His eyes are wet. They burn— and isn't that ironic? A vampire, weeping. Everything tense. Flared again. Hurt again. The truth of it all being that this is as much about loss and replacement between them, maybe more so than Fenris— maybe not— it's too knotted, too possessed of cluttered thorns; every time Astarion might begin untangling it it bites down on his fingers, and he makes the smarter choice to leave it be.
(Leave him be.)
Another book in his hands— a fitful mess slamming against the walls of his chest, wracking him with the urge to vomit, to run, to wail and tantrum like a child unloved— and he doesn't tear it. Claws sunken in its cover, holding it so tight that he trembles, unable to do— ]
1/2
[He cuts in roughly, the word strangling him.
His eyes are wet. They burn— and isn't that ironic? A vampire, weeping. Everything tense. Flared again. Hurt again. The truth of it all being that this is as much about loss and replacement between them, maybe more so than Fenris— maybe not— it's too knotted, too possessed of cluttered thorns; every time Astarion might begin untangling it it bites down on his fingers, and he makes the smarter choice to leave it be.
(Leave him be.)
Another book in his hands— a fitful mess slamming against the walls of his chest, wracking him with the urge to vomit, to run, to wail and tantrum like a child unloved— and he doesn't tear it. Claws sunken in its cover, holding it so tight that he trembles, unable to do— ]