[Very familiar, and yet dissonant all the same. Or perhaps it's just that what makes sense with Astarion rather makes less sense with those he knows less. He swats Astarion lightly against one thigh as he scrubs at him. Stop that, and even he isn't sure if he means the praise (genuinely offered, surely, and yet his eyes flick up, uncertainty clear in his gaze) or the motions of his hand. And yet even as Astarion settles back down, his fingers working at that braid (or is it the start of another?), Fenris keeps touching him: palms settling flat on his thighs and stroking slowly up to his hips, over and over.
In truth, it's a more contemplative action than anything. He understands what Astarion is saying, he truly does, and it's not as if he's inexperienced with the concept of bored nobles wanting to rouse some old wolf . . . but it's a strange thing, after three centuries of a certain kind of slavery, to apply such a lens to himself. Danarius' father and grandfather treated him as little more than living furniture; and while Danarius did objectify him, it wasn't like this.
Perhaps it's because he doesn't yet understand the rules. What is and isn't allowed, what will keep him safe or get him in trouble . . . everything is shifting so quickly, and what was once stable is now like quicksand beneath his feet. He can keep up, but it does take some adjustment.]
I did not roll over . . .
[It's a mild protest, murmured more for the sake of saying something as he thinks. And maybe this is how he handles his own fear: by fixating on the details. By fretting over the strangeness of nobles rather than all the terrors that might happen if this goes wrong— if one of those six grows petulant or bored or mean, slighted by some silly faux-pas that ends up destroying him—
But what can they do save trust?]
And your tail-tugging was of a far different caliber than theirs. But I see your point.
[And speaking of tail-tugging (and speaking of distractions, though he's certain they'll return to the topic of his friends soon enough):]
no subject
In truth, it's a more contemplative action than anything. He understands what Astarion is saying, he truly does, and it's not as if he's inexperienced with the concept of bored nobles wanting to rouse some old wolf . . . but it's a strange thing, after three centuries of a certain kind of slavery, to apply such a lens to himself. Danarius' father and grandfather treated him as little more than living furniture; and while Danarius did objectify him, it wasn't like this.
Perhaps it's because he doesn't yet understand the rules. What is and isn't allowed, what will keep him safe or get him in trouble . . . everything is shifting so quickly, and what was once stable is now like quicksand beneath his feet. He can keep up, but it does take some adjustment.]
I did not roll over . . .
[It's a mild protest, murmured more for the sake of saying something as he thinks. And maybe this is how he handles his own fear: by fixating on the details. By fretting over the strangeness of nobles rather than all the terrors that might happen if this goes wrong— if one of those six grows petulant or bored or mean, slighted by some silly faux-pas that ends up destroying him—
But what can they do save trust?]
And your tail-tugging was of a far different caliber than theirs. But I see your point.
[And speaking of tail-tugging (and speaking of distractions, though he's certain they'll return to the topic of his friends soon enough):]
And since when have you begun to curse in Tevene?