He’s right, Fenris, mouthing steady reassurance as he sinks down against the mattress, and for a moment that too causes Astarion’s rabbiting pulse to leap; the snap snap snap of turning gears in his head stuck fast against the details, searching for every last gap in offered comfort.
Fenris doesn’t know Cazador. Astarion hadn’t mentioned him directly beyond title alone— how does he know to call him him? Why is he edging in closer? And for a moment the past is too near to be anything but tangible truth: he’s being duped. Played for a fool yet again. Cazador’s whispered in his ear to dream of something sweeter than his cuffing servitude, and fool that he is, he has, and he’ll bleed for the audacity of it later.
How is Fenris here. Why did he ever come back. Stupid fool of a spawn, not to see it sooner—
But his tongue aches.
His blood tastes of more than ash.
Compressed like a cornered thing, paranoia settles slow as shifting silt alongside the sweat-soaked contours of his silhouette. He heaves another shoddy exhale, and wipes the back of his knuckles once across his eyes.
Salt stings their edges.]
For now. [It’s a stupid laugh of a thing. Low and embittered, paper thin.] So long as the rifts don't opt to do him any favors.
no subject
He’s right, Fenris, mouthing steady reassurance as he sinks down against the mattress, and for a moment that too causes Astarion’s rabbiting pulse to leap; the snap snap snap of turning gears in his head stuck fast against the details, searching for every last gap in offered comfort.
Fenris doesn’t know Cazador. Astarion hadn’t mentioned him directly beyond title alone— how does he know to call him him? Why is he edging in closer? And for a moment the past is too near to be anything but tangible truth: he’s being duped. Played for a fool yet again. Cazador’s whispered in his ear to dream of something sweeter than his cuffing servitude, and fool that he is, he has, and he’ll bleed for the audacity of it later.
How is Fenris here. Why did he ever come back. Stupid fool of a spawn, not to see it sooner—
But his tongue aches.
His blood tastes of more than ash.
Compressed like a cornered thing, paranoia settles slow as shifting silt alongside the sweat-soaked contours of his silhouette. He heaves another shoddy exhale, and wipes the back of his knuckles once across his eyes.
Salt stings their edges.]
For now. [It’s a stupid laugh of a thing. Low and embittered, paper thin.] So long as the rifts don't opt to do him any favors.