It's just— it's all happening so quickly, and he doesn't know where to stand. A day ago he would have thought it the height of foolishness to ever believe so wholeheartedly in a noble, much less one who's resented him so much. He would have been wary of this being a trick, and he would have been right to. A day ago, he would have said with certainty that there was no way this wasn't a ploy, a spirited effort from his rebellious charge to get him in trouble. Crawl into my bed, I'll buy you free, don't fret, and the words are right, the voice is right, but what kind of fool would trust in such sweet promises? There are stories all across the coast of bedded women stuck with a child they never wanted because a noble had promised that he'd elevate them, and that would be after so much more than just today.
A single act of kindness . . . surely it can't change so much.
There has to be something else. The thought rises up almost violently within his mind, ripping through the nauseating mixture of bitter anger and aching longing and filling him with fear. There has to something else, something he's missing, some clause that he's overlooked— something, and he barely knows what he means. He barely knows how this could be a trick or trap, save that the last time a noble promised him something good, his collar only grew heavier around his throat.
(Quite the expensive pet, aren't you? And it was a joke. A teasing bit of mirth from his master, Danarius' voice amused as he'd tallied out the cost of all that lyrium. But it will be worth it, and what could he do but agree?)
And yet . . . Astarion's voice aches with honesty. His eyes still gleam in the darkness, and though Fenris does not understand all the emotions clear on his face (oh, foolish thing, and he doesn't realize just how lonely Astarion really is; he doesn't understand just how little affection he's ever gotten), there's nothing there that speaks of a lie.
But maybe it's not even that. Maybe it's just that there's nothing dignified about this conversation. It's not the coy seduction of before, with Astarion firmly slotted in the role of tempting ingenue; it's not even the boastful bragging of that party, spiteful dominance proven through base means.
He wouldn't look like this in front of his friends, Fenris thinks, and realizes in that same moment that it's true. He wouldn't dare. There could be no tears, no fretful anger or fierce protectiveness, for such stark genuineness isn't allowed in those circles. Even the offer for help would be suspect— but here Astarion is, baring his heart anyway.
Is it enough?]
Together.
[And it doesn't solve everything. It doesn't grant him freedom, or promise him some happy ending. But it's something. It's something tangible, something real: I will not let you be taken. I will not let them oust you. I will not let you be hurt.
Who has ever been so kind to him before? And yet the moment the thought slips past his mind, he crushes it, shoving it away with frantic desperation, for he can't. He can't take the way his heart lurches and aches so suddenly, his own eyes threatening to sting; he can't bear it, not tonight. Not when this is already confusing as it is. Not when he feels so filled with conflicting emotions that it's almost nauseating— oh, he can't.
But perhaps now he does understand— for this is more kindness than anyone has ever shown him, and he cannot help but crave more. And yet it would be strange for him to reach out again, no matter that his fingers suddenly ache to smooth through those unruly curls. So, instead:]
Start with your friends. Tell me of them.
[Soft. Not entreating, not exactly, but . . . gentle. A way to lead them out of this emotional minefield they've found themselves in, for in truth, Fenris does not know how to even begin to articulate what he's feeling.]
no subject
The trouble is, Fenris doesn't know.
It's just— it's all happening so quickly, and he doesn't know where to stand. A day ago he would have thought it the height of foolishness to ever believe so wholeheartedly in a noble, much less one who's resented him so much. He would have been wary of this being a trick, and he would have been right to. A day ago, he would have said with certainty that there was no way this wasn't a ploy, a spirited effort from his rebellious charge to get him in trouble. Crawl into my bed, I'll buy you free, don't fret, and the words are right, the voice is right, but what kind of fool would trust in such sweet promises? There are stories all across the coast of bedded women stuck with a child they never wanted because a noble had promised that he'd elevate them, and that would be after so much more than just today.
A single act of kindness . . . surely it can't change so much.
There has to be something else. The thought rises up almost violently within his mind, ripping through the nauseating mixture of bitter anger and aching longing and filling him with fear. There has to something else, something he's missing, some clause that he's overlooked— something, and he barely knows what he means. He barely knows how this could be a trick or trap, save that the last time a noble promised him something good, his collar only grew heavier around his throat.
(Quite the expensive pet, aren't you? And it was a joke. A teasing bit of mirth from his master, Danarius' voice amused as he'd tallied out the cost of all that lyrium. But it will be worth it, and what could he do but agree?)
And yet . . . Astarion's voice aches with honesty. His eyes still gleam in the darkness, and though Fenris does not understand all the emotions clear on his face (oh, foolish thing, and he doesn't realize just how lonely Astarion really is; he doesn't understand just how little affection he's ever gotten), there's nothing there that speaks of a lie.
But maybe it's not even that. Maybe it's just that there's nothing dignified about this conversation. It's not the coy seduction of before, with Astarion firmly slotted in the role of tempting ingenue; it's not even the boastful bragging of that party, spiteful dominance proven through base means.
He wouldn't look like this in front of his friends, Fenris thinks, and realizes in that same moment that it's true. He wouldn't dare. There could be no tears, no fretful anger or fierce protectiveness, for such stark genuineness isn't allowed in those circles. Even the offer for help would be suspect— but here Astarion is, baring his heart anyway.
Is it enough?]
Together.
[And it doesn't solve everything. It doesn't grant him freedom, or promise him some happy ending. But it's something. It's something tangible, something real: I will not let you be taken. I will not let them oust you. I will not let you be hurt.
Who has ever been so kind to him before? And yet the moment the thought slips past his mind, he crushes it, shoving it away with frantic desperation, for he can't. He can't take the way his heart lurches and aches so suddenly, his own eyes threatening to sting; he can't bear it, not tonight. Not when this is already confusing as it is. Not when he feels so filled with conflicting emotions that it's almost nauseating— oh, he can't.
But perhaps now he does understand— for this is more kindness than anyone has ever shown him, and he cannot help but crave more. And yet it would be strange for him to reach out again, no matter that his fingers suddenly ache to smooth through those unruly curls. So, instead:]
Start with your friends. Tell me of them.
[Soft. Not entreating, not exactly, but . . . gentle. A way to lead them out of this emotional minefield they've found themselves in, for in truth, Fenris does not know how to even begin to articulate what he's feeling.]