[It's a scoff that rises from the covers first. Not (yet) indulged, the languid stretch that bunches silk into loose shapes around his hips and chest deflates, leaving him flatter than the tone between them. Petulant little scowl etched right across otherwise fruit-sweet lips:]
No need to overexert yourself.
[Oh sweetheart, conveys pettiness out of place on a creature whose lynxine ears still don't fit the slender shape of his face. Almond eyes soon swimming just above the line of satin sheets pulled up past his chin.
Hired little trinket, sitting pretty in the corner of his room like the trophies and dust-laden baubles. Enviably made. Handsome and catching the light just right. Something nice to keep his stare on before usefulness— and relevance— runs its course.
(But the man is taking it all so seriously, isn't he? Acidic temperament designed to brook no mischief when they both know better; stern brows impassively drawn over weary eyes. It's as if he doesn't know the joke of it all.
And Astarion doubts his father cared enough to let the man in on the full scope of this game.
Mmph. Poor thing.)]
I'm sure the dustmites and occasional gnat will steer far, far away now that you're here.
[How safe he is thanks to you. How grateful he is, helpless little waif that he must be.]
Still— don't be afraid to crawl in with me if you find sleeping upright in a stiff, cold chair doesn't do it for you.
I could tell you a very satisfying bedtime story like that.
And unlike my family, I know how to be generous.
[Even to a professional killjoy.]
Sweet dreams, darling.
[Sweet dreams.
What Astarion himself— nominally wine-sated, well fed and worn out— finds not long after: taking only a few minutes at most to twist around, shut his eyes, and drift away in that sea of thickset bedding. Not so much whining or twitching; the very image of comfortable rest.
How uneventful.
How shockingly uneventful that in a world crawling with magic and monsters, catastrophe unchecked, there's anything this silently undisturbed. Not even the halls carry a single drop of sound outside the occasional servant, strolling at a quieted pace.
Like that, it's hard not to sleep.
—and on Astarion's part, it's hard not to know when to wake.
Three hours later, his eyes slip open.
Silent and still as a mouse through that first minute, not so much as twitching in his bed as he watches for the steady rise and fall of his protector's chest. Waiting to be sure the man's asleep, and from there, he's a practiced hand at it: the loose shirt and slacks tucked beneath his bed are easily slid on without a sound; his shoes are grabbed and held in the crook of his fingers so that he can creep towards those open windows, slithering up and over the ledge—
And off to freedom.
Freedom in this case being a decadent closed-door bacchanal. Masked patrons with distinguished clothing— young upstarts foregoing secrecy in favor of attracting focus. Password enforced, garden-wall obscured, he's still fastening his clothing by the time he trots up to the gate, dress shirt caught between his fingers, buttons fidgeted with while huffing out 'goldthorn rose'— the guard on duty quick to step aside.
And if Astarion is lucky, it might not be too late in the evening to find a decent bit of game.]
no subject
No need to overexert yourself.
[Oh sweetheart, conveys pettiness out of place on a creature whose lynxine ears still don't fit the slender shape of his face. Almond eyes soon swimming just above the line of satin sheets pulled up past his chin.
Hired little trinket, sitting pretty in the corner of his room like the trophies and dust-laden baubles. Enviably made. Handsome and catching the light just right. Something nice to keep his stare on before usefulness— and relevance— runs its course.
(But the man is taking it all so seriously, isn't he? Acidic temperament designed to brook no mischief when they both know better; stern brows impassively drawn over weary eyes. It's as if he doesn't know the joke of it all.
And Astarion doubts his father cared enough to let the man in on the full scope of this game.
Mmph. Poor thing.)]
I'm sure the dustmites and occasional gnat will steer far, far away now that you're here.
[How safe he is thanks to you. How grateful he is, helpless little waif that he must be.]
Still— don't be afraid to crawl in with me if you find sleeping upright in a stiff, cold chair doesn't do it for you.
I could tell you a very satisfying bedtime story like that.
And unlike my family, I know how to be generous.
[Even to a professional killjoy.]
Sweet dreams, darling.
[Sweet dreams.
What Astarion himself— nominally wine-sated, well fed and worn out— finds not long after: taking only a few minutes at most to twist around, shut his eyes, and drift away in that sea of thickset bedding. Not so much whining or twitching; the very image of comfortable rest.
How uneventful.
How shockingly uneventful that in a world crawling with magic and monsters, catastrophe unchecked, there's anything this silently undisturbed. Not even the halls carry a single drop of sound outside the occasional servant, strolling at a quieted pace.
Like that, it's hard not to sleep.
—and on Astarion's part, it's hard not to know when to wake.
Three hours later, his eyes slip open.
Silent and still as a mouse through that first minute, not so much as twitching in his bed as he watches for the steady rise and fall of his protector's chest. Waiting to be sure the man's asleep, and from there, he's a practiced hand at it: the loose shirt and slacks tucked beneath his bed are easily slid on without a sound; his shoes are grabbed and held in the crook of his fingers so that he can creep towards those open windows, slithering up and over the ledge—
And off to freedom.
Freedom in this case being a decadent closed-door bacchanal. Masked patrons with distinguished clothing— young upstarts foregoing secrecy in favor of attracting focus. Password enforced, garden-wall obscured, he's still fastening his clothing by the time he trots up to the gate, dress shirt caught between his fingers, buttons fidgeted with while huffing out 'goldthorn rose'— the guard on duty quick to step aside.
And if Astarion is lucky, it might not be too late in the evening to find a decent bit of game.]