[For a few awful, teetering seconds the world is sour. He stands there, cold now that both Astarion and Ataashi have moved away, his fingers curling helplessly at his side. There's a gulf between them, a great yawning void a thousand miles wide, invisible and yet utterly impassable. What was once almost a guarantee (for he has become so used to Astarion at his side as to regard it as a steady fixture, and when had that happened?) now seems so much more fragile, and he does not understand why.

Perhaps I should leave, he thinks of saying, hearing the acidity in that response— but Astarion softens in the next moment, and any thoughts of leaving slip his mind entirely.]

I know.

[No, he knows full well he didn't have to. Astarion might have whined or complained, but it would only ever be in jest. But . . . he shifts his weight, fingers curling and uncurling, but he does not glance away. Not for something this important.]

You have made a space for me here in your home.

[And it's different than just allowing him to stay. Astarion has found him extra blankets; he's cleared a space on the floor, a spot that's now exclusively Fenris'. They share a bed more and more often nowadays, and that brings its own intimacy, but still. There is a place for him here, always waiting no matter what. There is no toll nor tax; he does not need to feign a bright mood or offer up conversation. All he has ever needed to do in this home is be exactly who he is, jagged edges and softened ones alike.]

And now there is a space for you in my home, too.

[A bed. A dresser. A mirror. The sheets turned down and the window opened to give it some air— it's too much, but it isn't, all at once. Not a guest bedroom, but Astarion's, waiting exclusively for him alone.]

Did you think I had forgotten?