In a space void of sound when the pups and their tormented sibling-to-be have slipped into a different section of their rented tavern room, there's only the rustling of fabric when his arms slacken. The dull shuffle from their sheets as broad shoulders drop.
It doesn't matter that Leto doesn't move to uproot their arrangement; Astarion does it for him when his fingers slip across corded leather, the rest of his body following in slumped pursuit of that mattress just like the knife in his palm.
And then: the dagger isn't really in his hand.
And then: he's curled around him— the only other figure in that room— meeting whatever angles he can no matter how messily just to wrap his arms around his mate. The hows and logistical aches of it less important than the desperation driving all his joints into awkwardly patterend lines. Lashes pinched shut. Brows pulled tight.]
I can't—
[And then, gritted, not angrily, but— ]
Why the in hells can't I? What's wrong with me—
[It's no different. Or it shouldn't be. Or— he doesn't know. None of it makes sense. Not to fingers like his, so comfortably stained through habit.]
no subject
In a space void of sound when the pups and their tormented sibling-to-be have slipped into a different section of their rented tavern room, there's only the rustling of fabric when his arms slacken. The dull shuffle from their sheets as broad shoulders drop.
It doesn't matter that Leto doesn't move to uproot their arrangement; Astarion does it for him when his fingers slip across corded leather, the rest of his body following in slumped pursuit of that mattress just like the knife in his palm.
And then: the dagger isn't really in his hand.
And then: he's curled around him— the only other figure in that room— meeting whatever angles he can no matter how messily just to wrap his arms around his mate. The hows and logistical aches of it less important than the desperation driving all his joints into awkwardly patterend lines. Lashes pinched shut. Brows pulled tight.]
I can't—
[And then, gritted, not angrily, but— ]
Why the in hells can't I? What's wrong with me—
[It's no different. Or it shouldn't be. Or— he doesn't know. None of it makes sense. Not to fingers like his, so comfortably stained through habit.]