In a fraction of a second, Astarion does more than that. Narrow knots inside his chest finally unwinding, right down to the last bit of deadbolt tension, brought down by the compound nightmare of his overturned world meeting the mark of its antithesis.
And in less than that same second— ]
I've no idea.
[A puff of air. A scoff tugged just at the corner.]
Trying not to think about that, actually. [Tone clipped in a willfingly open show of total honesty, managing the effort of keeping his chin held so high that Fenris' hold barely has any resistance or gravity to speak of; he doesn't mind if the one person he trusts in this place actually knows he's not infallible— knows he won't be judged for any of this like the prized idiot he's been treated as— but the thing is he does actually mind that blot of red on his guardian's torn sleeve. The one he only partway saw through the gash in nighttime clothing.
Everything in his silhouette's gone aristocratic in response. Strictly: crisp. Authoritative.
He's not terrible at being a magister, when it's all said and done.]
Hold still. Let me work.
[That said, he's not pulling away from the fingers curled against his chin. There has to be something deliberate in the fact that he only works around them, eyeline dropped.]
no subject
In a fraction of a second, Astarion does more than that. Narrow knots inside his chest finally unwinding, right down to the last bit of deadbolt tension, brought down by the compound nightmare of his overturned world meeting the mark of its antithesis.
And in less than that same second— ]
I've no idea.
[A puff of air. A scoff tugged just at the corner.]
Trying not to think about that, actually. [Tone clipped in a willfingly open show of total honesty, managing the effort of keeping his chin held so high that Fenris' hold barely has any resistance or gravity to speak of; he doesn't mind if the one person he trusts in this place actually knows he's not infallible— knows he won't be judged for any of this like the prized idiot he's been treated as— but the thing is he does actually mind that blot of red on his guardian's torn sleeve. The one he only partway saw through the gash in nighttime clothing.
Everything in his silhouette's gone aristocratic in response. Strictly: crisp. Authoritative.
He's not terrible at being a magister, when it's all said and done.]
Hold still. Let me work.
[That said, he's not pulling away from the fingers curled against his chin. There has to be something deliberate in the fact that he only works around them, eyeline dropped.]