There are things Astarion has experience with in terms of charm and grace: petty flattery one of them, fawning adoration another. Vulgar overtures regarding late nights and hurried mornings. Whispered promises that whatever transpires, he'll make it uniquely divine.
Here, though, he doesn’t know what to expect. But what he finds isn’t rejection— and it settles something jagged in him by a few quiet degrees. Something knotted up and unnoticed, and it shows by way of the calm settling into the edges of his own expression, voice matching suit not long after.
Perhaps too imposingly, he reaches across that nonexistent space between them— to the point where Fenris had brushed against his hand just so— and weaves his little finger in around Fenris’ own, lifting it to his own lips while he thinks. Not so much a kiss, but equally as fond.
“At first? It was only about your strength. You’d clearly fought something vicious off on your own. You also clearly needed help just as much as I did.” The way Fenris had fought to bare his teeth even as blood rattled in his throat, defiant to the last.
“I thought if I rescued you, dragged you away to relative safety, you’d return the favor eventually.” His voice trails lightly, chin resting light against those knuckles. “But...”
Two weeks isn’t long. And yet it’d been long enough, maybe. Hours spent watching Fenris for days on end as he fought in his sleep for his life alone. As his breathing rose and fell, and Astarion there at his side all the while, wondering just how long it would last.
Thinking it’d be a shame if he didn’t survive.
“I don’t know. Somewhere along the way, something changed. I found myself enjoying it, having you nearby— even if you were in such a perpetually miserable state.”
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Here, though, he doesn’t know what to expect. But what he finds isn’t rejection— and it settles something jagged in him by a few quiet degrees. Something knotted up and unnoticed, and it shows by way of the calm settling into the edges of his own expression, voice matching suit not long after.
Perhaps too imposingly, he reaches across that nonexistent space between them— to the point where Fenris had brushed against his hand just so— and weaves his little finger in around Fenris’ own, lifting it to his own lips while he thinks. Not so much a kiss, but equally as fond.
“At first? It was only about your strength. You’d clearly fought something vicious off on your own. You also clearly needed help just as much as I did.” The way Fenris had fought to bare his teeth even as blood rattled in his throat, defiant to the last.
“I thought if I rescued you, dragged you away to relative safety, you’d return the favor eventually.” His voice trails lightly, chin resting light against those knuckles. “But...”
Two weeks isn’t long. And yet it’d been long enough, maybe. Hours spent watching Fenris for days on end as he fought in his sleep for his life alone. As his breathing rose and fell, and Astarion there at his side all the while, wondering just how long it would last.
Thinking it’d be a shame if he didn’t survive.
“I don’t know. Somewhere along the way, something changed. I found myself enjoying it, having you nearby— even if you were in such a perpetually miserable state.”