It hurts, funnily enough. That’s why he’s so still, like an animal afraid of being bitten for even the slightest shift. This isn’t poise. It isn’t make-believe painted in blissful, pointless sex. It hurts to want so deeply, and to care so undeniably, and to be so stupidly close to the sort of mercy his world— for the only two hundred years he'll ever remember— lacked completely. It hurts to look at Fenris and to see just how stunning he is, within and without alike: an open book, bewildered as to why the companion previously at his side has yanked himself across some terrible divide.
So, since he can’t offer up touch as a distraction. Since he can't distance himself with the taste of wine or sweat, or the brace of humor Astarion can’t bear to feel right now, he pours it out instead.
Himself.]
I’m.
Not used to this.
[An explanation that sticks in his throat.
He feels thin as glass. Brittle as snapped bone. His heart so overfull it might damned well die when he clings to the words now there is a space for you in my home, too. And when he glances up fully there’s no hiding any of it: eyes wide and doggish and lanced through with hope and the knotted uncertainty he’s housing in his chest alike, wondering where the boundaries might actually lie.
They’re tired. They haven’t slept. They’re still hounded. When do the scales tip too far? When does Fenris tire of him, needing nothing else of comfort.
—no, he wouldn't. That's what having a room means.]
I’m not used to being given...anything. Let alone a place in someone else’s life. [Little obligatory gifts, yes. Tokens he could never keep. Small favors in tribute, all different than an open door and a searching stare.] I grant comfort. That’s what I was made for, you understand.
Everything else— anything else— was always just a game played at my expense. Another way to make me seem like a fool for thinking I could have more.
[He swallows just once, stare dropping again in abrupt dismissal of a held train of outdated thought.]
...but I don’t think that’s what you want. [His eyebrows lift in a muted, paper-thin show of forced levity, pulling pitifully at the corner of his mouth:] I mean, I suppose it’d be easier for me to stomach if you did.
At least they’re predictable. All those old horrors.
no subject
[Words stopping just as they start.
It hurts, funnily enough. That’s why he’s so still, like an animal afraid of being bitten for even the slightest shift. This isn’t poise. It isn’t make-believe painted in blissful, pointless sex. It hurts to want so deeply, and to care so undeniably, and to be so stupidly close to the sort of mercy his world— for the only two hundred years he'll ever remember— lacked completely. It hurts to look at Fenris and to see just how stunning he is, within and without alike: an open book, bewildered as to why the companion previously at his side has yanked himself across some terrible divide.
So, since he can’t offer up touch as a distraction. Since he can't distance himself with the taste of wine or sweat, or the brace of humor Astarion can’t bear to feel right now, he pours it out instead.
Himself.]
I’m.
Not used to this.
[An explanation that sticks in his throat.
He feels thin as glass. Brittle as snapped bone. His heart so overfull it might damned well die when he clings to the words now there is a space for you in my home, too. And when he glances up fully there’s no hiding any of it: eyes wide and doggish and lanced through with hope and the knotted uncertainty he’s housing in his chest alike, wondering where the boundaries might actually lie.
They’re tired. They haven’t slept. They’re still hounded. When do the scales tip too far? When does Fenris tire of him, needing nothing else of comfort.
—no, he wouldn't. That's what having a room means.]
I’m not used to being given...anything. Let alone a place in someone else’s life. [Little obligatory gifts, yes. Tokens he could never keep. Small favors in tribute, all different than an open door and a searching stare.] I grant comfort. That’s what I was made for, you understand.
Everything else— anything else— was always just a game played at my expense. Another way to make me seem like a fool for thinking I could have more.
[He swallows just once, stare dropping again in abrupt dismissal of a held train of outdated thought.]
...but I don’t think that’s what you want. [His eyebrows lift in a muted, paper-thin show of forced levity, pulling pitifully at the corner of his mouth:] I mean, I suppose it’d be easier for me to stomach if you did.
At least they’re predictable. All those old horrors.