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.]
[When he laughs this time, it’s a clear-cut thing. No performative lilt, no haughty pride— just him. Just them, a pair of wounded things huddled up for shelter in the middle of a storm and finding just enough warmth to forget, only for a little while, that the wind outside might be howling their names. Speaking of terrible atrocities that yet still might come to pass. So yes. Here, tangled in stolen covers, and warmed by a fire that’s little more than a glorified, dug-out hole in the wall, they’ve cut something for themselves, and sometimes that’s the only victory one gets.
The only one needed, too.
He snorts softly on the heels of it, leveling out instead of continuing to thrive in his own wicked glory, finding his way back into his own far subtler skin.
But the smile stays.]
Mhm. A little. [Soft. Contented. Easy in his own silhouette when he slips an elbow across his knee, keeping the whole of his stare fixed on Fenris in the dark.]
But you’ll figure those out in time.
[Oh, it’s not all pretty. Even Astarion knows just how mean he can be when prompted. Ambition turned to gluttony and greed. Pride twisting into callousness. Cowardice without end. There are moments when he looks in the mirror and fears only Cazador is staring back, but...
Savior.
What an intriguing fantasy for a monster like him.
He lifts his free hand, two fingers brushing white wisps of hair from Fenris’ eyes— ring and little fingers— so precise in their work that they barely graze skin. Less an intrusion, and more a barely mentionable show of care. Small. Quick.
And then he’s back within his own space, shifting to lie down once more. Turning away and lifting the covers, keeping them tucked close against his neck.
An old, pointless habit.]
For now, try to sleep. I know it’s all so terribly tedious, but no one in Riftwatch’s going to be content to let you rest once they find out you’re here.
Better take what you can get in the meanwhile.
[The door is locked; nothing will come for you tonight.]
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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?
no subject
The only one needed, too.
He snorts softly on the heels of it, leveling out instead of continuing to thrive in his own wicked glory, finding his way back into his own far subtler skin.
But the smile stays.]
Mhm. A little. [Soft. Contented. Easy in his own silhouette when he slips an elbow across his knee, keeping the whole of his stare fixed on Fenris in the dark.]
But you’ll figure those out in time.
[Oh, it’s not all pretty. Even Astarion knows just how mean he can be when prompted. Ambition turned to gluttony and greed. Pride twisting into callousness. Cowardice without end. There are moments when he looks in the mirror and fears only Cazador is staring back, but...
Savior.
What an intriguing fantasy for a monster like him.
He lifts his free hand, two fingers brushing white wisps of hair from Fenris’ eyes— ring and little fingers— so precise in their work that they barely graze skin. Less an intrusion, and more a barely mentionable show of care. Small. Quick.
And then he’s back within his own space, shifting to lie down once more. Turning away and lifting the covers, keeping them tucked close against his neck.
An old, pointless habit.]
For now, try to sleep. I know it’s all so terribly tedious, but no one in Riftwatch’s going to be content to let you rest once they find out you’re here.
Better take what you can get in the meanwhile.
[The door is locked; nothing will come for you tonight.]