[He seizes him with both hands. Fingers to the flush run rampant in tanned cheeks, the outside world etched across his skin as surely as the lack thereof stains Astarion pale and pallid as the plaster posters he admires. There's no forethought this time— like Fenris, he can finally say that he's done this before— his mouth over his companion's, tangled up in the interconnected push and pull of hands and fingertips, elbows and knees and the fabric that they tangle in as he falls over him with all his weight. A scant drop in the bucket compared to how tall and athletic Fenris has become. How childishly, stupidly soft Astarion has stayed, not a callous on his knuckles.
I won't call you that again.
They're best friends. Sworn brothers by choice. They were before tonight, and they always will be. The next time they fight, it'll be something else maybe, but not that.
I'm sorry.
And there was nothing in need of compensating, not when Fenris was his in all those moments spent together. The shadow that he clung to whether they smelled like sherry and failed mischief, or whether it was huddled up together in this same bed after a storm, or whether— whether— (whether the beat of his heart felt like this through a half open shirt, muscle and sinew run rich beneath tight, twitching fingertips that grip less like they don't know where to place themselves, and more like all the want is to be)—
Close.
And he can try again. And he does. And it is full of everything that matters beyond all the bickering and strife; cultivated passion.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
1/2
I won't call you that again.
They're best friends. Sworn brothers by choice. They were before tonight, and they always will be. The next time they fight, it'll be something else maybe, but not that.
I'm sorry.
And there was nothing in need of compensating, not when Fenris was his in all those moments spent together. The shadow that he clung to whether they smelled like sherry and failed mischief, or whether it was huddled up together in this same bed after a storm, or whether— whether— (whether the beat of his heart felt like this through a half open shirt, muscle and sinew run rich beneath tight, twitching fingertips that grip less like they don't know where to place themselves, and more like all the want is to be)—
Close.
And he can try again. And he does. And it is full of everything that matters beyond all the bickering and strife; cultivated passion.]