People go after Patriars all the bloody time— [Fenris bristles, and like a language never spoken, Astarion mirrors it in his own way, tone a monument to jagged barbs.] do you know how many times I've watched someone collapse at a party? Topple over in the street? Hells, I watched Petras drop like a rock to the floor once because of a poison-laced protest from the Lower City dregs.
[And there, just the smallest muttered interlude:]
....come to think of it, it might explain a few things.
[Oh, but jokes and acidity aside, it wasn't ever like this. Brazenly attuned to a closely guarded estate, when for all the world tonight's assailants could've waited. Stayed there biding their time even longer, just like Fenris had said they'd already done. It's not as if he doesn't sleep. Doesn't dream.
The open window. The pause before that overwhelming crack— and he's had hours to ruminate on it all, playing it over and over again until he can finally piece together everything his mind had failed to comprehend in the moment. Noise. Heat. Momentum. Shattered glass.
He honestly thought it was a bomb at first.
Stupid as that feels in hindsight, he did. But once the scenario made sense it somehow became worse— a product of thin numbers: how close had the bullet trailed near Fenris' neck and shoulders? The back of his skull, his ribs— when even glass might've torn into his skin through the thin excuse for modern armor, did anyone at all check him for blood?
Did Fenris check himself?
Is he bleeding now?
Would anyone else care if he was?]
But you?
What am I supposed to do if you're out there and I'm in here, and they start tracking you down? [He's not clutching the blanket like he had been at the start; it hangs heavy and hot— like a wet rag for matching contours— across his narrow shoulders, bare arms pushed across his knees. The lantern buzzing. Buzzing.
(What if he decides he wants to keep you.
Things he should say, thinks of saying, wants to say, fixates on time and time again just like the open window, just like the overwhelming crack, before— )]
no subject
[And there, just the smallest muttered interlude:]
....come to think of it, it might explain a few things.
[Oh, but jokes and acidity aside, it wasn't ever like this. Brazenly attuned to a closely guarded estate, when for all the world tonight's assailants could've waited. Stayed there biding their time even longer, just like Fenris had said they'd already done. It's not as if he doesn't sleep. Doesn't dream.
The open window. The pause before that overwhelming crack— and he's had hours to ruminate on it all, playing it over and over again until he can finally piece together everything his mind had failed to comprehend in the moment. Noise. Heat. Momentum. Shattered glass.
He honestly thought it was a bomb at first.
Stupid as that feels in hindsight, he did. But once the scenario made sense it somehow became worse— a product of thin numbers: how close had the bullet trailed near Fenris' neck and shoulders? The back of his skull, his ribs— when even glass might've torn into his skin through the thin excuse for modern armor, did anyone at all check him for blood?
Did Fenris check himself?
Is he bleeding now?
Would anyone else care if he was?]
But you?
What am I supposed to do if you're out there and I'm in here, and they start tracking you down? [He's not clutching the blanket like he had been at the start; it hangs heavy and hot— like a wet rag for matching contours— across his narrow shoulders, bare arms pushed across his knees. The lantern buzzing. Buzzing.
(What if he decides he wants to keep you.
Things he should say, thinks of saying, wants to say, fixates on time and time again just like the open window, just like the overwhelming crack, before— )]
You could've tried harder to stay with me.
[Oh, Astarion....
Not even you believe that.]