Not the pain of contact— that's a red-hot spark slicing through his nerves, a momentary burst of pain that earns no reaction, for he's used to it by now. But the kiss itself, oh, that nearly tears him apart. It's slow. Soft. A gentle, adoring brush of lips against his forehead that ignites him from tip to toe, a rush of aching longing and shivering warmth, and he never realizes how starved he is for contact until he receives it. Fenris' eyes flutter closed in those moments, his throat bobbing as his head tips up— and gets that gentle bump of Astarion's nose as reward.
Let me earn it first, as a slender finger hooks around his own. Sweet-smelling breath wafts against his face. And it hurts. It hurts, it aches, it tears at him, his soul shrieking as his throat closes for just a moment, and he cannot say why, except no one has ever tried to earn his trust before.
No one has ever looked at him as enough of a person to even bother.
And it's too much. It's too much, so much so that for a moment it terrifies him. Like standing at the edge of a ship and peering over at the roaring sea, oh, he could drown in those dark waves. He knows how to be alone. He knows how to manage on his own, self-sufficient and so achingly lonely it's become a part of him, a dull ache he ignores as much as he does his lyrium. To let down his guard, to let someone even begin to try and reach him (never mind a noble, never mind his own charge) . . . oh, it could go so wrong so swiftly. It will go wrong, something quiet in him whispers, for how could it not? Nothing good ever stays. Such things (friendship, companionship, a lover) are not meant for the likes of him.
And yet: it isn't enough. It takes everything in him not to cry out as Astarion pulls away, please wait no not yet, so desperately starved for company and companionship that he can't give it up right away. Please, I need it, and just because he has learned to live with the ache of loneliness doesn't mean it cannot hurt.
And he doesn't know what to say. How to begin to acknowledge any of those emotions and impulses; how to begin to even parse them to himself. All Fenris knows in that moment is that when he looks up at Astarion, he sees . . .
A chance.
A fork in the road in a lifetime with one steady, straight line. A set of silver eyes that pierce the darkness and whisper: I see you. Curls lit up by moonlight, his expression so terribly careful, and in that moment Fenris realizes it isn't a choice. He could no more refuse this than he could stop breathing, not because Astarion is forcing his hand— but because he wants him so badly there is nothing he wouldn't do to get him.
(And yet: the power is placed in his hands. Let me earn your trust, and someday, maybe, he will tell Astarion just how much it meant to him).]
Yes.
[Breathless, and accompanied by a jerky nod. His finger lurches forward, hooking around Astarion's in confirmation: stay. Don't let go, not yet.]
In the coming weeks . . . yes. I . . .
[He sounds inane. He sounds like he's in shock, but gods help him, this is all so suddenly and bewilderingly new. ]
I have never met anyone quite like you, I think.
[And his hand lurches to the left, his fingers clumsy as they try to weave gently through Astarion's own. Please stay.]
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Not the pain of contact— that's a red-hot spark slicing through his nerves, a momentary burst of pain that earns no reaction, for he's used to it by now. But the kiss itself, oh, that nearly tears him apart. It's slow. Soft. A gentle, adoring brush of lips against his forehead that ignites him from tip to toe, a rush of aching longing and shivering warmth, and he never realizes how starved he is for contact until he receives it. Fenris' eyes flutter closed in those moments, his throat bobbing as his head tips up— and gets that gentle bump of Astarion's nose as reward.
Let me earn it first, as a slender finger hooks around his own. Sweet-smelling breath wafts against his face. And it hurts. It hurts, it aches, it tears at him, his soul shrieking as his throat closes for just a moment, and he cannot say why, except no one has ever tried to earn his trust before.
No one has ever looked at him as enough of a person to even bother.
And it's too much. It's too much, so much so that for a moment it terrifies him. Like standing at the edge of a ship and peering over at the roaring sea, oh, he could drown in those dark waves. He knows how to be alone. He knows how to manage on his own, self-sufficient and so achingly lonely it's become a part of him, a dull ache he ignores as much as he does his lyrium. To let down his guard, to let someone even begin to try and reach him (never mind a noble, never mind his own charge) . . . oh, it could go so wrong so swiftly. It will go wrong, something quiet in him whispers, for how could it not? Nothing good ever stays. Such things (friendship, companionship, a lover) are not meant for the likes of him.
And yet: it isn't enough. It takes everything in him not to cry out as Astarion pulls away, please wait no not yet, so desperately starved for company and companionship that he can't give it up right away. Please, I need it, and just because he has learned to live with the ache of loneliness doesn't mean it cannot hurt.
And he doesn't know what to say. How to begin to acknowledge any of those emotions and impulses; how to begin to even parse them to himself. All Fenris knows in that moment is that when he looks up at Astarion, he sees . . .
A chance.
A fork in the road in a lifetime with one steady, straight line. A set of silver eyes that pierce the darkness and whisper: I see you. Curls lit up by moonlight, his expression so terribly careful, and in that moment Fenris realizes it isn't a choice. He could no more refuse this than he could stop breathing, not because Astarion is forcing his hand— but because he wants him so badly there is nothing he wouldn't do to get him.
(And yet: the power is placed in his hands. Let me earn your trust, and someday, maybe, he will tell Astarion just how much it meant to him).]
Yes.
[Breathless, and accompanied by a jerky nod. His finger lurches forward, hooking around Astarion's in confirmation: stay. Don't let go, not yet.]
In the coming weeks . . . yes. I . . .
[He sounds inane. He sounds like he's in shock, but gods help him, this is all so suddenly and bewilderingly new. ]
I have never met anyone quite like you, I think.
[And his hand lurches to the left, his fingers clumsy as they try to weave gently through Astarion's own. Please stay.]