Not this. Not anything remotely close to the way Fenris' expression suddenly twists.
And maybe it's why Astarion misreads the situation by a mile, sore senses grasping loosely at whatever fraying threads of (learned) predictable logic he can find to explain the sharpness in green eyes. The odd glimpse of anger just behind it.
This is....new. Strange. So real he can't unlock the track of where it's headed. The fingers on his jaw have tensed. Is it jealousy?
No. That seems wrong. But— what else is there, really?]
They didn't hold a candle to you.
[It's a line....in the sense that it's vestigial estimation of what he should do: flatter and endear. Find ways to stoke the ego of his counterpart. But the thing is, in this case he actually means it. Despite the angry back and forth, the animosity they've shared, he'd been the first out of twenty five to treat him like a person— the first since Talindra, in fact. A babysitter with a spine, he'd called him on the night that they first met, not expecting it to be true.
It is true.
Even the fledgling patriar Astarion runs with spend more time on smoke and bragging rights than any actual amount of conversation. (Gods he fucking hates Petras. They can't be in the same room together for more than five minutes without bickering.
And he talks to him the most out of everyone.)]
Him too. [He turns his fingers over, letting a half-numb arm carry his touch across armored wrists. Confused by handsome features, studying them up close. Too serious.
So, to fix that:]
How else do you think I got him deposed?
[Hes grinning. Searching for an echo of predictable acceptance. See? Nothing to be angry about: I won. I beat him.
no subject
What does he expect?
Not this. Not anything remotely close to the way Fenris' expression suddenly twists.
And maybe it's why Astarion misreads the situation by a mile, sore senses grasping loosely at whatever fraying threads of (learned) predictable logic he can find to explain the sharpness in green eyes. The odd glimpse of anger just behind it.
This is....new. Strange. So real he can't unlock the track of where it's headed. The fingers on his jaw have tensed. Is it jealousy?
No. That seems wrong. But— what else is there, really?]
They didn't hold a candle to you.
[It's a line....in the sense that it's vestigial estimation of what he should do: flatter and endear. Find ways to stoke the ego of his counterpart. But the thing is, in this case he actually means it. Despite the angry back and forth, the animosity they've shared, he'd been the first out of twenty five to treat him like a person— the first since Talindra, in fact. A babysitter with a spine, he'd called him on the night that they first met, not expecting it to be true.
It is true.
Even the fledgling patriar Astarion runs with spend more time on smoke and bragging rights than any actual amount of conversation. (Gods he fucking hates Petras. They can't be in the same room together for more than five minutes without bickering.
And he talks to him the most out of everyone.)]
Him too. [He turns his fingers over, letting a half-numb arm carry his touch across armored wrists. Confused by handsome features, studying them up close. Too serious.
So, to fix that:]
How else do you think I got him deposed?
[Hes grinning. Searching for an echo of predictable acceptance. See? Nothing to be angry about: I won. I beat him.
He's gone. You're here.
Be happy. Laugh with me.]