[Relief comes swiftly in the seconds that pass. It doesn't quell his turbulent emotions, nor smothers them cruelly away— but it brings a sense of exhalation. Together, and he is grateful Astarion doesn't insist on dissecting the enormity of what just passed between them. It's enough, tonight, to know that something has changed between them. It's enough to know that Astarion means to keep him close, and that Fenris will have days, weeks— gods, years, even, if need be— to dissect all the turbulent emotions that have passed through him tonight.
And for tonight, it's nice to exhale.
He lays back down, laying his head gingerly on a pillow that sinks sweetly beneath the pressure. His limbs relax more quickly this time around, his aching body sighing softly in contentment now that he knows this isn't a trap of some kind. He can feel the warmth of Astarion from only a foot away, and the sound of his voice as it rises and falls mildly is oddly soothing. He hadn't realized before now just how tired he's been (but then again, he's always a bit tired, isn't he?). Gods, and in a bed this soft . . .
But ah, he does want to hear this. Slinging an arm beneath his head, Fenris glances over at Astarion, watching the line of his profile as he speaks. Dal and Petras and Leon and Violet, and he tries to match names to faces with middling results. Some of them are easier than others (Leon, then, was the one that cat-called him, and as for the drow and the tiefling, well, that's easy enough), but he's sure he'll have them down soon enough. Social dynamics, too, aren't so hard to guess: Petras exasperatedly tolerated, he and Astarion going at it like denning pups, all bark and no bite; Violet offered her due wariness, while Dal is doted upon, if not the earner of more than a few rolled eyes.
He wonders, vaguely, what they'll think when Astarion begins defending him instead of throwing him as an easy target. And then he wonders when he began to assume that Astarion would defend him, rather than simply go along with their goading. But he will. Fenris knows he will, prompted by that proud smile and underscored by a bone-deep certainty he won't question tonight.
And ah— that last addition earns an unexpected snort, undignified and amused. The first time he's laughed properly in Astarion's presence.]
And you take every chance to remind him, I wager.
[It's no bad thing. But gods, a pack of adolescents barely grown . . . with the exception of Leon, perhaps, but for the rest? My age or younger, and gods, how young that is for elves and tieflings and drow . . . no wonder they all keep track of how many the others fuck. What else is there to boast about?]
I would ask you where you rank on that list, little noble, but I suspect I would regret it.
[But there's a smile in his voice. He's teasing, of all things. Gently testing this newfound accord with a quiet joke. And then, his tone still light:]
Sate my curiosity once more: which is your favorite among them?
[For friendship. For rutting. For anything, really.]
no subject
And for tonight, it's nice to exhale.
He lays back down, laying his head gingerly on a pillow that sinks sweetly beneath the pressure. His limbs relax more quickly this time around, his aching body sighing softly in contentment now that he knows this isn't a trap of some kind. He can feel the warmth of Astarion from only a foot away, and the sound of his voice as it rises and falls mildly is oddly soothing. He hadn't realized before now just how tired he's been (but then again, he's always a bit tired, isn't he?). Gods, and in a bed this soft . . .
But ah, he does want to hear this. Slinging an arm beneath his head, Fenris glances over at Astarion, watching the line of his profile as he speaks. Dal and Petras and Leon and Violet, and he tries to match names to faces with middling results. Some of them are easier than others (Leon, then, was the one that cat-called him, and as for the drow and the tiefling, well, that's easy enough), but he's sure he'll have them down soon enough. Social dynamics, too, aren't so hard to guess: Petras exasperatedly tolerated, he and Astarion going at it like denning pups, all bark and no bite; Violet offered her due wariness, while Dal is doted upon, if not the earner of more than a few rolled eyes.
He wonders, vaguely, what they'll think when Astarion begins defending him instead of throwing him as an easy target. And then he wonders when he began to assume that Astarion would defend him, rather than simply go along with their goading. But he will. Fenris knows he will, prompted by that proud smile and underscored by a bone-deep certainty he won't question tonight.
And ah— that last addition earns an unexpected snort, undignified and amused. The first time he's laughed properly in Astarion's presence.]
And you take every chance to remind him, I wager.
[It's no bad thing. But gods, a pack of adolescents barely grown . . . with the exception of Leon, perhaps, but for the rest? My age or younger, and gods, how young that is for elves and tieflings and drow . . . no wonder they all keep track of how many the others fuck. What else is there to boast about?]
I would ask you where you rank on that list, little noble, but I suspect I would regret it.
[But there's a smile in his voice. He's teasing, of all things. Gently testing this newfound accord with a quiet joke. And then, his tone still light:]
Sate my curiosity once more: which is your favorite among them?
[For friendship. For rutting. For anything, really.]