call me beep me

[canavarum]

Who: Fenris [canavarum] and Zevran Arainai [bloodyantivan]
When: After this thread; Mid-afternoon.
Where: Thedaspartment, ninth sector.
Summary: If it were up to Fenris, he wouldn't ask anyone to help him write a thank-you note. But here he is, asking someone to help him write a thank-you note.
Warnings: Does Zevran Arainai count as a warning?


[Fenris is pacing. He's a bit nervous, and that's translating very quickly into agitation - mostly at himself, and a little at the wailing car alarm off in the distance. He needs something to do, but seeing as he cannot just go along with Hawke to fight some spiders or something, pacing will have to do.

He wonders if he can find a sparring partner, someone with an equally large sword. Hmm.

But, really, he has not told anyone of his particularly-- deficiency. No one other than Hawke, at least, and despite saying the Book of Shartan would have been a good start to learning, he never really did. He'd asked Sebastian for assistance occasionally, and he could make out letters. But that was about it.

He considers canceling, considers just going down to the Re-l's office and thank her personally. It's always been enough for him in the past, that particular expression of gratitude. But somehow it does not feel enough. He'd seen the price tags on furniture. The chair she had sent him - and just for him - surely cost a hefty amount of coin.

Dollars.

Whatever.

And so he waits. Pacing. Twitching.]

[ooc | Wasn't sure if you'd prefer action or prose bb so I just...did both kinda haha.]

Comments

[bloodyantivan]

Here, it is a little bit easier if you hold it closer to the nib. Not so much your fingers smear the ink, but close enough to control. [Zevran finds Fenris's reaction almost overwhelming. It fills his heart with an unfamiliar warmth, unrelated to attraction, when those green eyes stare up at him with something that might be gratitude. He is embarrassed to find his throat suddenly wanting to shut. Leaning over, he helps Fenris adjust his hold on the pen for the second latter.]

Go on.

[canavarum]

[Fenris tenses only for a second at the touch, almost immediately relaxing once more as he concentrated on holding the pen correctly, now. It fits between his fingers a bit more naturally, now, and he writes the 'E' with more ease.

He's hardly aware of their proximity. Or anything else at all, really.

FE

It's not very neat, but he wrote them. On his own. He did.]

Is this better?

[bloodyantivan]

Yes, excellent. Keep going. [He smiles and nods in a way that he hopes is encouraging. Zevran wishes he had cookies or something to reward him for a job well done. He's heard that's how children in regular schools do it - positive reinforcement. He wouldn't dare enforce the Crows' method of teaching, which involved detailed explanations of what would happen if a child was too stupid to learn to read and write both the common tongue and Antivan.]

[canavarum]

[Fenris continued on. The pen scratches on the page as he completes each virginal letter. But when he finishes the last curve on the S, he inspects his work with a pleased smile.

FENRIS.

The letters are still a bit unfamiliar. But he tries to memorize the combination , recognize it as his.]

Each letter corresponds with a sound, yes?

[bloodyantivan]

Yes. [Zevran spells it out again, pointing to each letter and sounding it out again for Fenris.

It really is delightful, seeing something that makes the typically dour elf so pleased. And for something so simple. But Zevran recalls it had been very nearly as exciting for him when he learned his letters too, a whole world that he'd been denied opening up for him.]

Write it again - ten more times, if your hand can take it. Then I think you'll have it down well enough to sign.

You are taking quite well to this, I must say. I should teach you all the letters and how the write them soon, no?

[canavarum]

[He nods and begins to write the second set, feeling more confident. He's still smiling, though it's small as he focuses on his task. When he finishes the S, he looks up at Zevran, pen still held tight between his fingers.]

I-- wouldn't want to trouble you.

[He doesn't imagine he'd be a very good sport during the process as much as he'd really, really like to. Frustration at his own inability has always manifested in... less than pleasant ways. Usually by yelling at whoever happened to be near him.]

[bloodyantivan]

It will be no trouble at all, my friend. Consider it a gift.

[Zevran takes out a separate piece of paper, and writes his own name on it, in that similar, easy-to-read block text: ZEVRAN.]

One you can repay me with by writing me your own thank you note, in time, I think.

[canavarum]

[Fenris chuckles, recognizing the E and N in Zevran's name, but not really certain what sounds they correspond to. He tries to mentally sound out his name and match them up with the particular letters.]

At this rate, I will owe you several thank you notes by the year's end.

[He copies down his name once more.]

You are always assisting me. Why?

[bloodyantivan]

Because I cannot rip people's hearts out of their chests, but I am entirely sure at some point it might be a skill I'd wish to utilize. [Zevran grins, setting the papers down to flit around the kitchen, eventually taking a cup from the cupboard and pouring himself a glass of water from the tap. Unbelievable.]

Besides, in the end it will keep me from needing to write you one of these tiresome letters again? I imagine before you know it you will have women all over the island sending you gifts!

[Zevran laughs into his glass. Of course he can't reveal his true motivation. It's far too sentimental.]

[canavarum]

I think you're mistaking me for yourself. [Fenris shakes his head. He thinks himself far too intimidating to attract that much attention. The people who have complimented him are dangerous people themselves. Hawke, Isabela, Zevran, Anders -- but normal people? Why would they care for an elf who could rip their hearts out and who scowls more than smiles?]

But I understand.

[He will be your fearsome meatshield in the face of battle, Zevran. And rip out hearts when necessary.]

[bloodyantivan]

I think you have a lot to learn about the dance of lovers. I can teach you some of the finer points. [Or, you know, all of them. Whatever you want. Zevran grins.]

Put down your name three more times. You're doing well.

[canavarum]

[He shakes his head before he returns to his copying. His eyes and hands are careful and attentive to every stroke.]

One thing at a time.

[He would rather learn his letters first, Zevran dear.]

[bloodyantivan]

[Zevran watches him work. It's endearing, actually, to watch Fenris put this effort into something so delicate. He isn't sure whether he wants to kiss him or ruffle his hair. All he does is watch him for a spell, then drinks his water.]

You're pushing down a little too hard, still. You needn't grip it as if it will fly away. It is not a sword, though some say it is mightier than one.

[canavarum]

[He tries to loosen his grip, but ends up getting it too loose and thus not offering enough pressure for a stable print. He scowls, tries to adjust his hold once more.]

A sword is much easier to handle.

[bloodyantivan]

Here.

[Zevran does it without thinking. He closes his hand over Fenris's, adjusting the pencil and his grasp.]

You must give it room to breathe, freedom of movement. You must hold it lightly, so it may fly quickly, but not away from you.

I suppose it is more like a dagger than a sword.

[canavarum]

[Fenris is slowly acclimating to Zevran's touch. What's more important is the words that the pen forms, the shift of awkward to comfortable grips on the shaft. Of the pen.

He tries to memorize the feel of it, the exact pressure of his grip. And now this will never not sound sexual.]

I have never been one for daggers. It is too precise.

[He likes to just be able to swing his sword around and hit people.]

[bloodyantivan]

[Zevran's fingers brush slowly across the back of Fenris's hand as he withdraws.]

Alas, writing is very precise. Some even elevate it to an art form. Once you learn the basics, you may learn to relish the ways you can make these letters and words all your own.

[It's something he's always liked: his signature is a flashy one, the Z and A sharp, deadly and elegant as blades.]

[canavarum]

Yes, I am beginning to understand that much.

[The skin in between the many lines of lyrium seems to jump at the other's lingering, rather purposeful touch. He's used to wearing his gauntlets, so the feel of someone else's skin against his hand is a completely strange and foreign one.

Has he really been so guarded?]

Who taught you?

[bloodyantivan]

One of the whores did her best to teach us our letters in the brothel, but I barely knew them when I was sold to the Crows at age seven. I only spoke Antivan, too, and such a low form as you would expect from an elf boy raised by whores. Reading and writing were part of my overall education with the Crows. Not only was it essential to blending in and maintaining contracts, but important in the mixing of poisons as well. To be honest, between the rigors of our other lessons children often fell asleep! I had one of my most memorable beatings after being discovered asleep on my slate, chalk on my face! [A warm chuckle. Good times, good times.]

[canavarum]

[Fenris is a bit surprised when he hears Zevran chuckling - it's not very empty or bitter, as his own might have been if he ever felt the need to bring up his own past punishments. He pauses in his writing, raising his eyes to meet Zevran's squarely.]

Slaves were not permitted to read. What need does property have for such a thing?

[There's a snarl in his voice, but delving into his own background isn't what he's interesting in.]

You sound fond of your punishment.

[bloodyantivan]

And why should I not have enjoyed it? I survived. I became one of the best. Shall I tell you what became of the boys who were not suitable material for the Crows? [There's a rather jagged edge to Zevran's voice, suddenly: a warning, sharp and deadly.

There are some stories that cannot be told with bravado. There are some stories that are so ugly even Zevran's charm can't cover it up.]

[canavarum]

No, I know what becomes of the useless.

[Starvation, perhaps? Whippings have still yet to go out of style. Beatings were frequent, and if you were under the service of a mage, torture through magic even more so. Intimate punishments. Perhaps even death? No. Most certainly death. He wondered if the Crows liked their deaths clean or if they preferred a show.

A moment, and he resumes writing. Zevran is free to continue the conversation or end it right here. It is his right, and thus his choice.]

[bloodyantivan]

[Zevran falls silent. He paces the kitchen a little, eventually settling on the counter near the window. He doesn't like talking about his childhood years. It makes him want to drink too much fine wine and end the night in a naked heap, sandwiched between several whores. It makes him want to run, or fight, or even kill. It makes him want to do something to prove he's still alive.]

There are some things whoresons are good for. [He chuckles, and that does carry a familiar bitterness.]

[canavarum]

[For a moment, there is only the scratch of his pen. But once again he pauses.]

Such as passing on their hard-earned knowledge?

[bloodyantivan]

[Zevran chuckles. It is wearier than before.]

The Crows would say that made me rather useless indeed. I'm supposedly sworn to secrecy about their techniques.