[I love you, his heart sings— and yet the ease with which Astarion returns that love almost takes him aback, though Fenris can't say why. Though, he thinks in the next moment, perhaps it's because there are so few things in his life that have ever come easily. Not the little things, indulgences or habits, and as for something so monumental as love . . . surely there must be a catch, his scarred soul whispers. Surely there must be something he's missed: some clause, some hesitation, some snag that will pull the rug out from under him and leave him whimpering in misery and pain, foolish boy, three centuries old and you still don't know better than to hope?
And awfully, just for a moment, his mind flashes to that party a year ago: that idiotic boy wriggling around in Astarion's lap, panting and mewling and staring at his conqueror with such devotion— and how swiftly Astarion had been rid of him. How easy it was for him to use him and forget him just as soon as he was tired of that little ploy . . . but that's an unworthy thought, and guilt floods through Fenris a moment later, scolding him for daring to compare the two.
It's just that suddenly he's so terrifyingly aware of how inexperienced he is at this. How fragile his heart is, and how easy it would be to fall so hard so fast, just like every simpering maidservant destined to have her heart broken by a careless master . . . but Astarion means it, Fenris swears he does. He's proven it a thousand times over already, in little moments and larger ones. Times where he's defended him, yes, but more than that: in little conversations. In the way that they talk, equal to equal, and in how Astarion asks after him. Wants to know his thoughts or his opinions, and tolerates them, even when they're disagreeable. Especially when they're disagreeable, Fenris thinks, and stares down at a face he knows almost as well as his own.
Astarion wouldn't have called it courting all those months ago. He wouldn't grow so incensed whenever Fenris is patronized or belittled; he would not snarl and seethe at his friends, risking his own neck, unless he well and truly cared. Beyond infatuation, beyond fascination . . . he would not risk his reputation and his standing for something less than love.
(Love, but they can't say that word just yet— but that's what it is, Fenris knows).
There's nothing but adoration in Astarion's face right now. Nothing but gentle devotion in the bump of their noses and the press of their lips, fragile and delicate and everything that a noble heir shouldn't be. We don't use words like that, Astarion had told him once, and yet here he is, his voice soft as anything, whispering devotion so sincerely it hurts. His fingers are so slight as they catch in Fenris' collar, tentative adoration laced within every trembling motion.
He means it, Fenris thinks, and as his expression softens, something swells in his chest, joyful and light and adoring as he never is. It burns away all the doubt and fear, leaving nothing but love in its wake. I love you, he thinks without thinking again, and rumbles in pleasure as he noses against one pale cheek.]
Since when?
[Tell me, as he nips gently at a sharp jawline. Tell me all the details, where and when and why, all the mundane things that interest no one but them. But another thought steals over him, and Fenris draws back just enough to catch his— his, his, his— beloved's eye.]
Tell me what it means to you, to be mine.
[It isn't a challenge. Whatever doubt had flashed through his mind a moment ago is long gone, replaced by dizzying adoration. But what might seem simple to slaves becomes vastly more complex when it comes to nobles— and vice-versa, for that matter. And it would be good to know.
Still: this is a moment of bliss, not fretfulness, and there's something so besotted in the way he cards his fingers through gel-slick curls, smoothing them back and ruining hours of work.]
It was both.
[His thoughts leap from one to another, and he knows he ought to slow down, but alcohol makes him clumsy. Another fretful push of his nose against Astarion's cheek, equal parts affectionate and assuring: it was both.]
I will not say it was not self-serving, but . . . nor will I ever let you be hurt, not as long as I am there to guard you. Not from foolishly inept tutors, [and for a moment the old anger rises, but ah, ah, not here and now,], nor your family, nor some mob armed with guns and knives. Nothing will touch you, nothing will come near you, not if it is within my power to keep you safe.
For that is— at least in part— what it means to be mine.
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And awfully, just for a moment, his mind flashes to that party a year ago: that idiotic boy wriggling around in Astarion's lap, panting and mewling and staring at his conqueror with such devotion— and how swiftly Astarion had been rid of him. How easy it was for him to use him and forget him just as soon as he was tired of that little ploy . . . but that's an unworthy thought, and guilt floods through Fenris a moment later, scolding him for daring to compare the two.
It's just that suddenly he's so terrifyingly aware of how inexperienced he is at this. How fragile his heart is, and how easy it would be to fall so hard so fast, just like every simpering maidservant destined to have her heart broken by a careless master . . . but Astarion means it, Fenris swears he does. He's proven it a thousand times over already, in little moments and larger ones. Times where he's defended him, yes, but more than that: in little conversations. In the way that they talk, equal to equal, and in how Astarion asks after him. Wants to know his thoughts or his opinions, and tolerates them, even when they're disagreeable. Especially when they're disagreeable, Fenris thinks, and stares down at a face he knows almost as well as his own.
Astarion wouldn't have called it courting all those months ago. He wouldn't grow so incensed whenever Fenris is patronized or belittled; he would not snarl and seethe at his friends, risking his own neck, unless he well and truly cared. Beyond infatuation, beyond fascination . . . he would not risk his reputation and his standing for something less than love.
(Love, but they can't say that word just yet— but that's what it is, Fenris knows).
There's nothing but adoration in Astarion's face right now. Nothing but gentle devotion in the bump of their noses and the press of their lips, fragile and delicate and everything that a noble heir shouldn't be. We don't use words like that, Astarion had told him once, and yet here he is, his voice soft as anything, whispering devotion so sincerely it hurts. His fingers are so slight as they catch in Fenris' collar, tentative adoration laced within every trembling motion.
He means it, Fenris thinks, and as his expression softens, something swells in his chest, joyful and light and adoring as he never is. It burns away all the doubt and fear, leaving nothing but love in its wake. I love you, he thinks without thinking again, and rumbles in pleasure as he noses against one pale cheek.]
Since when?
[Tell me, as he nips gently at a sharp jawline. Tell me all the details, where and when and why, all the mundane things that interest no one but them. But another thought steals over him, and Fenris draws back just enough to catch his— his, his, his— beloved's eye.]
Tell me what it means to you, to be mine.
[It isn't a challenge. Whatever doubt had flashed through his mind a moment ago is long gone, replaced by dizzying adoration. But what might seem simple to slaves becomes vastly more complex when it comes to nobles— and vice-versa, for that matter. And it would be good to know.
Still: this is a moment of bliss, not fretfulness, and there's something so besotted in the way he cards his fingers through gel-slick curls, smoothing them back and ruining hours of work.]
It was both.
[His thoughts leap from one to another, and he knows he ought to slow down, but alcohol makes him clumsy. Another fretful push of his nose against Astarion's cheek, equal parts affectionate and assuring: it was both.]
I will not say it was not self-serving, but . . . nor will I ever let you be hurt, not as long as I am there to guard you. Not from foolishly inept tutors, [and for a moment the old anger rises, but ah, ah, not here and now,], nor your family, nor some mob armed with guns and knives. Nothing will touch you, nothing will come near you, not if it is within my power to keep you safe.
For that is— at least in part— what it means to be mine.