[His smirk is a living thing by now, long as it's stuck around over the past few minutes. It crawls— independent of the rest of him— high enough across narrow features to flex the sharp tips of his ears by proxy. (And no matter that he's lived through disarming smiles. No matter that he's used expression like a lit fuse when courting merchant princes or noblest of aristarchic mothers or anything and everything on two legs when the mood for mischief strikes, it's not performative this time. It can't be.
Their glances are too peripheral; Fenris could only see him if he strained himself right into blindness while attempting it— and even then he'd just wind up ruining his braidwork for the sight of a couple blurry knuckles at best.)
So reduce it to what it is: Just one more sign Astarion's enjoying this. The way they're looped together like some kind of odd, hybrid ouroboros.
Heavy pressure on his thigh and a lightness tucked underneath the loose lines of his shirt. His fingers working at something that isn't busywork or— all right, fine, yes, it's trouble, but it's different. It's all different. It feels warmer.
Better.]
Hm.
[Soft hm. Thoughtful hm. Consideration first instead of blind obedience, he's cocking his own head like a hound that knows the trick, but wants to decide whether or not he'll play along, already tying off one braid in favor of starting the next:]
Banaa-vis fed-ari.
[His intonation's right, but the rest is sluggish. Halting. Slow. Though what comes next might as well be its antithesis for rushed-in bluntness:]
Is it true that everyone in Tevinter eats snakes because they worship dragons?
[If you're going to start teaching him for real, this is what you're getting, Fenris.]
no subject
Their glances are too peripheral; Fenris could only see him if he strained himself right into blindness while attempting it— and even then he'd just wind up ruining his braidwork for the sight of a couple blurry knuckles at best.)
So reduce it to what it is: Just one more sign Astarion's enjoying this. The way they're looped together like some kind of odd, hybrid ouroboros.
Heavy pressure on his thigh and a lightness tucked underneath the loose lines of his shirt. His fingers working at something that isn't busywork or— all right, fine, yes, it's trouble, but it's different. It's all different. It feels warmer.
Better.]
Hm.
[Soft hm. Thoughtful hm. Consideration first instead of blind obedience, he's cocking his own head like a hound that knows the trick, but wants to decide whether or not he'll play along, already tying off one braid in favor of starting the next:]
Banaa-vis fed-ari.
[His intonation's right, but the rest is sluggish. Halting. Slow. Though what comes next might as well be its antithesis for rushed-in bluntness:]
Is it true that everyone in Tevinter eats snakes because they worship dragons?
[If you're going to start teaching him for real, this is what you're getting, Fenris.]