[The word bursts past his lips without his say-so, more baffled than incredulous. It's not beyond the realm of imagination that such a group might find the hired help pleasing, in the same way they might grow fond of a stray dog that had taken to following them around. It's just that when he tries to apply that thought to himself it all sort of falls apart. Why me, for all he can imagine is Violet's indignant stare or Petras' sputtered offense.
It's playing with fire either way, Astarion says, and Fenris believes him— but still, surely they should go for the safer option. Fenris' misery be damned; he'll learn to cope with it, for long-term goals are always better than short-term happiness. And yet . . . is it the safer choice? Fenris wonders even as lithe fingers begin to braid his hair (and oh! what a thing, for he's never had anyone play with his hair like this before). That group is like bloodhounds on a scent when it comes to hidden secrets and idiotic gossip— and though Fenris is more inclined to deride than compliment, he has to admit, they're perceptive. How long will it take them to spot even the most minimal sign of misery? A tight mouth, a rigid spine . . . and then they'll test it. They'll prod at it like a doctor with a scalpel, trying eagerly to see just what it is that triggers it . . .
And when they find out, they'll be in the same position as before. Only this time, it won't be a shared thing. It will not be a secret they were let in on early; instead, they'll treat it like blackmail. Like a filthy secret to be held over Astarion's head.
It's a lot to ask to trust them. And maybe there is no right choice, Fenris thinks. But better to take control than to hope that Fenris can pretend enough to fool six clever little things with too much time on their hands.
With a little sigh, he tips his head, pushing gently against Astarion's fingers. They really do feel good. There's something a little intoxicating about the steady tug against his scalp; the doting care that comes from fussing with one's appearance . . . and it reminds him, just a little, of home. Tevinter, loathed and despised and yet home nonetheless, and Fenris misses the styles and food just as much as he despises everything else about the country.]
Let us tell them.
[He finally says it aloud, surfacing from his thoughts, though in truth he was only quiet for a few moments.]
It seems inevitable they will find out either way. And better to trust them with it and rely on their egos to keep the secret than to give them something unwillingly.
[And then, a little curiously:]
Why would they like me? All I have ever done is scold you and backtalk them.
no subject
[The word bursts past his lips without his say-so, more baffled than incredulous. It's not beyond the realm of imagination that such a group might find the hired help pleasing, in the same way they might grow fond of a stray dog that had taken to following them around. It's just that when he tries to apply that thought to himself it all sort of falls apart. Why me, for all he can imagine is Violet's indignant stare or Petras' sputtered offense.
It's playing with fire either way, Astarion says, and Fenris believes him— but still, surely they should go for the safer option. Fenris' misery be damned; he'll learn to cope with it, for long-term goals are always better than short-term happiness. And yet . . . is it the safer choice? Fenris wonders even as lithe fingers begin to braid his hair (and oh! what a thing, for he's never had anyone play with his hair like this before). That group is like bloodhounds on a scent when it comes to hidden secrets and idiotic gossip— and though Fenris is more inclined to deride than compliment, he has to admit, they're perceptive. How long will it take them to spot even the most minimal sign of misery? A tight mouth, a rigid spine . . . and then they'll test it. They'll prod at it like a doctor with a scalpel, trying eagerly to see just what it is that triggers it . . .
And when they find out, they'll be in the same position as before. Only this time, it won't be a shared thing. It will not be a secret they were let in on early; instead, they'll treat it like blackmail. Like a filthy secret to be held over Astarion's head.
It's a lot to ask to trust them. And maybe there is no right choice, Fenris thinks. But better to take control than to hope that Fenris can pretend enough to fool six clever little things with too much time on their hands.
With a little sigh, he tips his head, pushing gently against Astarion's fingers. They really do feel good. There's something a little intoxicating about the steady tug against his scalp; the doting care that comes from fussing with one's appearance . . . and it reminds him, just a little, of home. Tevinter, loathed and despised and yet home nonetheless, and Fenris misses the styles and food just as much as he despises everything else about the country.]
Let us tell them.
[He finally says it aloud, surfacing from his thoughts, though in truth he was only quiet for a few moments.]
It seems inevitable they will find out either way. And better to trust them with it and rely on their egos to keep the secret than to give them something unwillingly.
[And then, a little curiously:]
Why would they like me? All I have ever done is scold you and backtalk them.