[So it happens like this, over the course of roughly three seconds: his heart is a little heavier right now. His mind is distracted, tangled in faint cobwebs of the past. He had offered that stipulation for formality's sake, really, for he had not expected Astarion to run around and tell others. So it's a shock, then, when he hears that familiar voice say, well. It leaves him off-kilter, his heart pounding too swiftly, his mouth opening (keep that promise, I'm afraid)—
Astarion leans in conspiratorially. And Fenris, a little unaware of his surroundings, more than a little distracted, glances up to protest— and in that way ends up nose to nose with Astarion, their heads tipped at opposite angles, the heat of his breath ghosting against the other elf's lips.
Close. Too close, too close— close enough he can count each individual freckle (faint, now, after winter, but surely that day on the coast will draw them out more). Close enough he can see each individual lash framing those crimson eyes (and oh, they're longer than he expected, how had he never noticed that before?). Close enough that all it would take is the slightest bit of effort to close the gap between them, to press his lips against Astarion's own (and how many times has he thought of that, dreamed of it, fantasies sparking each time his heart swells with fondness— laying in the dark in his bed, guilt and adoration at war with one another as he stares over at his sleeping form, his face finally relaxed, his lips soft and inviting, oh he would taste so sweet)—]
1/2
Astarion leans in conspiratorially. And Fenris, a little unaware of his surroundings, more than a little distracted, glances up to protest— and in that way ends up nose to nose with Astarion, their heads tipped at opposite angles, the heat of his breath ghosting against the other elf's lips.
Close. Too close, too close— close enough he can count each individual freckle (faint, now, after winter, but surely that day on the coast will draw them out more). Close enough he can see each individual lash framing those crimson eyes (and oh, they're longer than he expected, how had he never noticed that before?). Close enough that all it would take is the slightest bit of effort to close the gap between them, to press his lips against Astarion's own (and how many times has he thought of that, dreamed of it, fantasies sparking each time his heart swells with fondness— laying in the dark in his bed, guilt and adoration at war with one another as he stares over at his sleeping form, his face finally relaxed, his lips soft and inviting, oh he would taste so sweet)—]