A paradoxic anchor, considering it's only a handful of inches where the covers have sunken down between their bodies (both laid out on their backs now in the wake of all that shuffling, with neither one facing directly towards the other). Arms folded, arms lax. It's a yawning chasm, it's close— it's both— the comfort of not-touching and the safety of not being alone. The rattling of his phone slows against the bedside table, and in the gap (chasm; closeness; all of the above) he can hear his own breath pooling. Why he likes it, why it slowly soothes him to the bone in those mutedly loose-held seconds, possibly even better than the rushing of blood in his ears and the wild blare of music, he— in the repeat of every puzzling development so far— has absolutely no fucking clue.
His mouth quirks on its own when their eyes both flick down towards those radiant tattoos.
It isn't a smile.]
You don't....want anything.
[Ugh. No, that's not it. Try again, Astarion. Fingers curling lamely in midair while he whines (or groans, or something....s in the back of his throat) just to pick apart the words. Lines, at least, are easy.
How do you look at a stranger offering the softest heat you've (n)ever known and come up with anything that isn't lame enough to mercy kill on the spot?]
You have no ambition. You're not here to do anything but your job— and you don't even do that well. [And you can't argue that you're not, Fenris. Not when you're laying in his bed. Not when you iced his cheek. Spoke to him like a person. Took him out. Let him breathe. Let him hope.] Keep going like that and someone's going to trip you up or try to toss you out, and it won't matter that it's not going to be me.
no subject
A paradoxic anchor, considering it's only a handful of inches where the covers have sunken down between their bodies (both laid out on their backs now in the wake of all that shuffling, with neither one facing directly towards the other). Arms folded, arms lax. It's a yawning chasm, it's close— it's both— the comfort of not-touching and the safety of not being alone. The rattling of his phone slows against the bedside table, and in the gap (chasm; closeness; all of the above) he can hear his own breath pooling. Why he likes it, why it slowly soothes him to the bone in those mutedly loose-held seconds, possibly even better than the rushing of blood in his ears and the wild blare of music, he— in the repeat of every puzzling development so far— has absolutely no fucking clue.
His mouth quirks on its own when their eyes both flick down towards those radiant tattoos.
It isn't a smile.]
You don't....want anything.
[Ugh. No, that's not it. Try again, Astarion. Fingers curling lamely in midair while he whines (or groans, or something....s in the back of his throat) just to pick apart the words. Lines, at least, are easy.
How do you look at a stranger offering the softest heat you've (n)ever known and come up with anything that isn't lame enough to mercy kill on the spot?]
You have no ambition. You're not here to do anything but your job— and you don't even do that well. [And you can't argue that you're not, Fenris. Not when you're laying in his bed. Not when you iced his cheek. Spoke to him like a person. Took him out. Let him breathe. Let him hope.] Keep going like that and someone's going to trip you up or try to toss you out, and it won't matter that it's not going to be me.
[Ugh. Eugh.]
Don't you want anything for yourself?