'Beauty is always bittersweet, darling,' Astarion had confidently crowed to the delicate slant of Dalyria's upturned face, rigorously working a line of kohl beneath her eyes with his thumb to smear its cleanliness by degrees before they set in on their prey: a guarantee she'd look alluring. That spoken truth more real than ever now that he's wracked with a sense of belonging he'd never known before this moment. Will never know, in fact. And like the ballrooms and splendor he'd offered up to tattooed palms it isn't grief that swims in to fill the void left behind by Leto's past, per se. But he is—
Lacking. And he can see that now.
(The only thing he has to offer are those memories of her— and maybe on occasion the others in their forced flock, though scarcer still— like the smooth slip of kohl under his thumb or the feeling of her tending to the worst of him with every iteration of needle and thread. It isn't like beaches and moonlit silhouettes and compliments from striking eyes. Warm smiles. No, none of that. Only bickering and arguing and raw skin. The agitated wounds they were instructed to inflict, or self-imbibed regardless.
Monsters.
They, all of them. The closest thing he has, are monsters.)
But at least now there's this. Something to pretend that was his own, through Fenris. (For what have they ever not shared? And, with those words still clinging fiercely to the forefront of his mind:)
'We have never compared, amatus. Do not start now. Not especially when it comes to our joys.'
So:]
Like that. [Astarion mirrors back. Not a real answer, just a means to break the silence while the world spins hard on its own axis in the too bright in between. Trading echo for echo, and solidifying something for his thoughts to stand on. Like stitchwork, there has to be a foundation first— otherwise it falls apart. He falls apart, barely mended creature that he is. And he feels so thin right now, bottled up with too much he wants to cling to. Wishes he could keep a little longer.
Embarrassing, the way his own eyes twitch under closed lids. Jerking like the spell might just keep going if he asks for it.
That way lies danger, clinging hard to wan illusions. He knows it all too well. (Oh, put it aside, Astarion. Pull yourself together, Astarion.)]
It must have been like living a dream.
[He can still smell it. Home.
His eyes stay shut. Like that, he can't tell if they're hotter. Wetter.]
no subject
'Beauty is always bittersweet, darling,' Astarion had confidently crowed to the delicate slant of Dalyria's upturned face, rigorously working a line of kohl beneath her eyes with his thumb to smear its cleanliness by degrees before they set in on their prey: a guarantee she'd look alluring. That spoken truth more real than ever now that he's wracked with a sense of belonging he'd never known before this moment. Will never know, in fact. And like the ballrooms and splendor he'd offered up to tattooed palms it isn't grief that swims in to fill the void left behind by Leto's past, per se. But he is—
Lacking. And he can see that now.
(The only thing he has to offer are those memories of her— and maybe on occasion the others in their forced flock, though scarcer still— like the smooth slip of kohl under his thumb or the feeling of her tending to the worst of him with every iteration of needle and thread. It isn't like beaches and moonlit silhouettes and compliments from striking eyes. Warm smiles. No, none of that. Only bickering and arguing and raw skin. The agitated wounds they were instructed to inflict, or self-imbibed regardless.
Monsters.
They, all of them. The closest thing he has, are monsters.)
But at least now there's this. Something to pretend that was his own, through Fenris. (For what have they ever not shared? And, with those words still clinging fiercely to the forefront of his mind:)
'We have never compared, amatus. Do not start now. Not especially when it comes to our joys.'
So:]
Like that. [Astarion mirrors back. Not a real answer, just a means to break the silence while the world spins hard on its own axis in the too bright in between. Trading echo for echo, and solidifying something for his thoughts to stand on. Like stitchwork, there has to be a foundation first— otherwise it falls apart. He falls apart, barely mended creature that he is. And he feels so thin right now, bottled up with too much he wants to cling to. Wishes he could keep a little longer.
Embarrassing, the way his own eyes twitch under closed lids. Jerking like the spell might just keep going if he asks for it.
That way lies danger, clinging hard to wan illusions. He knows it all too well. (Oh, put it aside, Astarion. Pull yourself together, Astarion.)]
It must have been like living a dream.
[He can still smell it. Home.
His eyes stay shut. Like that, he can't tell if they're hotter. Wetter.]
For what it's worth, I'm glad it wasn't one.