He wants to roll away, to disrupt the way Astarion looks at him. He doesn't. He has been a coward in many things, he will try not to be one now. Fenris lifts his gaze, fully meeting Astarion's again.
"Companionship," he answers, hesitant and quiet. "For years Danarius was my world. I could remember nothing else, no one else. Not my mother, not my sister. Not my name. Even now I use the one he gave me when he made me his dog. His pet experiment. I had no--"
It sounds ridiculous in his own mind, the word on the tip of his tongue. It sounds frivolous. He thought it was frivolous. He says it anyway.
Not against what Fenris is saying or what he feels— no, that much is undoubtedly true. But they're curled up together here as they have been for weeks going on months: close, and unguarded, and if the ease of isolation is what Fenris had been hunting for, he could've had it well before now. Easily.
So with that in mind, the rest of the picture Astarion's figuratively admiring makes itself that much clearer. Fenris had someone. And whoever they were, they're gone, now.
He doesn't move. Doesn't crowd into that space, either, just—
Fenris's jaw tightens and he does break eye contact then. His head lolls to the side, looking at the faintest moonlight light from the dingy window.
"They helped me. I thought he was helping me. For a moment, I thought--"
This would be easier with wine. With a lot more wine. The last time he was so confessional, he'd been drunk or very close to it. He'd told Hawke everything. He stops speaking long enough that it seems like he won't continue. Maybe Astarion deserves this explanation. He's the reason Fenris is still alive.
"Danarius used my sister to lure me out. He was there to reclaim me. Hawke... nearly gave me over."
He remembers vividly how quick Anders was to agree. They never got along, but somehow that still stung. It hurt worse from Hawke, though, even if they were using it as a ruse or just changed their mind mid-way through the conversation. For several moments too long, Fenris thought they would give him to Danarius.
"When you found me in the wilds, I was simply running again. Slavers, bounty hunters, rebels deciding I was in the wrong place. I don't know." But, as far as he knows, it had nothing to do with anyone he left in Kirkwall.
"So you fled. Not just the ones hunting you, but everyone."
Astarion can't imagine it (oh, if he only knew), trusting someone else that deeply, coming so close to true companionship after years of knowing nothing but cruelty and blood, only to hear them muse aloud to your former master— and your own kin alike— that you might actually be sent back. Astarion, in his place, would've run for certain. He'd have killed them, or tried to, being so much less forgiving than the elf shifting restlessly at his side.
But it's all supposition.
Until he's lived that (and looking down at Fenris' face where it's turned away from him towards cold slivers of light from outside, he doubts betrayal lives in the marked elf after everything else), he can't know for certain.
"I'm not going anywhere, Fenris."
A cold hand slips around the edge of Fenris' opposite cheek— the one farthest from him— and pulls him back, away from the window and towards his own stare instead. Slow, and patient, rather than bitingly insistent.
"And if I wanted to sell you off, I'd have done it long before now, when I could've spared myself the stinging trouble of fending off slavers in the woods." Voice humming in his throat when he says it for the second time around, in a sense; an assurance made all too often while the man had been mending, true, but it bears repeating now that Astarion finally knows so much more of why.
"I can't change what's been done, but I can promise you, for all my bitter flaws, that's one bridge I won't cross. Not when it comes to you."
The marked elf doesn't resist as Astarion's hand slides over his cheek to turn his head. He meets the other man's gaze, looking for--something. He doesn't want to dare to hope. Not again. But he doesn't want to give this up either, whatever it is.
"You're an idiot," he says quietly, and it sounds only like affectionate. And it's true, Astarion could have sold him, left him him to be found or left him for dead, or led others to him. He could have done a lot of things that didn't require the time and effort and care of mending someone and ensuring their survival.
The promise nestles deep in his chest. Fenris knows there will be no extricating it, no forgetting it. He isn't sure if he trusts the gods enough to pray to them - any of them - but he hopes that promise will not be tested. Or broken.
His hand slides up Astarion's arm to his neck to pull him down into a kiss. There's an edge to it, the quiet desperation of someone who has felt alone for a very long time. Of someone who truly wants companionship and a reason to keep going. There has to be more than survival.
"I thought it would be over when I killed him," he murmurs as the kiss breaks. "That was foolish on my part. You know what will come if you stay with me. There is no rest."
Even if Astarion has already made his decision, Fenris feels compelled to say it.
What a wretched ache to carry all this time, all on his miserable own. Their mouths catching now like a promise of its annulment as Astarion's own fangs nip and dig and scuff across his lower lip— gentle, all of it, but the vampire can't help his jagged edges, even in his softest shows of warmth.
He talks, and nothing changes: every sentence given simply becomes punctuated by a kiss. A smoothing slide of his hand.
Little gestures. Massive in their significance.
"I've always been prone to falling prey when it comes to hopeless causes." He chuckles sweetly, ignoring a clattering rush of passing sound outside. This part of the city's far from quiet, after all.
"And you're the most beautiful yet."
It's an answer to both parts of Fenris' assertions.
"Besides, you can't imagine I'd fare any better by myself, can you?"
Neither of them can help their jagged edges, places where they have been broken that have not been made smooth with time. The gentleness does not go unnoticed, and Fenris seeks it out for the comfort it promises.
"That makes you an even bigger idiot," he murmurs, quiet in his affection. A soft laugh, another kiss with feeling behind it.
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albinomilksnake2021-11-06 01:03 am
no subject
"Companionship," he answers, hesitant and quiet. "For years Danarius was my world. I could remember nothing else, no one else. Not my mother, not my sister. Not my name. Even now I use the one he gave me when he made me his dog. His pet experiment. I had no--"
It sounds ridiculous in his own mind, the word on the tip of his tongue. It sounds frivolous. He thought it was frivolous. He says it anyway.
"Friend."
no subject
Not against what Fenris is saying or what he feels— no, that much is undoubtedly true. But they're curled up together here as they have been for weeks going on months: close, and unguarded, and if the ease of isolation is what Fenris had been hunting for, he could've had it well before now. Easily.
So with that in mind, the rest of the picture Astarion's figuratively admiring makes itself that much clearer. Fenris had someone. And whoever they were, they're gone, now.
He doesn't move. Doesn't crowd into that space, either, just—
"...what happened to them?"
Something must have.
"When I found you in the wilds, was it...."
no subject
"They helped me. I thought he was helping me. For a moment, I thought--"
This would be easier with wine. With a lot more wine. The last time he was so confessional, he'd been drunk or very close to it. He'd told Hawke everything. He stops speaking long enough that it seems like he won't continue. Maybe Astarion deserves this explanation. He's the reason Fenris is still alive.
"Danarius used my sister to lure me out. He was there to reclaim me. Hawke... nearly gave me over."
He remembers vividly how quick Anders was to agree. They never got along, but somehow that still stung. It hurt worse from Hawke, though, even if they were using it as a ruse or just changed their mind mid-way through the conversation. For several moments too long, Fenris thought they would give him to Danarius.
"When you found me in the wilds, I was simply running again. Slavers, bounty hunters, rebels deciding I was in the wrong place. I don't know." But, as far as he knows, it had nothing to do with anyone he left in Kirkwall.
no subject
"So you fled. Not just the ones hunting you, but everyone."
Astarion can't imagine it (oh, if he only knew), trusting someone else that deeply, coming so close to true companionship after years of knowing nothing but cruelty and blood, only to hear them muse aloud to your former master— and your own kin alike— that you might actually be sent back. Astarion, in his place, would've run for certain. He'd have killed them, or tried to, being so much less forgiving than the elf shifting restlessly at his side.
But it's all supposition.
Until he's lived that (and looking down at Fenris' face where it's turned away from him towards cold slivers of light from outside, he doubts betrayal lives in the marked elf after everything else), he can't know for certain.
"I'm not going anywhere, Fenris."
A cold hand slips around the edge of Fenris' opposite cheek— the one farthest from him— and pulls him back, away from the window and towards his own stare instead. Slow, and patient, rather than bitingly insistent.
"And if I wanted to sell you off, I'd have done it long before now, when I could've spared myself the stinging trouble of fending off slavers in the woods." Voice humming in his throat when he says it for the second time around, in a sense; an assurance made all too often while the man had been mending, true, but it bears repeating now that Astarion finally knows so much more of why.
"I can't change what's been done, but I can promise you, for all my bitter flaws, that's one bridge I won't cross. Not when it comes to you."
no subject
"You're an idiot," he says quietly, and it sounds only like affectionate. And it's true, Astarion could have sold him, left him him to be found or left him for dead, or led others to him. He could have done a lot of things that didn't require the time and effort and care of mending someone and ensuring their survival.
The promise nestles deep in his chest. Fenris knows there will be no extricating it, no forgetting it. He isn't sure if he trusts the gods enough to pray to them - any of them - but he hopes that promise will not be tested. Or broken.
His hand slides up Astarion's arm to his neck to pull him down into a kiss. There's an edge to it, the quiet desperation of someone who has felt alone for a very long time. Of someone who truly wants companionship and a reason to keep going. There has to be more than survival.
"I thought it would be over when I killed him," he murmurs as the kiss breaks. "That was foolish on my part. You know what will come if you stay with me. There is no rest."
Even if Astarion has already made his decision, Fenris feels compelled to say it.
no subject
What a wretched ache to carry all this time, all on his miserable own. Their mouths catching now like a promise of its annulment as Astarion's own fangs nip and dig and scuff across his lower lip— gentle, all of it, but the vampire can't help his jagged edges, even in his softest shows of warmth.
He talks, and nothing changes: every sentence given simply becomes punctuated by a kiss. A smoothing slide of his hand.
Little gestures. Massive in their significance.
"I've always been prone to falling prey when it comes to hopeless causes." He chuckles sweetly, ignoring a clattering rush of passing sound outside. This part of the city's far from quiet, after all.
"And you're the most beautiful yet."
It's an answer to both parts of Fenris' assertions.
"Besides, you can't imagine I'd fare any better by myself, can you?"
no subject
"That makes you an even bigger idiot," he murmurs, quiet in his affection. A soft laugh, another kiss with feeling behind it.
"No, probably not."
Neither of them are alone now.