[You're upset, he does not say, for he doesn't make a habit of stating the obvious. Anyone with ears can hear the sudden terseness in Astarion's tone, and it doesn't take a genius to understand why. I thought I had centuries more to live in freedom, Fenris thinks, and he's not entirely wrong.
I must seem a child to you, he thinks of saying. It's not an untrue thought, but it feels false right now, cloying in a way he has never indulged.
So he's quiet as Astarion finishes weaving those ornaments into his hair, tipping his head this way and that as directed. There's something quietly pleasing even now about feeling another touch him so intimately, little points of connection that he knows he will never tire of.
But when he finishes and he can turn, he does: twisting around to catch Astarion's eye, his brows furrowed.]
no subject
I must seem a child to you, he thinks of saying. It's not an untrue thought, but it feels false right now, cloying in a way he has never indulged.
So he's quiet as Astarion finishes weaving those ornaments into his hair, tipping his head this way and that as directed. There's something quietly pleasing even now about feeling another touch him so intimately, little points of connection that he knows he will never tire of.
But when he finishes and he can turn, he does: twisting around to catch Astarion's eye, his brows furrowed.]
You're disappointed.
[Tell me.]