[It's so childish. It's so undignified, a sudden shift that sweeps away his sense of unmoored grief and replaces it with something more practical. Roll over, and suddenly he's being prodded along, urged and pressured with a playful grin until at last he gives in and settles on his side. It's more baffling than insulting, a bewildering change of pace that he doesn't understand— until all at once he does. Until all that movement settles and there's a soft presence pressing up from behind him. Warm breath puffs against the back of his neck, Astarion's arm slinging over his body and their fingers still tightly intertwined.
Quiet fills the room.
And it's comforting.
To be held. To realize, as the seconds tick past and the sounds of the city idly drift in with the breeze, that there is no other shoe waiting to be dropped. Astarion means to hold him like this, with no other expectation or overhead plan that's coyly waiting to be put in motion. No one is going to burst in on them, not when the door is locked. There's no master waiting to punish him, no gawkers ready to objectify him . . . there's just this. This soft moment that's perfect in all its imperfections, jabbing knees and cold toes, staggering in how gentle it all is.
He does not speak for a time, and there's something something a little wonderful about that, too. It lets him bask in the little details of this moment: the soft darkness and the pleasantly cool breeze that slips in through the window; the warm weight of the comforter above them, and the sensation that they're hidden away from the world.
Astarion's hand is smaller than his own. Softer, too. His fingers fit nimbly between Fenris' own, and without really thinking about it he strokes his thumb against him, steady and soothing.]
And you do?
[Ah: a belated retort to Astarion's sentence. But whereas Fenris' voice had been weighed down with his grief and shock before, it's lighter now. He's teasing, or at least trying to.]
The first time I give you a compliment, little noble, and you refute it. Perhaps I need to be more specific, then.
[He's glad they aren't facing one another. It's easier like this.]
You have a streak of kindness in you. One I do not often see among your rank.
[And the thing is, Fenris himself isn't being kind. He isn't offering up something trite because he feels so very grateful, no, that's not his way. And maybe that carries through in the way his voice is a low rumble, too quiet to be something meant to flatter.]
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[It's so childish. It's so undignified, a sudden shift that sweeps away his sense of unmoored grief and replaces it with something more practical. Roll over, and suddenly he's being prodded along, urged and pressured with a playful grin until at last he gives in and settles on his side. It's more baffling than insulting, a bewildering change of pace that he doesn't understand— until all at once he does. Until all that movement settles and there's a soft presence pressing up from behind him. Warm breath puffs against the back of his neck, Astarion's arm slinging over his body and their fingers still tightly intertwined.
Quiet fills the room.
And it's comforting.
To be held. To realize, as the seconds tick past and the sounds of the city idly drift in with the breeze, that there is no other shoe waiting to be dropped. Astarion means to hold him like this, with no other expectation or overhead plan that's coyly waiting to be put in motion. No one is going to burst in on them, not when the door is locked. There's no master waiting to punish him, no gawkers ready to objectify him . . . there's just this. This soft moment that's perfect in all its imperfections, jabbing knees and cold toes, staggering in how gentle it all is.
He does not speak for a time, and there's something something a little wonderful about that, too. It lets him bask in the little details of this moment: the soft darkness and the pleasantly cool breeze that slips in through the window; the warm weight of the comforter above them, and the sensation that they're hidden away from the world.
Astarion's hand is smaller than his own. Softer, too. His fingers fit nimbly between Fenris' own, and without really thinking about it he strokes his thumb against him, steady and soothing.]
And you do?
[Ah: a belated retort to Astarion's sentence. But whereas Fenris' voice had been weighed down with his grief and shock before, it's lighter now. He's teasing, or at least trying to.]
The first time I give you a compliment, little noble, and you refute it. Perhaps I need to be more specific, then.
[He's glad they aren't facing one another. It's easier like this.]
You have a streak of kindness in you. One I do not often see among your rank.
[And the thing is, Fenris himself isn't being kind. He isn't offering up something trite because he feels so very grateful, no, that's not his way. And maybe that carries through in the way his voice is a low rumble, too quiet to be something meant to flatter.]