[His eyes flick up, tsavorite eyes drinking in Astarion's expression for a swift few seconds before dropping back down to his task. In truth, there's not so much blood he need spend more than a few moments on it, but it's easier this way. He cannot reach out and hold Astarion's hand like a whimpering lover, not when anyone might spot them, but this . . . no one would object to the sight of a dutiful bodyguard tending to his charge.]
I know.
[His voice is low, audible only because it rumbles at such a different note than the endless bass outside. His thumb strokes against his index finger, a swift echo: thank you and I know, for this is not the first time Astarion has protected him.
Simply the first time he's drawn blood to do so.
Noises fill the silence between them, muffled but not muted by the door-née-curtain. A chorus of excitable shrieks pierces past cloth as someone falls into the champagne fountain that dominates the center of the room; a woman exclaims in dismay over her ruined shoes, bemoaning the fact she'll have to buy them again. Somewhere else, good-natured jeers echo as the Ophal heir loses a few thousand dollars in an ill-timed bet; he moans for his poor luck, but buys everyone at the table a round of the most expensive scotch he can think of, just to show there's no hard feelings.
A dull night, he hears a woman say carelessly; another voice assures her that tomorrow will be far more exciting, for at least then the club will really try and liven things up.
It's nothing new. Nothing he hasn't heard a thousand times before over the past three centuries, and yet tonight something bitter rises in his throat. It's too loud. It's too much, grating on his nerves and clouding his senses; his ears swivel back, pressing flat against his skull as his body tenses.]
Why are you friends with her?
[It isn't what he means to say, but it spits past his lips before he has a chance to bite it back. His gaze rises and lingers this time, his expression flinty around the edges.]
The others I understand. But her . . . there is nothing there but bile and bitterness. She is a viper, and she will turn on you the moment she senses it will give her the slightest advantage, gleeful in how she grinds you beneath her heel— and if she spares you at all, it will only be to prolong your suffering. What cruelty she delights in regaling you all with is but a fraction of what she does, I assure you, for she is vile, and you still—
[He glances away, shaking his head sharply as he cuts himself off. This isn't fair, not at all, and not especially now. And he doesn't know why he's snarling all this (oh, but he does); he doesn't know why he's picking here and now to bring this up, when the circumstance and location couldn't be worse.
A breath, and then, as he glances back:]
This will not be the last time she asserts herself against me. And you will not always be here to step between us.
no subject
I know.
[His voice is low, audible only because it rumbles at such a different note than the endless bass outside. His thumb strokes against his index finger, a swift echo: thank you and I know, for this is not the first time Astarion has protected him.
Simply the first time he's drawn blood to do so.
Noises fill the silence between them, muffled but not muted by the door-née-curtain. A chorus of excitable shrieks pierces past cloth as someone falls into the champagne fountain that dominates the center of the room; a woman exclaims in dismay over her ruined shoes, bemoaning the fact she'll have to buy them again. Somewhere else, good-natured jeers echo as the Ophal heir loses a few thousand dollars in an ill-timed bet; he moans for his poor luck, but buys everyone at the table a round of the most expensive scotch he can think of, just to show there's no hard feelings.
A dull night, he hears a woman say carelessly; another voice assures her that tomorrow will be far more exciting, for at least then the club will really try and liven things up.
It's nothing new. Nothing he hasn't heard a thousand times before over the past three centuries, and yet tonight something bitter rises in his throat. It's too loud. It's too much, grating on his nerves and clouding his senses; his ears swivel back, pressing flat against his skull as his body tenses.]
Why are you friends with her?
[It isn't what he means to say, but it spits past his lips before he has a chance to bite it back. His gaze rises and lingers this time, his expression flinty around the edges.]
The others I understand. But her . . . there is nothing there but bile and bitterness. She is a viper, and she will turn on you the moment she senses it will give her the slightest advantage, gleeful in how she grinds you beneath her heel— and if she spares you at all, it will only be to prolong your suffering. What cruelty she delights in regaling you all with is but a fraction of what she does, I assure you, for she is vile, and you still—
[He glances away, shaking his head sharply as he cuts himself off. This isn't fair, not at all, and not especially now. And he doesn't know why he's snarling all this (oh, but he does); he doesn't know why he's picking here and now to bring this up, when the circumstance and location couldn't be worse.
A breath, and then, as he glances back:]
This will not be the last time she asserts herself against me. And you will not always be here to step between us.