[He doesn't comment when when Astarion spins to grab his phone, but he does watch him: the way his expression twists and his shoulders hunch, whatever messages he receives only further fuel for the fire smoldering below.
And honestly? Fenris would expect no better.
He has only met that group the once, and admittedly, they were not at their best— but to Fenris' jaded eyes, they seemed like every other brainless, pleasure-focused group of nobles. Hungry to humiliate others and prove themselves dominant, their tiny minds focused only on the social wars waged between households . . . no, whatever message any of them sent is surely only a jab. We're having fun and you aren't.
(And it's funny, for he doesn't include Astarion in that category, not anymore. He doesn't know what category to slot him in, but it isn't that. There's more to his charge than that, though if pressed Fenris couldn't say what or when or how he began to think that way).]
Is there?
[He says it mildly. There's a great deal that's strange about him. There's a great deal that's wrong with him, Fenris knows, whether by trauma or sheer lack of experience (for oh, he is such a fledgling thing in some ways, wildly unsure and covering for it with a thick layer of stoicism). But he suspects Astarion means something a little less outlandish. Something that those friends of his would call a weakness; something that those tutors and bodyguards of before hadn't ever exhibited.
What a thing it is, Fenris thinks, to care for someone else. Not blindingly. Not ignoring their faults (oh, Astarion has so very many, vexing Fenris to no end). But he has grown to care for the little brat. It isn't love. It isn't even friendship, not really. But it's . . . it's something. A fierce protectiveness that Fenris had not known existed until today combining with the familiarity of spending the majority of their days together . . .
Perhaps it's that.
Or perhaps it's the fact it's easy to see the pulsing pattern of his lyrium right thought thin bedsheets, Fenris thinks dryly, and voices neither opinion. Let Astarion tell him what's on his mind. Gods know that will be easier than trying to guess.]
Shall I guess, or do you intend to tell me?
[He doesn't mean to be flippant, and indeed, his tone is a little too soft for that. But how else is he meant to respond?]
no subject
And honestly? Fenris would expect no better.
He has only met that group the once, and admittedly, they were not at their best— but to Fenris' jaded eyes, they seemed like every other brainless, pleasure-focused group of nobles. Hungry to humiliate others and prove themselves dominant, their tiny minds focused only on the social wars waged between households . . . no, whatever message any of them sent is surely only a jab. We're having fun and you aren't.
(And it's funny, for he doesn't include Astarion in that category, not anymore. He doesn't know what category to slot him in, but it isn't that. There's more to his charge than that, though if pressed Fenris couldn't say what or when or how he began to think that way).]
Is there?
[He says it mildly. There's a great deal that's strange about him. There's a great deal that's wrong with him, Fenris knows, whether by trauma or sheer lack of experience (for oh, he is such a fledgling thing in some ways, wildly unsure and covering for it with a thick layer of stoicism). But he suspects Astarion means something a little less outlandish. Something that those friends of his would call a weakness; something that those tutors and bodyguards of before hadn't ever exhibited.
What a thing it is, Fenris thinks, to care for someone else. Not blindingly. Not ignoring their faults (oh, Astarion has so very many, vexing Fenris to no end). But he has grown to care for the little brat. It isn't love. It isn't even friendship, not really. But it's . . . it's something. A fierce protectiveness that Fenris had not known existed until today combining with the familiarity of spending the majority of their days together . . .
Perhaps it's that.
Or perhaps it's the fact it's easy to see the pulsing pattern of his lyrium right thought thin bedsheets, Fenris thinks dryly, and voices neither opinion. Let Astarion tell him what's on his mind. Gods know that will be easier than trying to guess.]
Shall I guess, or do you intend to tell me?
[He doesn't mean to be flippant, and indeed, his tone is a little too soft for that. But how else is he meant to respond?]