[Understand: there's no disappointment in the way Vakares answers, just swiftness. He doesn't seek to put down, but nor will he allow any scrap of hope to thrive. If Astarion thinks there's a crack in Vakares' defense, oh, he won't hesitate to grope for it, using every trick he has to try and chase after what he wants. It's an admirable trait sometimes; amusingly vexing in others. And gods know Vakares indulges it from time to time . . .
(That's enough work for now, and Astarion's eyes were so bright as he'd draped himself over Vakares' desk, knocking away ink and paper with ease. Still such a young thing in those first few centuries, caught between bouts of intense insecurity and giddy indulgence; such a doting thing, urging his sire into playful rule-breaking and drawing him away from duty. Come here, try this wine with me, and back then, Vakares had so desperately needed it. His life had been nothing but quiet days and long nights, and it wasn't that he regretted it, but . . . gods, he hadn't realized how reserved he had become until Astarion was in his life. Clever little minx. Coy little temptation, his sweetest consort who would take him by the hand and urge him into indulgence, what's the point of living forever if you never live at all? Taking him to the theater, to dances, to parties— let me show you, let me be with you, and always, always there was that moment of truth. When Astarion would ask and Vakares would answer, and if there was the slightest hint of hesitance—)
But that was then.
This is now.
Now he cannot indulge that flare of hope.
But he can soothe it.]
But you know better than anyone that what you say to me makes every difference in the world.
[It's gentle. He takes another step forward, ignoring all the signs that scream to keep away in favor of closing the distance between them. And maybe it was a good thing that Fenris brought up the past, for now his mind is attuned to it— and that helps. It helps to remember that he has never done this before; that he is acting only out of instinct and shrewd insight— and that even a creature centuries old makes mistakes sometimes.]
. . . I should have told you alone.
[So maybe it's better to start there. Not a plea for forgiveness, exactly, but a quiet, rueful acknowledgement: I should have done this differently.]
And I will not say I did not consider that you would not like it, but . . . I did not realize just how badly it would hurt you.
[And he is their sire. And it doesn't matter what your spawn or your consorts feel, for when you're lord of a coven, it's your will that matters above all else.
Oh, it's never an easy thing to chart a different course, is it . . .?]
You feel as though I am abandoning you.
[It's a guess.]
And that I am joining you with him in a vague attempt to alleviate that loneliness.
[Tell him he's right. Tell him he's wrong. Tell me, little gemstone so loved, oh, Astarion, Astarion, and Vakares' heart aches to see him there. So desperately wounded and trying so hard not to show it, and it takes everything not to gather him up and tug him close. I'll call it off, I'll make it right, and he won't, but gods, it's tempting.]
no subject
[Understand: there's no disappointment in the way Vakares answers, just swiftness. He doesn't seek to put down, but nor will he allow any scrap of hope to thrive. If Astarion thinks there's a crack in Vakares' defense, oh, he won't hesitate to grope for it, using every trick he has to try and chase after what he wants. It's an admirable trait sometimes; amusingly vexing in others. And gods know Vakares indulges it from time to time . . .
(That's enough work for now, and Astarion's eyes were so bright as he'd draped himself over Vakares' desk, knocking away ink and paper with ease. Still such a young thing in those first few centuries, caught between bouts of intense insecurity and giddy indulgence; such a doting thing, urging his sire into playful rule-breaking and drawing him away from duty. Come here, try this wine with me, and back then, Vakares had so desperately needed it. His life had been nothing but quiet days and long nights, and it wasn't that he regretted it, but . . . gods, he hadn't realized how reserved he had become until Astarion was in his life. Clever little minx. Coy little temptation, his sweetest consort who would take him by the hand and urge him into indulgence, what's the point of living forever if you never live at all? Taking him to the theater, to dances, to parties— let me show you, let me be with you, and always, always there was that moment of truth. When Astarion would ask and Vakares would answer, and if there was the slightest hint of hesitance—)
But that was then.
This is now.
Now he cannot indulge that flare of hope.
But he can soothe it.]
But you know better than anyone that what you say to me makes every difference in the world.
[It's gentle. He takes another step forward, ignoring all the signs that scream to keep away in favor of closing the distance between them. And maybe it was a good thing that Fenris brought up the past, for now his mind is attuned to it— and that helps. It helps to remember that he has never done this before; that he is acting only out of instinct and shrewd insight— and that even a creature centuries old makes mistakes sometimes.]
. . . I should have told you alone.
[So maybe it's better to start there. Not a plea for forgiveness, exactly, but a quiet, rueful acknowledgement: I should have done this differently.]
And I will not say I did not consider that you would not like it, but . . . I did not realize just how badly it would hurt you.
[And he is their sire. And it doesn't matter what your spawn or your consorts feel, for when you're lord of a coven, it's your will that matters above all else.
Oh, it's never an easy thing to chart a different course, is it . . .?]
You feel as though I am abandoning you.
[It's a guess.]
And that I am joining you with him in a vague attempt to alleviate that loneliness.
[Tell him he's right. Tell him he's wrong. Tell me, little gemstone so loved, oh, Astarion, Astarion, and Vakares' heart aches to see him there. So desperately wounded and trying so hard not to show it, and it takes everything not to gather him up and tug him close. I'll call it off, I'll make it right, and he won't, but gods, it's tempting.]