[The thing about being a slave destined for carnal persuasion is that so much of intimacy— of feeling— becomes a tool in all its brilliant luster. And in the same way a fighter learns precisely what job demands a dagger versus a longsword, Astarion knows keenly the tricks of his wicked trade.
There are pretty words. Things like, you've stolen my attention all night, captivating as you are (the way he wound his little finger around a narrower set with incense slithering through altered air). Bewitching words, you’ll have me until dawn (breath pooling light across parted lips, fingers arched over coarsely scarred skin, normally hidden from sight). Manipulative words I’ve never wanted anyone but you (nearer to the edge; the scent of iron overpowering). A thousand different shades of beguilement. Appeasement.
None of them are anything like what Astarion hears now.
Because Fenris says what he means. Ugly or kind. Hurtful or hopeful— he’s always laid every last drop of himself bare for the insightful and insipid alike (the first person Astarion had ever met that didn't actually care what others thought of him: too proud to be cowed by it, unwilling to bend his knee for yet another master). And it means that Astarion, so prone to looking at every conversation as though it comes like a blade to his throat, doesn't do anything but believe him. Understand him.
He feels the walls of his long-upheld fear crack and splinter. Hands curled as though he might cling to them still.]
Fenris....
[No.]
Leto. [They should be who they really are for this. Not who they were made to be.]
I’ve said a lot of empty words over the years. Made a lot of wretched choices— had infinitely more made for me. Every step of the way bathed in blood. Fear. The knife's edge between trying desperately to stay useful to my master, and being broken by too much of his focus. [One step closer, floorboard creaking underneath his heel for such a slow shift in balance.]
When I came here, I thought things would be different. That I’d truly feel free. Unafraid. Able to find happiness without always twisting around to look over my own shoulder towards the past I left behind.
[He’d been wrong. Thedas a nightmare at times for its own reasons— between the Blight and Corypheus and enslavement and the yanking tether of magic that might do its worst to throw him back into Toril without warning.
But...]
With you, I am.
['Friendships could only ever hurt, I knew. Nothing good would stay. People would use you until they were satisfied, and then they would leave you. That is...that is how it always has been.'
Yes, that's how it's always been.
Over and over again until Astarion was exhausted from begging silently between honeyed words (look at me— just once). Until the world paled in its pallor. Until he drew back and grew bitter with a desperate, selfish sense of self-preservation so barbed it wounded anyone that dared to come too close. Towering. Constricting. Painful and protective all at once.
(How much did it hurt Fenris to lose his only sense of comfort— qunlat ringing in his ears? How much did it tear at him to see it turn its back and depart, shattered as surely as the Chantry itself?)
He wants desperately to touch him. To soothe him. To take that battered expression into both his palms and reassure him in every conceivable way that he's here. Not fickle. Not fleeting. Not anything but Fenris' shadow— whether they stand five feet apart, or between the divide of endless lifetimes— loyal, now.
Senselessly loyal.] I waited for you, when you left; I’ve spent every day since your return checking the alleys and byways of this broken city, making sure no Venatori come creeping in at the first opportunity, hoping to drag you back.
I won’t leave you. I couldn’t bear to. And I realize that it makes me into the very sort of fool I once hunted for Cazador’s contentment— but I don’t care.
It isn’t the anchor shard that keeps me here.
[No, he can’t imagine leaving Fenris on his own, still racked with scar tissue and blistering loneliness.
(What do you think love is? Ellie had asked him once— and he laughed. Nothing, he said. Love is nothing but lust.
What do you think is beautiful, she’d asked, perched over that table in the corner. White hair, he’d thought. Green eyes.)
White hair. Green eyes. That’s where he’s looking now, little more than a step away, no wine glass in his hand. No distractions left, no tricks up his sleeve. He’s forgotten his cadence minutes ago; clever pet names washed away.
'I have never known anyone who fits to me as you do.'
When did the courtesan fall hopelessly in love? He wants to kiss him. To touch him. Gods— Maker— have pity on him that he can’t. There’s no gratitude in taking a kindness like this and repaying it with the weaponry of ardor.
Instead his hand fits itself (carefully) around the back of Fenris’ neck, just where it meets his skull, artfully avoiding every tattoo as if by perfect memory— before he presses their foreheads together, deliberately, this time. Face downturned, eyes shut.
no subject
There are pretty words. Things like, you've stolen my attention all night, captivating as you are (the way he wound his little finger around a narrower set with incense slithering through altered air). Bewitching words, you’ll have me until dawn (breath pooling light across parted lips, fingers arched over coarsely scarred skin, normally hidden from sight). Manipulative words I’ve never wanted anyone but you (nearer to the edge; the scent of iron overpowering). A thousand different shades of beguilement. Appeasement.
None of them are anything like what Astarion hears now.
Because Fenris says what he means. Ugly or kind. Hurtful or hopeful— he’s always laid every last drop of himself bare for the insightful and insipid alike (the first person Astarion had ever met that didn't actually care what others thought of him: too proud to be cowed by it, unwilling to bend his knee for yet another master). And it means that Astarion, so prone to looking at every conversation as though it comes like a blade to his throat, doesn't do anything but believe him. Understand him.
He feels the walls of his long-upheld fear crack and splinter. Hands curled as though he might cling to them still.]
Fenris....
[No.]
Leto. [They should be who they really are for this. Not who they were made to be.]
I’ve said a lot of empty words over the years. Made a lot of wretched choices— had infinitely more made for me. Every step of the way bathed in blood. Fear. The knife's edge between trying desperately to stay useful to my master, and being broken by too much of his focus. [One step closer, floorboard creaking underneath his heel for such a slow shift in balance.]
When I came here, I thought things would be different. That I’d truly feel free. Unafraid. Able to find happiness without always twisting around to look over my own shoulder towards the past I left behind.
[He’d been wrong. Thedas a nightmare at times for its own reasons— between the Blight and Corypheus and enslavement and the yanking tether of magic that might do its worst to throw him back into Toril without warning.
But...]
With you, I am.
['Friendships could only ever hurt, I knew. Nothing good would stay. People would use you until they were satisfied, and then they would leave you. That is...that is how it always has been.'
Yes, that's how it's always been.
Over and over again until Astarion was exhausted from begging silently between honeyed words (look at me— just once). Until the world paled in its pallor. Until he drew back and grew bitter with a desperate, selfish sense of self-preservation so barbed it wounded anyone that dared to come too close. Towering. Constricting. Painful and protective all at once.
(How much did it hurt Fenris to lose his only sense of comfort— qunlat ringing in his ears? How much did it tear at him to see it turn its back and depart, shattered as surely as the Chantry itself?)
He wants desperately to touch him. To soothe him. To take that battered expression into both his palms and reassure him in every conceivable way that he's here. Not fickle. Not fleeting. Not anything but Fenris' shadow— whether they stand five feet apart, or between the divide of endless lifetimes— loyal, now.
Senselessly loyal.] I waited for you, when you left; I’ve spent every day since your return checking the alleys and byways of this broken city, making sure no Venatori come creeping in at the first opportunity, hoping to drag you back.
I won’t leave you. I couldn’t bear to. And I realize that it makes me into the very sort of fool I once hunted for Cazador’s contentment— but I don’t care.
It isn’t the anchor shard that keeps me here.
[No, he can’t imagine leaving Fenris on his own, still racked with scar tissue and blistering loneliness.
(What do you think love is? Ellie had asked him once— and he laughed. Nothing, he said. Love is nothing but lust.
What do you think is beautiful, she’d asked, perched over that table in the corner. White hair, he’d thought. Green eyes.)
White hair. Green eyes. That’s where he’s looking now, little more than a step away, no wine glass in his hand. No distractions left, no tricks up his sleeve. He’s forgotten his cadence minutes ago; clever pet names washed away.
'I have never known anyone who fits to me as you do.'
When did the courtesan fall hopelessly in love? He wants to kiss him. To touch him. Gods— Maker— have pity on him that he can’t. There’s no gratitude in taking a kindness like this and repaying it with the weaponry of ardor.
Instead his hand fits itself (carefully) around the back of Fenris’ neck, just where it meets his skull, artfully avoiding every tattoo as if by perfect memory— before he presses their foreheads together, deliberately, this time. Face downturned, eyes shut.
Thank you.]
You’ve been too good to a wicked thing like me.
[And then, when he pulls back:]
Can I see it?