[You can run if you need to, and he does not realize what a balm that is until after it's been said. The flat is small, claustrophobicly crowded with all the magpie trappings Astarion has gathered; with the sudden suffocating weight of the comforter (and he shoves it off and away, the cold air stinging at his skin); with the horror of knowing that Varania is out there somewhere, hunting him (haunting him)—
Run, if you need to. A gulp of cold water against the arid heat of his panic. An open door instead of a leash yanking on his collar. Freedom, though if anyone had asked, Fenris would have snarled that of course this man had no power over him. And he doesn't, of course he doesn't, but . . . oh, what a shocking relief not to have to fight for that right, asserting it in face of casual possession. Fenris' head darts over, his eyes (more frantic than he realizes) darting over Astarion's face. He's hunched over, his shoulders rounded and his muscles tense, but he does not move.
I'm not about to lose you again. For the first time tonight, the implications of that truly set in. Not just the ones pertaining to him (and he won't call that selfishness, for how could he not focus only on himself at first?). But for Astarion. For this creature so much like Fenris himself, terribly torn up and terrified, lonely not for company or chatter but recognition . . . the only one who has ever truly understood. The one whose soul touches his own in so many ways that it has not yet been twenty-four hours since that fight in the alley, and yet there is no doubt in Fenris' mind that they are kin.
What must it have been like for Astarion to have lost him?
What must it have been like this afternoon, finding him again? Hands pulling him close (and the memory plays in his mind's eye, Fenris standing outside himself), a voice low and intimate, and then that blank stare, that uncertain wariness . . .
Not even a spark of recognition.
He won't run. For Astarion's sake, but for Fenris' too. For both of them, and he swallows thickly, one hand raking through silver hair. For one long moment, his gaze is filled with all the things he does not quite know how to say tonight: the relief and the grief and the longing. The intangible whisper from Astarion— trust me, darling— met with a silent affirmative. The roughened grip of fingers around his wrist and the stomach-churning drop from a rooftop still echoing in the lines of his body.
I do.
It lasts only for a few seconds. Then his eyes drop, the tension draining out of him, and he shakes his head faintly.]
Move over.
[He's going to lie down on the bed, dragging that damned comforter over himself. And it is not a good idea, and it is not what he would do with anyone else, not anyone. But he will not leave, and he does not want to return to the floor. And all the rules are different tonight, when the raw stark panic they've both felt has put everything else into perspective.]
I doubt we will sleep again tonight.
And I would hear . . .
[Gods, anything.]
A tale for a tale.
[(And it's a little funny: how he makes himself at home and yet doesn't, body all tensed up, taking up as little space as possible. Staying close and yet not wanting to overwhelm, all at once, arms crossed over his chest as he lies on his side, and he will move if Astarion indicates he does not want him there).]
Your world is different from mine. And though you have lived in Thedas for six months, I imagine you do not know all of it yet.
no subject
Run, if you need to. A gulp of cold water against the arid heat of his panic. An open door instead of a leash yanking on his collar. Freedom, though if anyone had asked, Fenris would have snarled that of course this man had no power over him. And he doesn't, of course he doesn't, but . . . oh, what a shocking relief not to have to fight for that right, asserting it in face of casual possession. Fenris' head darts over, his eyes (more frantic than he realizes) darting over Astarion's face. He's hunched over, his shoulders rounded and his muscles tense, but he does not move.
I'm not about to lose you again. For the first time tonight, the implications of that truly set in. Not just the ones pertaining to him (and he won't call that selfishness, for how could he not focus only on himself at first?). But for Astarion. For this creature so much like Fenris himself, terribly torn up and terrified, lonely not for company or chatter but recognition . . . the only one who has ever truly understood. The one whose soul touches his own in so many ways that it has not yet been twenty-four hours since that fight in the alley, and yet there is no doubt in Fenris' mind that they are kin.
What must it have been like for Astarion to have lost him?
What must it have been like this afternoon, finding him again? Hands pulling him close (and the memory plays in his mind's eye, Fenris standing outside himself), a voice low and intimate, and then that blank stare, that uncertain wariness . . .
Not even a spark of recognition.
He won't run. For Astarion's sake, but for Fenris' too. For both of them, and he swallows thickly, one hand raking through silver hair. For one long moment, his gaze is filled with all the things he does not quite know how to say tonight: the relief and the grief and the longing. The intangible whisper from Astarion— trust me, darling— met with a silent affirmative. The roughened grip of fingers around his wrist and the stomach-churning drop from a rooftop still echoing in the lines of his body.
I do.
It lasts only for a few seconds. Then his eyes drop, the tension draining out of him, and he shakes his head faintly.]
Move over.
[He's going to lie down on the bed, dragging that damned comforter over himself. And it is not a good idea, and it is not what he would do with anyone else, not anyone. But he will not leave, and he does not want to return to the floor. And all the rules are different tonight, when the raw stark panic they've both felt has put everything else into perspective.]
I doubt we will sleep again tonight.
And I would hear . . .
[Gods, anything.]
A tale for a tale.
[(And it's a little funny: how he makes himself at home and yet doesn't, body all tensed up, taking up as little space as possible. Staying close and yet not wanting to overwhelm, all at once, arms crossed over his chest as he lies on his side, and he will move if Astarion indicates he does not want him there).]
Your world is different from mine. And though you have lived in Thedas for six months, I imagine you do not know all of it yet.