
Plus maybe we'll find some kindly farmer who doesn't mind giving us an old set of clothes. Those robes aren't gonna last, you know. And it might not be the worst idea to, you know, maybe not advertise exactly who we are.
[Kakyoin snorts, rolling his eyes back where he sits somewhere off to the side of Polnareff, but it's practically audible anyway. So they're both wandering around hoping to run into something without a real plan, if he had to guess— but in his defense, it's not as if he knows how to... be outside the Circle, really. He doesn't even want to think of himself as a stray to be taken in, but mm, that is kind of where they're at, isn't it.]
Was it really the robes that gave me away?
[Like, yes, but the not-quite-ornate but very-much-taller-than-he-is mage staff he snatched on his way out of the Circle probably gets him just as much attention. It's the staff that sits across his lap now, that he lifts to swing over and... can he reach from here... yes, he can: he pokes Polnareff in the side with it, beneath the ribs.
Twice. But like, gently. Was it the robes??]
I wouldn't say no to a pair of trousers. It would be warmer.
[Ha ha, also, don't think about what's under his robes, especially not while he finally concedes to getting up and coming over to squat by this unlit fire.]
Fire isn't my specialty... [But, his little gesture says, he could try?]
[Listen: progress requires work. That's what nobody really understands, you know? It's not just having a neat idea and then hey, presto, success! There's a lot of work behind it. There's a lot of trial and error. There's things that blow up in your face and arguments over augmentation and the most frustrating dead-ends, impossibilities that nevertheless you know you have to conquer . . . it's hard. It's taken him years and years to get to where he is, and even then, Jayce knows damn well he might never have gotten there if not for Viktor.
(He'd be dead in an alley from an impulsive suicide attempt if not for Viktor, and he thinks about that sometimes, though they've never really talked about).
So work is necessary. Work is vital. It's not just a nine-to-five thing, but oh, you ask the string of disappointed men and women over the years . . . . and hey, he gets it, all right? It's kind of shitty to be left waiting just because your boyfriend can't tear himself away from some new (fascinating) variation in magical readings. He doesn't blame them, not really— although, you know, he says that, but there's a tiny part of him that does resent it. If they could just understand . . .
Well, anyway: at least there's one person who gets it. He never has to tell Viktor the importance of working hard. He never, ever has to put up with a disappointed expression and a wheedling tone, can't you just take a night off for once, no, no, he gets that this is greater than fleeting pleasure. How many nights have they spent in the lab together? How many times have they woken each other up at 4 in the morning, dawn creeping in, but oh, worth it, worth it.
So it's a little bit weird that Viktor is the one insisting they go out tonight. Not for long, just until the reinforcement cools, it's not as if we can work on it more even if we wanted to— and honestly, it's not like Jayce is opposed, not really. All of him feels stiff and overwrought, his muscles tensed up and his brain aching from trying to think think think all the time, but still . . .
But he deserves a break. They do.
So: yes, he says. First to accompany Viktor to pick up a few things, lab equipment (or, well, stocking up on snacks, that counts as lab equipment) and a few household groceries. And then of course they can't just haul it all back to the lab, so they head to Viktor's apartment instead, which, honestly? He's curious. He's never seen it before, sue him for wanting a sneak peek.
And it's . . . small!
That's rude to think, but it is. It's so small, meant clearly for one and one only. There isn't really a view so much as a window that faces an alley wall, and oh, the floor is chilly, creaking floorboards soaking up the ground's coldness and mercilessly directing it upwards. He can hear the noises of tenants all around them, and it's not necessarily bad, but it's not exactly a studio high-rise, is it?
But! It's clean and neat, and there are enough small touches to make it seem homely. One or two plants, carefully set up and out of the way. A bed with a worn comforter somewhat hastily tucked in. A journal with some notes, and that Jayce is itching to go through, though he knows better. Touch Viktor's journal and he might just touch Jayce's own, and ah, that wouldn't be such a good idea nowadays, would it? Like, it's hard to explain away doodles of your lab partner, no matter that they're innocent and simplistic. It's still kinda weird.
Anyway: it's small, but it's nice, or at least Jayce is prepared to think almost anything of Viktor's is nice. He leans his hips up against the countertop, watching Viktor's hands move as he cuts, what is that, an onion? A shallot? He doesn't know the difference, and actually, it doesn't matter, because it's Viktor's hands that are the draw here. Long fingers and oh, so terribly clever as he pries apart a mechanism or wields a knife . . .
Ahem. Anyway. He tears his gaze away, focusing up on, you know, Viktor's face.]
Not that I'm complaining, but I didn't exactly expect a home-cooked meal tonight.
[He fiddles idly with some mechanical something-or-another that almost assuredly belongs in the lab. It's fine. It's just pleasant to have something to spin around in his fingers as he talks.]
I would have at least brought a bottle of wine if I'd known.
[Or, well, bought one. His own apartment isn't exactly well-stocked.]
[It's something Viktor has thought about for a while: doing this thing with Jayce. This thing, because it's a whole event, and they've had plenty of startlingly unhealthy dinners of takeout food in the lab over the years, they've had dinner together, but! Not in Viktor's home. That is the key piece that he toys with in the back of his mind for, honestly, embarrassingly, weeks on and off:
Can he convince Jayce to come to his home, just for a few hours? Should he? Will Jayce say something?
(Because, and Viktor knows that Jayce's family is small time, that they started out closer to the ground, but he knows just as well that only one of them had to scrape and claw his way up from the fissures only to get a creaky, drafty studio with a few miraculously-thriving plants.)
Eventually he decides, yes, he would like Jayce to see his home. He would like to have dinner with Jayce in a context that isn't working, because Viktor plain doesn't do that — there have simply not been... people, in his life, in a manner of speaking. Oh, he's been friendly, and he was well-liked enough as Heimerdinger's assistant, but that wall always remained up; and if not the wall with a price tag attached, then it became the limitations of his body making him hold himself back.
And then, like an explosive (literally) lightning bolt with great hair and a chiseled jaw, Jayce appeared, and suddenly Viktor has been living a life with someone. Partners. Friends. Someone he considers when he plans for the future now, because it isn't only his dead end career as an assistant anymore.
Which is all to say: he plans this dinner for a remarkably long time, for what it is: a simple dish prepared in his tiny matchbox of a kitchen. He goes for a simple meal that he's made plenty of times instead of trying to be incredibly impressive, and it seems like Jayce is impressed by his, ah, chopping ability anyway, so that works out.
(That his matchbox kitchen is not large enough to fit the both of them without leaving Viktor keenly aware of Jayce's presence just to the side has been noted, documented, set aside for future study.)
Viktor glances at him, his half-smirk and raised eyebrow entirely intentional; is Jayce for real? They went grocery shopping? This was planned. The way the mere sight of Jayce just idling around in his kitchen saying dumb stuff makes his heart turn over just a little is a bonus, and he clears his throat as he looks down at the food again.]
I told you: we weren't going to get anything done in the lab tonight. And I wasn't going to ask you to bring wine.
[That would give away the whole game!! And Jayce would for sure bring something absurdly expensive that paired poorly with Viktor's budget cooking, here, but never mind that now.]
I had some ideas I thought you might be interested in, [he says, with a glance over towards that journal Jayce is all but salivating over. This is true, but again: baby steps. It's not the whole truth.] Frankly, I was getting tired of listening to your desk chair squeak every time you turn the slightest fraction.
[He doesn't really know what he means by that. What's the implication? That Viktor brought him over so they could . . . what? Well, plenty of things, actually, and Jayce could offer up a fair few suggestions. Things born out of idle fits of fantasy that he only allows late at night . . . ah, but not like you'd think. Nothing lewd or crude, but definitely things he ought to be embarrassed over.
(Like: how lovely it would be to take Viktor's hands between his own and warm them, he's always so chilly, and wouldn't it be nice to ease that? Like: how Viktor would look in his jacket, comfortably ill-fitting in the best of ways. Like: how sometimes, when they're both at their wits end on some impossible problem, and then suddenly everything just clicks and shifts and there is the answer, that rush, that giddying triumph, that understanding that he constantly strives for and yet only fleetingly manages to achieve—
How, in those moments, he could just kiss Viktor, he really could).
Anyway, be realistic. The implication is probably just that it's nice to get out once in a while, and there are few people who get along as easily as they do. It's nice! Enjoy it for what it is, and enjoy the platonic thrill that he gets whenever he makes Viktor smile, or laugh, or look at him like that, that shocked-delighted expression when he's presented something Viktor hadn't considered, oh, that's his favorite look of all.]
It is nice to get out of the lab, though. I've never— have I seriously never been here before?
[Obviously he hasn't, and yet the fact only strikes at him now.]
You've met my mother. How is this the first time we've come to your apartment?
[Jayce is here so Viktor could send someone into the lab to replace his chair with a better one, obviously. No; he raises another eyebrow as he finishes chopping this mystery vegetable (it's onion, Jayce) and pushes it with the flat of the knife into a bowl. What is Jayce trying to do, actually? Whatever it is, it runs afoul of Jayce changing topics in the middle, and Viktor gestures around the room with a dish towel before using it to wipe the knife.]
It isn't much of an apartment, to be fair. About two and a half of these could fit into our lab, [Our Lab] and besides, we have been busy.
[So there: it's small, it's not made for company, they have been doing so much progress at the lab he hasn't thought of much else, and so — well! Jayce is here now, which is what counts. Viktor relishes the disbelief in his voice, besides; the thought that Jayce has wanted to come to his home for some time is nice, even if he's likely reading into that momentary surprise.
Still. The lab is home away from home, to be sure, but it's the little things Viktor thinks about now, imagining all the potential of Jayce here in his apartment: Jayce's jacket hung on one of the pegs by his door; feet on the couch purely so Viktor can tsk and push them off; just Jayce here, in his space, a place he has not welcomed other people into in, hm, ever? Wow! That's a thought!
Instead of dwell on that, however, he asks conversationally:] How is your mother?
[does she know you're here, babe, because then She Knows, and so sorry about whatever she says when you get home!]
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Not the tadpole bit. That, while horrific, is brand-new, and thank the Maker for that. Being strapped down, helpless to stop the mindflayer from shoving that creature into his eye, oh, he never wants to go through that again. He's never going to stop having nightmares about the way it had writhed against his eye, the feeling of it sliding into parts of his skull he'd never once realized had sensation . . . urgh.
But no. No, what Fenris had meant was the bit about being caught up with a rag-tag group of individuals united by a single purpose. It's the second time this has happened to him. That's not a lot, admittedly, but it's weird it's happened twice? And besides, this group isn't nearly as good as the first. He misses his Kirkwall companions desperately, though he doesn't say as such, even in his own mind. And yet though he'd started in Kirkwall the same way as here— lost, alone, distrustful of the others— he has no intention of slowly letting the people here grow on him.
That said: nor is he indifferent to them. Some are more tolerable than others. Wyll is his favorite thusfar. Shadowheart is snobbishly insufferable, and the less said about Gale, the better. Lae'Zel despises him, but she despises everyone, so she doesn't count. And as for Astarion . . .
Maker's breath, what an absolute asshole.
They've traveled for at least a week together. Their fearless leader seems to be oblivious to anything save the tadpole in her head, but Fenris isn't. He's noticed the dead animals drained of blood that mysteriously keep appearing outside of their camp. The fact that Astarion had flinched and winced when they'd crossed running water. The fucking fangs peeking out each time he spoke, though those ears give him away as an elf. It's not a hard puzzle to solve.
He waits, at least, until the others are asleep. He doesn't trust them enough to do this in front of them. And if Astarion attacks . . . well, Fenris is more than confident he can take him.
That night, when the vampire (for surely that's what he is) slips out of camp, Fenris follows.]
You might try hiding your animal corpses more effectively. Sooner or later someone is going to deduce the culprit.
[He calls it out softly, but his muscles are tensed, ready to go for his sword if need be.]
It isn't that difficult a puzzle to piece together.
2 elves enter 1 elf leaves
Among the unbearables. It has been a long week; nearly all of them are impossible to even speak to, except perhaps their fearless leader, if she is feeling amenable, but most nights in camp he sulks and complains about this or that; the lack of something to drink (like wine, thank you), the amenities...
Despite his better judgment, he'd had hope for Fenris. Shadowheart— well, half elves, for starters, plus her intolerable attitude had placed her well outside his interest. But Fenris, ah— for a moment, he'd thought, just maybe...
Of course, if his first response upon meeting the man had not been to tut disapprovingly at him and blithely insist that one of them would have to go home and change, well. He's really set the bar with that one, it seems, because some people completely lack a sense of humor! Someone with crueler implications than he would have surely pointed out the two white-haired elves thing eventually; he did them a favor.
So Fenris receives the same amount of scoffing and eye rolling as everyone else after that, and Astarion moves on. It's only a week later now, and he is hungry, and has yet to find even a particularly plump rabbit when Fenris' voice sounds out behind him. Astarion's shoulders tense, irritation from being caught mixed with something much more primal coursing through him, but when he turns to sigh at Fenris it's with his usual amount of languidness and idle gesturing.]
Ugh, it's you, of all people? I should have hoped for someone with a more... tender touch.
[Because Fenris is an asshole, see, but also because he's the elf equivalent of very dry jerky, all tiny and probably hard to chew on.]
What now, then? Have you come to chase me away in the dead of night?
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[It's a retort, although as he says it, he wonders. Would he go? He seems no more enamored of their companions than Fenris is, and yet still he stays. Even when he complains about the more heroic actions they undertake, even when he (correctly, although Fenris will not admit this aloud) reminds their group they have a seemingly limited amount of time before this tadpole takes over, he stays.]
I am assessing a threat. They think you nothing more than a particularly dramatic elf. They would not sleep so well if they knew the truth, I think, and for good reason.
[Still: he isn't going for his sword. He really is more in this to assess whether or not Astarion is a threat. And if he isn't, fantastic, Fenris will be genuinely pleased to go back to being irritated by him in peace. But if he is . . .
Well. Best to know here and now.]
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[A dismissal of the question, not so much curt as drawling, either for asking it in the first place or assuming he can be chased off in the night so easily. It isn't— they are all very annoying, yes, quite so, but if luck is in numbers for this particular wriggling endeavor, then they will all have to endure each other. So be it.
Including the two of them, he supposes, which means he has to have this conversation now, and not find anything to eat, and be even more sluggish in the morning... Truly, Fenris is the worst.]
And here I thought you would roll over and call it a night if you caught me helping myself to a little midnight treat back at camp. Shame!
[But that's just blustering, as Fenris has already noticed the trail of blood-drained animals he's carelessly left behind, and so obviously he hasn't tried to help himself. Hmph. He crosses his arms, giving Fenris a look like he is being unfair, actually.]
I don't follow any of you around while you're eating your meals cooked.
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[I mean, hopefully, although you never quite know sometimes. Fenris stares back unrepentantly, not in the least bit guilty. It's hard not to mirror Astarion's pose, but he'd never hear the end of it if he did.]
Do you always just feast upon animals?
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how many tags until i buy a paid: the thread
North, in Finnish. A word Lalli is used to hearing day in and day out—and a word that Emil is, despite his best efforts, currently butchering. It should be annoying? It is, on some level, and yet, as Lalli abandons his absent study of the nearest tree—well. The sun has long since sunk out of sight; the fire the others are stretched out about is crackling softly in the background, just near enough to send warm light flickering across Emil's face as he leans back against this mossy rock, shoulder just barely brushing against Lalli's while he thinks of new ways to destroy Lalli's language. Pohjoinen! Pohjoinen. Pohjoinen.
...Terrible. Truly, hence the way Lalli's brow knits together as he attempts to work out where Emil is coming up with, like, syllables that simply do not exist—but here is the thing about Emil: Lalli doesn't mind him. Emil does not grate on Lalli's nerves in the way that, say, Reynir does; like, even when Emil is at his most frustrating—even when Lalli tells himself he wants nothing to do with the stupid Swede—it's only a matter of time before Lalli is drawn right back into Emil's orbit. Sometimes Emil even pulls Lalli back himself, because Emil, unlike so many others, never stops trying.
Lalli appreciates it.
It's a grudging appreciation, at times, but it's appreciation all the same? It's partly why he doesn't snap at Emil now, though the other reason for his continued silence is—hmm. Lalli likes Emil's voice; Lalli likes watching Emil's lips form these words that are not the word, and that... sure is something. He's certainly never paid such close attention to anyone else's lips...
Ah, well. Emil remains the exception to so many things, and thus Lalli decides not to think about why Emil's lips are so interesting as he stretches a hand toward them, lightly presses the tips of his bare fingers to them. Shh. That's enough, for the time being.]
Not good, [he says, quietly, in his slightly stilted Swedish, applying a tad more pressure.] Too fast.
[Slow it down a bit, bud? Even as Lalli's eyes fall to his fingers, just... soaking in—savoring?—this familiar-yet-unfamiliar sight.]
stop reading us both. i only have whiny icons and this one
Except— sitting in the dark mumbling to himself about pohjoinen this and that, without any of the others hovering around doing things- any things at all!- is... different! Nicer. He's the only one still putting in the effort to learn Finnish, here, but it's still embarrassing to utterly murder Finnish pronunciation where the others can hear him. Every time he makes eye contact with Reynir he wants to hit him in the face with his own stupid braid, but! Well, so, this is better.
And Finnish words sound nice when Lalli says them, at least. Much as he has been looking at a tree and not talking to Emil for several minutes now, something that is highly objectionable in a way Emil has too few words in any language to articulate, hmm...
He's destroying this poor word for the nth time, lamenting the lack of appreciation for his efforts, when Lalli's hand is suddenly in his face? On his face? He blinks, boggling for a good few seconds-- this kind of shushing, historically, has meant trolls nearby, so excuse him the moment it takes him to catch up with, ah.
This thing? This touching and not very good but still okay Swedish thing? Mmph.
He shrugs, first, and makes it a few more seconds before he lifts a hand to tug Lalli's away from his mouth.]
I can't say it any slower, Lalli. [his brain will shut down?] Give me a different one!
the icon struggle is still real
...But it is, as ever, easier to be petty, which is why Lalli twists free of Emil's (loose) grasp, mouth twisting into a frown.]
It's important. [Sir!] You are—
[Give him a second, please, to search his Swedish Word Bank™ as he drops his hand back into his lap. Odd, how he can still feel Emil's fingers wrapped about his wrist? Time to curl his own into a loose fist.]
Kärsimätön.
[Impatient. Rich, coming from Lalli, but this is how they be.]
i feel the unyielding gaze of the inevitable point purchase boring into my soul
That's silly!!! Anyway! Now there's another Finnish word, and fair enough in that he did ask for another one, but--]
Lalli! That's harder than the last one!
[How could he do this thing! To Emil! Emil, who sighs theatrically and slumps back, crossing his arms like a petulant little baby, which he is. Give him a second, as well, because he earnestly thinks this is the next word he's supposed to be learning and not criticism.
Thirty seconds. Hang on...]
Wait, what? What does that mean?
who will cave first... you know i'm thinkin bout that 10% back deal...
my finger hovering over the button as we speak
and here we are now
don't judge us
too late... i am Always judging
🔫🐝 this ends now
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the one where we do every single knight and royalty trope
He's changing, going from his usual battered day-to-day armor to something more formal. He does not care for the formal armor. It's not bad— far from it, in fact, it's easily the most expensive item he's ever owned— but it's, well, formal. It's not really meant for fighting, it's meant to look nice. It's shiny. It's white. It makes him look like a bit of a twerp, but he'd already insisted he wasn't going to wear a kilt, so there's only so much he can protest.
Or maybe the armor is fine and he's sulky for a different reason tonight.
But the point is . . . eight months.
The first month was the worst. He was so angry for a hundred different reasons, far different from Sebastian's own. The prince was furious on behalf of the Chantry, of the innocent lives lost in what seemed a senseless explosion, at Hawke's refusal to kill Anders . . . all of which were valid reasons to be angry, to Fenris's mind. He understood them, and to an extent, even sympathized. But that was not why he had wandered in a kind of stunned daze afterwards.
No, Fenris's reasons had far more personal. Fenris's reasons bounced around chaotic in his mind, distracted and distorted, flashbang impulses of emotions and scraps of thought all muddled until they became nothing but fury and grief. But what it boiled down to was this: Fenris was angry because once again, magic had taken away everything dear to him. It wasn't personal; it certainly wasn't intentional. But the facts are these: Fenris had spent seven years building a life, a family, and then suddenly the Chantry had exploded and with it, everything he'd grown to love. Magic was to blame, just as it always was. Everyone had split up, and of course they none of them had any obligation towards each other, but it had still hurt.
And then there'd been Sebastian. Come with me, standing in the foyer of a mansion that was not Fenris's own, haunted with the ghosts of the past. Come back to Starkhaven with me.
Of course he'd said yes.
Starkhaven is . . . different. Far different than the things Fenris has grown to know, but not in an unpleasant way. Cold, of course, everything is cold and damp, the food far stranger than the Tevene fare he still misses, but the people are friendly. They, to his great surprise, take to him far better than Fenris assumed they would. There are a few jokes, a fair bit of testing, but once he proves he knows what he's doing (and then some), there are few who care about his species. They're eager to learn and hungry for a commander who knows what he's doing, and Fenris so clearly does.
Not that he's their commander. He balks at the position, anxious about anything that would forcibly wrench him from Sebastian's side. No, he's the prince's bodyguard first and foremost. Training the guards, teaching them fighting both formal and decidedly informal, walking them through endless exercises and spars, showing them how to spot a threat or keep an eye out for blindspots . . . it's simply helping improve Starkhaven in general, and makes his life easier in the long run.
And it is not an easy life.
A prince with no heir, no spouse, and no immediate family to take his place? Oh, yes. Oh, there are far too many people eager to see if they can finish off the Vael line and take its place. None have gotten close yet, not least of which because the guards are getting far better at spotting threats, but still. It's a stressful thing, constantly having to be aware of one's surroundings.
And tonight's a party, which makes it even worse. Hundreds of people mingling around, they all of them with their eye on Sebastian for one reason if not another. Eight months is more than long enough for the noble families to plot about lineages and marriages; every eligible woman (and man, for some of Starkhaven's more openminded families) is going to be angling to catch the prince's eye. They're all plotting; it's just that Fenris has to make sure they're all trying to get into his bed for power instead of murder.
Ugh.
It's because of things like that that tonight will be stressful, he tells himself. That's why he's in such a sour mood. And honestly, that's not wrong, he's really not looking forward to being tensed up and ready to kill for an entire evening, but that's far from all of it.
Once upon a time, Fenris had thought . . . but no. It doesn't matter what he'd thought, back when Sebastian had so earnestly asked him to come home with him. The reality is this: they come from two different worlds. Sebastian is a prince and Fenris is an elven ex-slave, and yes, they are friends, but even that is a shock. Sebastian has a country to rule, and sooner or later he'll be married to some gentle, well-bred girl so they can have gentle, well-bred children, the heir and the spare, and that's just how it goes. And Fenris will . . .
Well. Fenris will guard him, of course. Because that's his job, and he is too in love with his prince to dream of doing anything but that.
But nights like tonight really, really suck. Fenris scowls at himself in the mirror, shoves a hand through his hair to try and make it look semi-decent, and then heads for the door. Not the main one, the one that leads out to the hall, but the other one. The one that leads directly to Sebastian's room, for what is the point of a bodyguard if he is not always near?
He knocks twice, a vague courtesy, before opening the door anyway.]
You'd best be dressed.
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To come home.
Because Starkhaven is his home, despite the fact that he's spent about half his life somewhere else, by now; the city welcomes its rightful prince back with open arms and it's bittersweet, yes, it's not easy to return nor is it easy to do right by Starkhaven with the weight of Kirkwall still lashed around his neck, but— it is home.
Fenris helps, which Sebastian assures him of probably too many times, those first weeks. That month they'd drifted around each other carrying a different grief, intersecting sometimes only for a few moments of silent company over a hasty meal, each throwing himself into the work that ought to be done. Fenris helps. Sebastian can't— won't stop to think about what he might have done with himself without someone there to act as ballast, and it kindles something warm in him he hasn't felt in a long time to watch Fenris thrive in Starkhaven. He'd known all along, of course, he'd always known that Fenris could do anything if finally given the opportunity he deserves, and Sebastian won't deny he's more than glad to have been a part of it.
So there's a kind of hazy, idyllic interim, after the grief subsides down to something manageable. Sebastian fixes the mess left by the murder of his family, Fenris trains the guard; Sebastian drags Starkhaven back to its rightful place and puts it back on its proper course despite several noble families' best efforts, Fenris stays at his side and mutters in his ear things that make him nearly lose his composure in front of one too many nobles. He hosts dinners and parties, Fenris fusses over his formalwear.
It's a nice routine. They work well together, and Sebastian is never shy about expressing just how much Fenris' presence means to him, and yet... hmm.
Well, he'd thought he'd been... clearer. Come back to Starkhaven with me, come share my home hadn't felt, mm, subtle all those months ago, but perhaps? Perhaps.
So there is a party, and nobles who hate and adore him alike are going to simper and fawn over him, and it's not dreadful but it is the last thing he'd like to be doing. He is dressed, at least, when Fenris enters the room behind him, standing at a full mirror and adjusting the shiniest bits of his formal gathering getup (not nearly as comfortable as his armor, but enough of his people have insisted he look the part of the returned prince, finally). There's an artfully slanted cape he just can't seem to clasp right, fiddling with it as he looks at Fenris in the mirror.]
Eager to get going? [he asks, as if Fenris has ever wanted to go to one of these parties, hah. Sebastian flashes him a grin.] The sooner we get downstairs, the sooner Lady Wilhelmina is going to tell you all about how charmingly single her many daughters are, again.
[Is it scandalously inappropriate to flirt by proxy with the prince's elven bodyguard? Not as much as it would be in, say, Orlais, but enough. Sebastian is a fan of the way Fenris' nose scrunches up in barely-contained displeasure when it happens and, hmm, nothing else. Pros, cons.
Anyway, come help him with this clasp, he is in dire straits.]
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[There's no need for him to say that as grimly as he does, but here we are. Fenris comes to stand in front of Sebastian, his back to the mirror, his nose scrunched in absolutely-not-disguised-at-all displeasure. Sebastian's hands are swatted away, Fenris' fingers deftly taking their place.]
Hold still.
[His eyes flick up for a few precious seconds before he focuses back on his work.]
I suggest you stop grinning. If I am doomed to endure that, so are you. I will not be left alone in this torment.
[Is it strictly necessary for his fingers to brush against Sebastian so much? Probably. Almost definitely.]
There's still time to pretend you're ill.
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He does, at least, obediently drop his hands to his sides, though not without lingering there for a moment, almost covering Fenris' hands and interrupting his clasping completely. Hmm.]
I pretended I was ill two weeks ago. [Hmm!] Am I to be the bodyguard tonight, then?
[Ah, that's— you know, don't think too hard about that sentence at all.]
Not that I condone shirking my duties, but... an hour ought to be long enough.
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the thread of legend
But when Felix does ask, in his kind of gruff, mostly roundabout ways, Constantin always does say yes. He knows Felix wouldn't put up with him tagging along just to be polite, so on those rare few occasions he's actually invited - yes, he will endure sleeping on the ground and sitting still counting blades of grass or whatever he must do for hours on end.
It's worth it primarily for the nights, anyway; yes, watching Felix prepare what he's hunted is always fairly disgusting, and yes, Constantin splutters and huffs every time over the slightest suggestion that he stick his hands in some rabbit entrails, or whatever— he just throws sticks on the fire! That's his job! Sticks and the pleasure of his company, thank you very much sir!
—Still! That's part of the charm, the gross animal stuff, for it lead to talking in the dying firelight with no company but each other and the sounds of the forest; it leads to watching Felix soften around the edges, just enough to warm Constantin deep in his chest, and the hours spent flicking pebbles (until he's scolded for it) seem very much worth it in the end.
And sometimes it leads to just enough mutual tenderness that hastily retiring into the tent takes precedence over all that sappy gazing in the firelight stuff, hard ground and relative cramped space of the tent be damned.
Sometimes, a tent can be very romantic, actually.
So: there's that, and afterward somehow every time Constantin shifts even a little bit to get more comfortable, he manages to jostle the whole tent. It has not collapsed yet, but he is still fidgeting, so maybe.]
This is absurd, [he says, but like, in a fun and funny way. Help him, Felix...]
bless you
But here Felix is, anyway! Stomach full as he stares at this side of the tent, feeling Constantin toss to and fro behind him. Ridiculous, given how comfortable this tent is; like, Felix is used to sharing such cramped quarters with at least three other individuals, whose combined snoring threatens to wake the dead. Sharing a tent with one (1) person is a luxury, really. Felix has plenty of room to straighten his legs—and to huffily turn about, glaring at the dim shape that is Constantin. Sir—]
What? [he hisses, pulling that much more of the shared blanket to his side of the tent. Suffer, Constantin.] Stay still.
[It's, like, 11pm? Local loser is trying to sleep, despite the warmth of the person pressed so close to him.]
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Evidently, since some people aren't even sharing blankets like gentlemen. Constantin makes a noise of protest and does not stay still, moving in even closer to Felix not to grab for the edge of the blanket and pull it back but to squish his cheek against Felix's shoulder instead; please, take pity on him, he is in peril.]
Felix... Next you'll tell me to relax! Are you relaxed, in this infinitesimal scrap of a tent?
[He doesn't have to be nice to the tent, just Felix. The tent deserves his whining. Felix cannot escape said whining, however, especially not as Constantin slides an arm around him, under the traitor blanket. Indulge him...]
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I would be. [Hmph!] You make it difficult.
[He is just sayin', thanks, and he shifts ever so slightly, one hand coming to rest atop Constantin's shoulder. He should shove Constantin away, perhaps; this would all be easier to deal with, were Felix to face the opposite direction, and yet, as he struggles to find that familiar face in the darkness:]
You've never shared a tent?
[He's never been hunting??? Wack.]
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Or maybe there are? It's hard to say, especially when so much of news is spread from person to person. I heard and they say aren't exactly reliable sources, but he knows this much: most of the Circles have fallen, either through pressure or rebellion. Mages— apostates, technically, although every mage is now an apostate— roam the countryside, and oh, the tales you hear . . .
It doesn't matter, though. He doesn't really care about mages as a whole. The moment he'd heard whispers of rebellion, Polnareff had headed north and east, towards the Free Marches. That's where Sherry had last written from: a little Circle near the border of Nevarra, though she'd mentioned there was talk of another transfer soon. And then the letters had stopped, and now this . . .
He's going to find her. It's not a question of if. It's just taking a little time, that's all, but he'll get there. And right now, his search has taken him into the wilds of the Free Marches. They're around fifteen miles out from Kirkwall, heading back west, in part because Polnareff has a lead, and in part because the sooner they get Kirkwall behind them, the better.
We. It's we now, despite Polnareff's inclination towards taking this quest on alone. We, which means a man with blazing red hair and a sharp tongue, one whose fighting prowess and general ability to take care of himself had been proven in a tavern fight three nights ago. Is he a mage? Well, technically, yes, although he's not exactly quick with the spells thusfar. Like, understandably, but also: it would've been nice to have a fire up and running about half an hour ago.
They're camping. Polnareff is actually pretty okay at camping. He can pitch a tent (can he ever, hur hur hur, and he almost made that joke tonight, but ah, not yet), dig a midden, even get a fire started. But it'd rained last night, and the wood is all damp, and it's just—
He's working on it, okay? It's hard. Don't pick on him. He's doing his best with a bit of flint and some wood that absolutely refuses to catch, no matter how much flammable bark Polnareff piles on.]
Hey. So where you heading, anyway?
[In general? Specifically? Who knows.]
holy shit what day is it
In short: Kakyoin has been having a rough couple of weeks. He's been in the Circle since childhood, since his diligent practice of hiding-from-Mother when it came to magic suddenly became caught-by-Mother and she-cried-but-still-let-them-take-him, and like? Things could be better. Things could also be worse! Things are now unmistakably sideways, comparatively, neither better nor worse, as he finds himself homeless and very visibly a newly-apostate'd mage by virtue of not being visibly anything else.
He could have ditched the robes. But they're comfortable, and he doesn't have any money...
No matter. It's an ill-timed stop in a tavern - he thought it would be late enough that the most sensitive townspeople would have gone home, but no - and the ensuing fight that finds him attached to this... ah. This mouthy Orlesian? Whatever Polnareff is supposed to be, it's nothing like Kakyoin is used to, and if he spends the better part of their first day traveling together just kind of boggling and sometimes (often) frowning, that's just how it is.
They're more accustomed to each other now, he thinks. Polnareff has stopped asking so many questions (but he still asks questions), and Kakyoin hasn't elbowed him in the gut for a whole twelve hours now! It's going better.
Still, it's not cozier, but that's entirely because Kakyoin is just sitting here on this damp log, watching Polnareff fail to start a fire.]
Away from this gutter of a town, [is his first answer, delivered flatly, still annoyed about the last place they just barely skirted by instead of stopping in. That almost seems like... it? Like, he's done? But no, he picks it up again:]
We're still too close to Kirkwall. [This doesn't answer the question, thanks Kakyoin.] Where are you heading? Starkhaven?
hey huge mood
[That's a really solid answer, but you know what, it's not as if it's any less flimsy than what Kakyoin had offered. Polnareff's scowl deepens as he keeps at it, because surely the fifth time is the charm. The damn things have to light sooner or later, surely.]
But I wanna check surrounding villages first. It's easy to hide in a city, but it's easy to get in trouble too. Sometimes the country is better— and way more amiable towards taking in strays, even nowadays.
[So long as those strays aren't too obviously mages, anyway. The flint scrapes again and again, irritating in a rhythmic sort of way.]
Plus maybe we'll find some kindly farmer who doesn't mind giving us an old set of clothes. Those robes aren't gonna last, you know. And it might not be the worst idea to, you know, maybe not advertise exactly who we are.
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Was it really the robes that gave me away?
[Like, yes, but the not-quite-ornate but very-much-taller-than-he-is mage staff he snatched on his way out of the Circle probably gets him just as much attention. It's the staff that sits across his lap now, that he lifts to swing over and... can he reach from here... yes, he can: he pokes Polnareff in the side with it, beneath the ribs.
Twice. But like, gently. Was it the robes??]
I wouldn't say no to a pair of trousers. It would be warmer.
[Ha ha, also, don't think about what's under his robes, especially not while he finally concedes to getting up and coming over to squat by this unlit fire.]
Fire isn't my specialty... [But, his little gesture says, he could try?]
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idk sometime during the act 1 -> act 2 timeskip
(He'd be dead in an alley from an impulsive suicide attempt if not for Viktor, and he thinks about that sometimes, though they've never really talked about).
So work is necessary. Work is vital. It's not just a nine-to-five thing, but oh, you ask the string of disappointed men and women over the years . . . . and hey, he gets it, all right? It's kind of shitty to be left waiting just because your boyfriend can't tear himself away from some new (fascinating) variation in magical readings. He doesn't blame them, not really— although, you know, he says that, but there's a tiny part of him that does resent it. If they could just understand . . .
Well, anyway: at least there's one person who gets it. He never has to tell Viktor the importance of working hard. He never, ever has to put up with a disappointed expression and a wheedling tone, can't you just take a night off for once, no, no, he gets that this is greater than fleeting pleasure. How many nights have they spent in the lab together? How many times have they woken each other up at 4 in the morning, dawn creeping in, but oh, worth it, worth it.
So it's a little bit weird that Viktor is the one insisting they go out tonight. Not for long, just until the reinforcement cools, it's not as if we can work on it more even if we wanted to— and honestly, it's not like Jayce is opposed, not really. All of him feels stiff and overwrought, his muscles tensed up and his brain aching from trying to think think think all the time, but still . . .
But he deserves a break. They do.
So: yes, he says. First to accompany Viktor to pick up a few things, lab equipment (or, well, stocking up on snacks, that counts as lab equipment) and a few household groceries. And then of course they can't just haul it all back to the lab, so they head to Viktor's apartment instead, which, honestly? He's curious. He's never seen it before, sue him for wanting a sneak peek.
And it's . . . small!
That's rude to think, but it is. It's so small, meant clearly for one and one only. There isn't really a view so much as a window that faces an alley wall, and oh, the floor is chilly, creaking floorboards soaking up the ground's coldness and mercilessly directing it upwards. He can hear the noises of tenants all around them, and it's not necessarily bad, but it's not exactly a studio high-rise, is it?
But! It's clean and neat, and there are enough small touches to make it seem homely. One or two plants, carefully set up and out of the way. A bed with a worn comforter somewhat hastily tucked in. A journal with some notes, and that Jayce is itching to go through, though he knows better. Touch Viktor's journal and he might just touch Jayce's own, and ah, that wouldn't be such a good idea nowadays, would it? Like, it's hard to explain away doodles of your lab partner, no matter that they're innocent and simplistic. It's still kinda weird.
Anyway: it's small, but it's nice, or at least Jayce is prepared to think almost anything of Viktor's is nice. He leans his hips up against the countertop, watching Viktor's hands move as he cuts, what is that, an onion? A shallot? He doesn't know the difference, and actually, it doesn't matter, because it's Viktor's hands that are the draw here. Long fingers and oh, so terribly clever as he pries apart a mechanism or wields a knife . . .
Ahem. Anyway. He tears his gaze away, focusing up on, you know, Viktor's face.]
Not that I'm complaining, but I didn't exactly expect a home-cooked meal tonight.
[He fiddles idly with some mechanical something-or-another that almost assuredly belongs in the lab. It's fine. It's just pleasant to have something to spin around in his fingers as he talks.]
I would have at least brought a bottle of wine if I'd known.
[Or, well, bought one. His own apartment isn't exactly well-stocked.]
What brought this on?
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Can he convince Jayce to come to his home, just for a few hours? Should he? Will Jayce say something?
(Because, and Viktor knows that Jayce's family is small time, that they started out closer to the ground, but he knows just as well that only one of them had to scrape and claw his way up from the fissures only to get a creaky, drafty studio with a few miraculously-thriving plants.)
Eventually he decides, yes, he would like Jayce to see his home. He would like to have dinner with Jayce in a context that isn't working, because Viktor plain doesn't do that — there have simply not been... people, in his life, in a manner of speaking. Oh, he's been friendly, and he was well-liked enough as Heimerdinger's assistant, but that wall always remained up; and if not the wall with a price tag attached, then it became the limitations of his body making him hold himself back.
And then, like an explosive (literally) lightning bolt with great hair and a chiseled jaw, Jayce appeared, and suddenly Viktor has been living a life with someone. Partners. Friends. Someone he considers when he plans for the future now, because it isn't only his dead end career as an assistant anymore.
Which is all to say: he plans this dinner for a remarkably long time, for what it is: a simple dish prepared in his tiny matchbox of a kitchen. He goes for a simple meal that he's made plenty of times instead of trying to be incredibly impressive, and it seems like Jayce is impressed by his, ah, chopping ability anyway, so that works out.
(That his matchbox kitchen is not large enough to fit the both of them without leaving Viktor keenly aware of Jayce's presence just to the side has been noted, documented, set aside for future study.)
Viktor glances at him, his half-smirk and raised eyebrow entirely intentional; is Jayce for real? They went grocery shopping? This was planned. The way the mere sight of Jayce just idling around in his kitchen saying dumb stuff makes his heart turn over just a little is a bonus, and he clears his throat as he looks down at the food again.]
I told you: we weren't going to get anything done in the lab tonight. And I wasn't going to ask you to bring wine.
[That would give away the whole game!! And Jayce would for sure bring something absurdly expensive that paired poorly with Viktor's budget cooking, here, but never mind that now.]
I had some ideas I thought you might be interested in, [he says, with a glance over towards that journal Jayce is all but salivating over. This is true, but again: baby steps. It's not the whole truth.] Frankly, I was getting tired of listening to your desk chair squeak every time you turn the slightest fraction.
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[He doesn't really know what he means by that. What's the implication? That Viktor brought him over so they could . . . what? Well, plenty of things, actually, and Jayce could offer up a fair few suggestions. Things born out of idle fits of fantasy that he only allows late at night . . . ah, but not like you'd think. Nothing lewd or crude, but definitely things he ought to be embarrassed over.
(Like: how lovely it would be to take Viktor's hands between his own and warm them, he's always so chilly, and wouldn't it be nice to ease that? Like: how Viktor would look in his jacket, comfortably ill-fitting in the best of ways. Like: how sometimes, when they're both at their wits end on some impossible problem, and then suddenly everything just clicks and shifts and there is the answer, that rush, that giddying triumph, that understanding that he constantly strives for and yet only fleetingly manages to achieve—
How, in those moments, he could just kiss Viktor, he really could).
Anyway, be realistic. The implication is probably just that it's nice to get out once in a while, and there are few people who get along as easily as they do. It's nice! Enjoy it for what it is, and enjoy the platonic thrill that he gets whenever he makes Viktor smile, or laugh, or look at him like that, that shocked-delighted expression when he's presented something Viktor hadn't considered, oh, that's his favorite look of all.]
It is nice to get out of the lab, though. I've never— have I seriously never been here before?
[Obviously he hasn't, and yet the fact only strikes at him now.]
You've met my mother. How is this the first time we've come to your apartment?
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It isn't much of an apartment, to be fair. About two and a half of these could fit into our lab, [Our Lab] and besides, we have been busy.
[So there: it's small, it's not made for company, they have been doing so much progress at the lab he hasn't thought of much else, and so — well! Jayce is here now, which is what counts. Viktor relishes the disbelief in his voice, besides; the thought that Jayce has wanted to come to his home for some time is nice, even if he's likely reading into that momentary surprise.
Still. The lab is home away from home, to be sure, but it's the little things Viktor thinks about now, imagining all the potential of Jayce here in his apartment: Jayce's jacket hung on one of the pegs by his door; feet on the couch purely so Viktor can tsk and push them off; just Jayce here, in his space, a place he has not welcomed other people into in, hm, ever? Wow! That's a thought!
Instead of dwell on that, however, he asks conversationally:] How is your mother?
[does she know you're here, babe, because then She Knows, and so sorry about whatever she says when you get home!]
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