What a strange word to use now, but that fits, for all of this has been strange. From that first coincidental meeting, the two of them running into one another, and all that happened afterwards . . . he would think it a trick, truthfully, if they had not talked of so many painful things. He would think it some Fade-born dream, too sweet, too thrilling, too good to be real. How could it be? How could anyone like Astarion exist? The two of them fitting so easily together— not perfectly, for nothing in life is perfect, but so smoothly it's as if they've known each other for years on end. As if this is not a first meeting, but a simple reacquaintance: each of them flowing where the other ebbs.
There were so many terrible ways Astarion could have responded. There were so many decent ways he might have responded, too, that Fenris might have flinched from anyway, snarling and snapping no matter that someone had the best of intentions. And yet somehow, he finds the correct combination of words.
Or— no, it's not that, is it? It's the intent behind them. The edge to his grin as he triumphantly lists off treasures stolen for himself; it's the weighty, unspoken knowledge behind belonging nowhere, not born of cooing sympathy, but experience. It's being seen, and it is not that Fenris has not had beloved companions, but . . .
He has never felt so understood, he thinks faintly, as he does tonight in Astarion's bed.
Somewhere in that list, he began to smile. More quietly than Astarion's gleaming grin, but with no less pleasure behind it. And he thinks, without really thinking it at all, that Astarion covered in blood and gore, viciously triumphant and savagely pleased, would be a thing to see, indeed.]
You, [he begins, but all the things that come to mind are far too silly to allow to come to light. Instead:]
Freedom suits you, Astarion. More than it does most.
[And then, most honestly:]
Perhaps someday I will . . . perhaps.
[But it does not feel so strange as it did a moment ago. Before, claiming that title had felt like a child donning a parent's clothes, stumbling around in imitation of their elders. Now . . . now, it seems like something he might or might explore. A part of him that he can pick up and put down at will.]
Eladrin. Thief. Murderer. [And they are compliments, the way he says them, his voice rumbling and low, his mind's eyes dreaming of blood mages writhing in pain and terror, his heart dreadfully thrilled.] Companion. Refugee. Rogue. Savior.
[For there is a mansion waiting for him in Hightown, lonely and cold, and he will not forget how close he was to spending his night there. Savior, but he will pretend it's due to his work in Riftwatch if Astarion presses.]
no subject
What a strange word to use now, but that fits, for all of this has been strange. From that first coincidental meeting, the two of them running into one another, and all that happened afterwards . . . he would think it a trick, truthfully, if they had not talked of so many painful things. He would think it some Fade-born dream, too sweet, too thrilling, too good to be real. How could it be? How could anyone like Astarion exist? The two of them fitting so easily together— not perfectly, for nothing in life is perfect, but so smoothly it's as if they've known each other for years on end. As if this is not a first meeting, but a simple reacquaintance: each of them flowing where the other ebbs.
There were so many terrible ways Astarion could have responded. There were so many decent ways he might have responded, too, that Fenris might have flinched from anyway, snarling and snapping no matter that someone had the best of intentions. And yet somehow, he finds the correct combination of words.
Or— no, it's not that, is it? It's the intent behind them. The edge to his grin as he triumphantly lists off treasures stolen for himself; it's the weighty, unspoken knowledge behind belonging nowhere, not born of cooing sympathy, but experience. It's being seen, and it is not that Fenris has not had beloved companions, but . . .
He has never felt so understood, he thinks faintly, as he does tonight in Astarion's bed.
Somewhere in that list, he began to smile. More quietly than Astarion's gleaming grin, but with no less pleasure behind it. And he thinks, without really thinking it at all, that Astarion covered in blood and gore, viciously triumphant and savagely pleased, would be a thing to see, indeed.]
You, [he begins, but all the things that come to mind are far too silly to allow to come to light. Instead:]
Freedom suits you, Astarion. More than it does most.
[And then, most honestly:]
Perhaps someday I will . . . perhaps.
[But it does not feel so strange as it did a moment ago. Before, claiming that title had felt like a child donning a parent's clothes, stumbling around in imitation of their elders. Now . . . now, it seems like something he might or might explore. A part of him that he can pick up and put down at will.]
Eladrin. Thief. Murderer. [And they are compliments, the way he says them, his voice rumbling and low, his mind's eyes dreaming of blood mages writhing in pain and terror, his heart dreadfully thrilled.] Companion. Refugee. Rogue. Savior.
[For there is a mansion waiting for him in Hightown, lonely and cold, and he will not forget how close he was to spending his night there. Savior, but he will pretend it's due to his work in Riftwatch if Astarion presses.]
Am I missing anything else?