[Gauntleted fingers pressed heavy against his spine, that unmistakable voice thrumming deeply in the air between them, clear as cut crystal; his own gloved hands cinched tight around the armored edges of Fenris' shoulders, eclipsed almost entirely in shadow.
Real. All of it real. And for a single, overwhelming moment, Astarion thinks he can feel his heart stop once more: the drop of it as it plummets to a standstill, so very much like the night he died in Cazador's arms. Not just from the danger looming directly overhead. Not from the chips of chalky, displaced stone that tumble from on high underfoot (slipping through the awning holes to land somewhere against his shoulder) as one last figure leans over the edge above them, surveying the city with lingering determination.
But then it’s passed, that moment of threaded tension.
The last of their troubles departs, and Astarion, exhaling at last into the nonexistent space between them, pulls back as far as Fenris' grip allows— easing off his own in turn. Admittedly this is hardly the easiest place to foster a reunion, but Astarion's never been one to give a damn: flexing a grin that’s all fang. Lilac and leather oil mingling with the clinging scent of scorched ozone— and the wretched, ashy smell of Lowtown itself.]
Mistaken me for—
[A wicked glint catching in his eyes, the easiness in his tone when he scoffs. Time hasn’t done a damn thing to make this feel any less familiar.] If anyone’s been mistaken for anyone else around here, it’s you for me.
[And he’s warm as anything. Bolstered as anything now, too. Not brittle or bewildered, not waiting for the hammer to fall.
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Real. All of it real. And for a single, overwhelming moment, Astarion thinks he can feel his heart stop once more: the drop of it as it plummets to a standstill, so very much like the night he died in Cazador's arms. Not just from the danger looming directly overhead. Not from the chips of chalky, displaced stone that tumble from on high underfoot (slipping through the awning holes to land somewhere against his shoulder) as one last figure leans over the edge above them, surveying the city with lingering determination.
But then it’s passed, that moment of threaded tension.
The last of their troubles departs, and Astarion, exhaling at last into the nonexistent space between them, pulls back as far as Fenris' grip allows— easing off his own in turn. Admittedly this is hardly the easiest place to foster a reunion, but Astarion's never been one to give a damn: flexing a grin that’s all fang. Lilac and leather oil mingling with the clinging scent of scorched ozone— and the wretched, ashy smell of Lowtown itself.]
Mistaken me for—
[A wicked glint catching in his eyes, the easiness in his tone when he scoffs. Time hasn’t done a damn thing to make this feel any less familiar.] If anyone’s been mistaken for anyone else around here, it’s you for me.
[And he’s warm as anything. Bolstered as anything now, too. Not brittle or bewildered, not waiting for the hammer to fall.
Fenris came back.]