And the rest almost doesn't matter. Safe, and someday Fenris will have the words to tell Astarion just what it means to hear that word first and foremost slip past his lips. He cannot remember the last time anyone cared for his safety or his well-being, not beyond the fuss of an owner cherishing his property. Safe, Astarion says, and he means it in every way possible: not just from being fired and retaken, but from humiliation, too. Hurt. Grief. Whore, bitch, and they would call him that and worse. They would tear them apart with sharp tongues, his peers and his kin both; the wicked cruelty of a bored aristocrat with nothing else to do. Safe, and suddenly two and a half centuries between them means nothing, for Fenris aches to bury his face in the crook of Astarion's shoulder and shudder himself to pieces.
And he doesn't, of course. They haven't broached that kind of intimacy yet, for all that Astarion is half-naked in his lap. But perhaps some of that longing and adoration makes it to his expression. Or perhaps it comes out in the way he cannot help but touch Astarion over and over: idle motions against the sweep of his arms or the curve of his waist, fingers brushing through his hair, all of it gentle.
But ah . . . lover, friend, and he pays attention, he does, though Astarion's fingers are warm against the back of his neck. But in truth, it sounds bizarre to him. Not unusual, for it wasn't as if Danarius' line was free of sin. Fenris cannot recall his grandfather's proclivities, but he was young then, and far beneath the notice of his master. His father, though, assuredly had a mistress, for there was tension in the house from the moment she first arrived. But he was mere bodyguard then, forgotten and only used if necessary, not privy to the nuances of all the social dances that his masters indulged. If the man had used the term lover as a knife (and Fenris assumes he did, for no other reason than the entire family is sadistic), it flew far above Fenris' head at the time.
And Danarius . . . ah, but he kept it simple. Why tie yourself down to a single woman when you could get your heirs illegitimately? And it kept things so competitive between them. And as for friends, ah . . . no, that was what Fenris was for, wasn't it? A confidant (and a thousand other things) that could never wag his tongue or spill secrets for power.
And the point is this: he understands what Astarion means, oh, yes, and he can recognize the truth in his words. But it makes no sense to him, not really. Not on an innate level.]
Why?
[Forget the term lover for a moment. Forget them (as if his heart doesn't still ache with longing, safe, oh, he will kiss him a thousand times for that word). Fenris asks not just for their sake, but because he wants to understand. Astarion is entrenched within that world, and while dismissing the whims and priorities of nobles is all well and good, it's different when it comes to him.]
What is the point of allies if you all loathe each other so much?
no subject
And the rest almost doesn't matter. Safe, and someday Fenris will have the words to tell Astarion just what it means to hear that word first and foremost slip past his lips. He cannot remember the last time anyone cared for his safety or his well-being, not beyond the fuss of an owner cherishing his property. Safe, Astarion says, and he means it in every way possible: not just from being fired and retaken, but from humiliation, too. Hurt. Grief. Whore, bitch, and they would call him that and worse. They would tear them apart with sharp tongues, his peers and his kin both; the wicked cruelty of a bored aristocrat with nothing else to do. Safe, and suddenly two and a half centuries between them means nothing, for Fenris aches to bury his face in the crook of Astarion's shoulder and shudder himself to pieces.
And he doesn't, of course. They haven't broached that kind of intimacy yet, for all that Astarion is half-naked in his lap. But perhaps some of that longing and adoration makes it to his expression. Or perhaps it comes out in the way he cannot help but touch Astarion over and over: idle motions against the sweep of his arms or the curve of his waist, fingers brushing through his hair, all of it gentle.
But ah . . . lover, friend, and he pays attention, he does, though Astarion's fingers are warm against the back of his neck. But in truth, it sounds bizarre to him. Not unusual, for it wasn't as if Danarius' line was free of sin. Fenris cannot recall his grandfather's proclivities, but he was young then, and far beneath the notice of his master. His father, though, assuredly had a mistress, for there was tension in the house from the moment she first arrived. But he was mere bodyguard then, forgotten and only used if necessary, not privy to the nuances of all the social dances that his masters indulged. If the man had used the term lover as a knife (and Fenris assumes he did, for no other reason than the entire family is sadistic), it flew far above Fenris' head at the time.
And Danarius . . . ah, but he kept it simple. Why tie yourself down to a single woman when you could get your heirs illegitimately? And it kept things so competitive between them. And as for friends, ah . . . no, that was what Fenris was for, wasn't it? A confidant (and a thousand other things) that could never wag his tongue or spill secrets for power.
And the point is this: he understands what Astarion means, oh, yes, and he can recognize the truth in his words. But it makes no sense to him, not really. Not on an innate level.]
Why?
[Forget the term lover for a moment. Forget them (as if his heart doesn't still ache with longing, safe, oh, he will kiss him a thousand times for that word). Fenris asks not just for their sake, but because he wants to understand. Astarion is entrenched within that world, and while dismissing the whims and priorities of nobles is all well and good, it's different when it comes to him.]
What is the point of allies if you all loathe each other so much?