[It's a paper mask. A flimsy façade that a child could see through in an instant, for Astarion betrays himself so easily in the way he stares. All smiles, yes, his tone teasing and lighthearted, but one glance at his eyes betrays just how fragile all of that is.
Or maybe it isn't obvious. Maybe Fenris has just grown to know him that well, that he can see the terrified uncertainty shining out of those golden eyes. And maybe it works in reverse, too, for it's the slow slide of soft palms against his jaw that keeps him tethered where he might have otherwise shied away. Don't go, don't leave me, and even afraid, there's nothing scornfully mocking in Astarion's tone.
His own stomach churns with nerves, his heart thundering in his chest— and yet despite that, Fenris feels oddly serene. Calm in a way he only ever gets in battle, somewhat detached and yet present all the same.]
You begged me once to make you mine.
[He can't say it. He can't offer that much of his heart, not yet, not when the risk of failure is so large. But there's something steady and fervent in his gaze; this is no joke, and he finds nothing amusing in it.]
You offered me anything and everything, if only I would have you.
[Fenris, name it. Whatever it is I can do to convince you, it's yours. I'm yours. Please, and it had broken his heart that night to refuse, but there are no regrets there. Not when they were still so breathlessly new; not when he couldn't be sure Astarion wasn't just carried along by the moment.
But things are different now. The scales have tipped, and what was once unthinkable has become something normal. Are you all right, Astarion's eyes shining with rage and his teeth bared in a snarl, and he would not do that for a mere dalliance, Fenris knows.
One hand lifts, his fingers careful as he tucks back an endlessly errant curl behind Astarion's ear.]
Do you no longer want such things?
[It's a rhetorical question and it isn't, all at once.]
I would have you here, now— and later, too. When we are home again, and we are forced to don our guises and play our roles once more. I would have you now that such offers have expired, and you stayed anyway. When I ceased to be fun, or charming, or fun to rile, still, you wished to be near me. You wished to know me.
I would be . . . [He hesitates, swallowing thickly, and amends it back to:]
I would have you be mine, if you still desired it. And I would be— I would be yours. If it was still wanted.
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Or maybe it isn't obvious. Maybe Fenris has just grown to know him that well, that he can see the terrified uncertainty shining out of those golden eyes. And maybe it works in reverse, too, for it's the slow slide of soft palms against his jaw that keeps him tethered where he might have otherwise shied away. Don't go, don't leave me, and even afraid, there's nothing scornfully mocking in Astarion's tone.
His own stomach churns with nerves, his heart thundering in his chest— and yet despite that, Fenris feels oddly serene. Calm in a way he only ever gets in battle, somewhat detached and yet present all the same.]
You begged me once to make you mine.
[He can't say it. He can't offer that much of his heart, not yet, not when the risk of failure is so large. But there's something steady and fervent in his gaze; this is no joke, and he finds nothing amusing in it.]
You offered me anything and everything, if only I would have you.
[Fenris, name it. Whatever it is I can do to convince you, it's yours. I'm yours. Please, and it had broken his heart that night to refuse, but there are no regrets there. Not when they were still so breathlessly new; not when he couldn't be sure Astarion wasn't just carried along by the moment.
But things are different now. The scales have tipped, and what was once unthinkable has become something normal. Are you all right, Astarion's eyes shining with rage and his teeth bared in a snarl, and he would not do that for a mere dalliance, Fenris knows.
One hand lifts, his fingers careful as he tucks back an endlessly errant curl behind Astarion's ear.]
Do you no longer want such things?
[It's a rhetorical question and it isn't, all at once.]
I would have you here, now— and later, too. When we are home again, and we are forced to don our guises and play our roles once more. I would have you now that such offers have expired, and you stayed anyway. When I ceased to be fun, or charming, or fun to rile, still, you wished to be near me. You wished to know me.
I would be . . . [He hesitates, swallowing thickly, and amends it back to:]
I would have you be mine, if you still desired it. And I would be— I would be yours. If it was still wanted.