[The noise he lets out comes on sharper than a growl or yelp. Threadier than sheer distress as something else cuts through it— his face contorts into a grimace with a tailing, harsh exhale— all that anger metabolizing quicker than a flash in a pan. Transmuting into a different shape, embarrassment the last thing on his mind though he's flush under his skin.
Before he can open his eyes again to fire off a peripheral glance— (or glare— he can't predict his own responses now; there's no one standing at the helm,) just like in the midst of their childhood, Zevlor's voice comes shouting up from below, this time with a heavy knock against the ladder they'd come up on, not so distant from the way someone shoos vermin from an attic with a broom.
'Astarion, Fenris, down here NOW!!'
And it's a stern questioning that evening, for they're not children anymore is what he's driving home each time he picks apart their reasoning. Their myriad excuses. Explanations that are more bickering than logic, tacking on chores alongside a time out in their room to cool off before they're at each others throats again for reasons he still can't follow.]
1/2
Before he can open his eyes again to fire off a peripheral glance— (or glare— he can't predict his own responses now; there's no one standing at the helm,) just like in the midst of their childhood, Zevlor's voice comes shouting up from below, this time with a heavy knock against the ladder they'd come up on, not so distant from the way someone shoos vermin from an attic with a broom.
'Astarion, Fenris, down here NOW!!'
And it's a stern questioning that evening, for they're not children anymore is what he's driving home each time he picks apart their reasoning. Their myriad excuses. Explanations that are more bickering than logic, tacking on chores alongside a time out in their room to cool off before they're at each others throats again for reasons he still can't follow.]