[It's never quite the thrilling rush he thinks it will be when Astarion apologizes. With others, there's always a sense of vicious vindication whenever they're the ones to apologize. That's right, you should be sorry, say it again, the urge born of too many formative years spent learning not to flinch beneath the lash. It's an ugly trait, and one both Kanan and Zevlor have tried to ease him out of (with varying rates of success). And you'd think, wouldn't you, that the feeling would only intensify with Astarion. Their fights are more personal, the emotions dig deeper, and Maker knows Astarion would rather get a tooth pulled than ever say I'm sorry— gods, it should be so utterly satisfying whenever he admits he was wrong.
But it's not. Fenris always walks away with a fractured heart newly mended: satisfying in the long-run, but so damned wearying in the short. He isn't happy Astarion admitted it, because he isn't happy about this fight in the first place. At best, there's a sense of that gnawing searing rage gently being put out, steam rising and hissing from the dampening embers: it wasn't my fault, you shouldn't have been so mean, you shouldn't have yelled at me, you shouldn't have ruined it—
But then it quiets, and he's left alone in the dark with the person he trusts and loves more than anyone in the entire world. Not such a subtle thing, not ever to him. Not such a clever little liar with a silver tongue, not when Fenris knows every tell, every giveaway. When he sees the way his mouth thins, his eyes flick away, and can extrapolate a thousand conclusions from that alone.
It makes his confusion about earlier so much starker. So often he knows Astarion blind; to have been clouded to his thoughts and intentions still feels so wrong. And maybe that's another reason he never lingers in vindication: because it feels so much better to stumble towards joyful reunion instead.]
You . . .
[No. He won't mess up this time. This moment is important, Fenris thinks. Just like that moment all those years ago when they'd struck their bargain, he can feel the heaviness in the air around them— but it's thicker now. The atmosphere around them is thick with all the things they aren't saying, and yet Fenris feels like a fish staring through glass: able to know his own rising anxiety and longing, able to see Astarion's hesitance and uncharacteristic withdrawal, and yet not able to confirm what he's feeling. Not able to attune to him the way he normally does.
I don't even like her, I didn't even like kissing her that much, you were better, and all those things are true, but he won't bring Elise into the room right now. It was never about her, anyway.
He sits up. Licks his lips (when had his mouth gone so dry?) and stares at Astarion, his eyes drifting along the delicate line of his jaw. The way his skin looks in the grey, pre-dawn light that's filled the room, all of him colored in muted tones, the line of his body just barely visible through the thin fabric of his sleepshirt. And he knows even know that he can only look because Astarion isn't staring at him.]
You shouldn't —don't call illiterate again, [he says instead, and means it, for all that it's a distraction. But they're best friends (or were, or are, or will always be). They've said worse to each other before, and he's sure they'll snarl again someday. It's just what they do.
But it's hard to say what he really wants to. His voice nearly shakes for the sudden surge of nervousness clawing up his throat. His teachers would scold him for it (a bodyguard isn't meant to be visible, he has no emotions, he does not interfere until he is needed). But he's not a bodyguard, not around Astarion. He's his rawest self, always, just as Astarion is never a courtesan. And surely that won't ever change. Surely the world will see them as they project themselves to be, but to one another . . . don't leave me, he thinks suddenly. Don't ever shut me out.
And yet it's too frightening to declare what he wants. He has a thought to sweep in and kiss him, but what might come easily for his adult self is far too hard for a teenager. Even releasing Astarion's sleepshirt and skimming two fingers up his forearm feels overwhelmingly daring in a way it has no right to be, not when it's the least little bit of contact.]
But . . . if you want, if, if you— if you want, you can—
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
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[It's never quite the thrilling rush he thinks it will be when Astarion apologizes. With others, there's always a sense of vicious vindication whenever they're the ones to apologize. That's right, you should be sorry, say it again, the urge born of too many formative years spent learning not to flinch beneath the lash. It's an ugly trait, and one both Kanan and Zevlor have tried to ease him out of (with varying rates of success). And you'd think, wouldn't you, that the feeling would only intensify with Astarion. Their fights are more personal, the emotions dig deeper, and Maker knows Astarion would rather get a tooth pulled than ever say I'm sorry— gods, it should be so utterly satisfying whenever he admits he was wrong.
But it's not. Fenris always walks away with a fractured heart newly mended: satisfying in the long-run, but so damned wearying in the short. He isn't happy Astarion admitted it, because he isn't happy about this fight in the first place. At best, there's a sense of that gnawing searing rage gently being put out, steam rising and hissing from the dampening embers: it wasn't my fault, you shouldn't have been so mean, you shouldn't have yelled at me, you shouldn't have ruined it—
But then it quiets, and he's left alone in the dark with the person he trusts and loves more than anyone in the entire world. Not such a subtle thing, not ever to him. Not such a clever little liar with a silver tongue, not when Fenris knows every tell, every giveaway. When he sees the way his mouth thins, his eyes flick away, and can extrapolate a thousand conclusions from that alone.
It makes his confusion about earlier so much starker. So often he knows Astarion blind; to have been clouded to his thoughts and intentions still feels so wrong. And maybe that's another reason he never lingers in vindication: because it feels so much better to stumble towards joyful reunion instead.]
You . . .
[No. He won't mess up this time. This moment is important, Fenris thinks. Just like that moment all those years ago when they'd struck their bargain, he can feel the heaviness in the air around them— but it's thicker now. The atmosphere around them is thick with all the things they aren't saying, and yet Fenris feels like a fish staring through glass: able to know his own rising anxiety and longing, able to see Astarion's hesitance and uncharacteristic withdrawal, and yet not able to confirm what he's feeling. Not able to attune to him the way he normally does.
I don't even like her, I didn't even like kissing her that much, you were better, and all those things are true, but he won't bring Elise into the room right now. It was never about her, anyway.
He sits up. Licks his lips (when had his mouth gone so dry?) and stares at Astarion, his eyes drifting along the delicate line of his jaw. The way his skin looks in the grey, pre-dawn light that's filled the room, all of him colored in muted tones, the line of his body just barely visible through the thin fabric of his sleepshirt. And he knows even know that he can only look because Astarion isn't staring at him.]
You shouldn't —don't call illiterate again, [he says instead, and means it, for all that it's a distraction. But they're best friends (or were, or are, or will always be). They've said worse to each other before, and he's sure they'll snarl again someday. It's just what they do.
But it's hard to say what he really wants to. His voice nearly shakes for the sudden surge of nervousness clawing up his throat. His teachers would scold him for it (a bodyguard isn't meant to be visible, he has no emotions, he does not interfere until he is needed). But he's not a bodyguard, not around Astarion. He's his rawest self, always, just as Astarion is never a courtesan. And surely that won't ever change. Surely the world will see them as they project themselves to be, but to one another . . . don't leave me, he thinks suddenly. Don't ever shut me out.
And yet it's too frightening to declare what he wants. He has a thought to sweep in and kiss him, but what might come easily for his adult self is far too hard for a teenager. Even releasing Astarion's sleepshirt and skimming two fingers up his forearm feels overwhelmingly daring in a way it has no right to be, not when it's the least little bit of contact.]
But . . . if you want, if, if you— if you want, you can—