Like a mantra, every word Fenris says prompts more of that same internal echo, and through the awfulness of its rat-king tangle, blurring the lines between outrage and newfound horror at something he knew existed in this city since he was at least the age of twelve (for there's always a difference between knowing and knowing), Astarion comes to the same conclusion as fists beaten against stone. The same conclusion Fenris— who might've beaten his hands against stone on more than one occasion, figurative or literal both, Astarion thinks while his eyes drop towards scarred knuckles— hands to him like a contract in the very same ensuing breath.
'I cannot dream of freedom.'
Astarion can.
Astarion does.
And worse still, he knows he'll someday have it— or an approximation of it anyway, with him roaming these halls in place of colder footsteps, silk hems trailing in his wake. White curls cut around his cheeks instead of straight lines, but the very same fortune clutched in hand. Something he loathes as much as he covets, depending on the night.
Maybe that'll be a cage, too. Maybe a Baroness has pictures or a Duke longs for his waif— but even then, Fenris is right: it's not the same.
This is worse.
So much worse.
It's unfair.]
But it's not enough.
[Shocked to hear the dry rasp of his throat chiming in without him, Astarion pauses. His eyes wet, his mouth dry. Hollow rattle lost inside the shallow chasm still cut between them.
Because everything. Everything Fenris can't bring himself to bask in or hope for, it dangles on a razor's edge. One mistake. One night where Lord Ancunín finds an empty bed or hears the bray of drunken laughter. Or worse.
He's never in his pointless life wanted to protect something more.]
Fuck it all, I'll buy your debt— [He expels with a burst of anxious air.] Another fifty years and I'll have the rights to our vaults, and I can just buy you from your contract. Make sure there's nothing for you to break.
[Not I'll set you free. Not I'll let you go.
He's young, Astarion Ancunín; he can't stray too far from his own desires yet— and Fenris is the first real thing he's ever found that he likes enough to keep.]
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It's unfair. It's unfair. It's unfair.
Like a mantra, every word Fenris says prompts more of that same internal echo, and through the awfulness of its rat-king tangle, blurring the lines between outrage and newfound horror at something he knew existed in this city since he was at least the age of twelve (for there's always a difference between knowing and knowing), Astarion comes to the same conclusion as fists beaten against stone. The same conclusion Fenris— who might've beaten his hands against stone on more than one occasion, figurative or literal both, Astarion thinks while his eyes drop towards scarred knuckles— hands to him like a contract in the very same ensuing breath.
'I cannot dream of freedom.'
Astarion can.
Astarion does.
And worse still, he knows he'll someday have it— or an approximation of it anyway, with him roaming these halls in place of colder footsteps, silk hems trailing in his wake. White curls cut around his cheeks instead of straight lines, but the very same fortune clutched in hand. Something he loathes as much as he covets, depending on the night.
Maybe that'll be a cage, too. Maybe a Baroness has pictures or a Duke longs for his waif— but even then, Fenris is right: it's not the same.
This is worse.
So much worse.
It's unfair.]
But it's not enough.
[Shocked to hear the dry rasp of his throat chiming in without him, Astarion pauses. His eyes wet, his mouth dry. Hollow rattle lost inside the shallow chasm still cut between them.
Because everything. Everything Fenris can't bring himself to bask in or hope for, it dangles on a razor's edge. One mistake. One night where Lord Ancunín finds an empty bed or hears the bray of drunken laughter. Or worse.
He's never in his pointless life wanted to protect something more.]
Fuck it all, I'll buy your debt— [He expels with a burst of anxious air.] Another fifty years and I'll have the rights to our vaults, and I can just buy you from your contract. Make sure there's nothing for you to break.
[Not I'll set you free. Not I'll let you go.
He's young, Astarion Ancunín; he can't stray too far from his own desires yet— and Fenris is the first real thing he's ever found that he likes enough to keep.]