[There's something so precariously wonderful about this moment.
He's so aware of it. Even as he basks in it (the tension easing out of his body in ticks, his whole self gently but surely slumping towards his charge), there's a whisper in the back of his mind that urges him to savor this. Memorize it. Remember every detail (the buzz of the lantern irritating to elven ears and the warmth of its glow; the feel of the mattress groaning between their combined weight, ancient springs creaking each time Astarion draws out another sliver of glass). Remember the way it feels to have chilly fingers gently pressed against bare skin, Astarion's expression pinched as he focuses. Remember how it feels to be cared for . . .
And how it feels is, not to put too fine a point on it, good.
Simple and soft and warm in a way Fenris knew once, a long, long time ago. Memories that linger only in whispers and faint sensations . . . his mother's hand stroking through his hair, her scent all around him and her body soft as he curled in close . . . and it's not the same right now. He isn't so soft-eyed as to go doeish, his body still upright and still as he lets Astarion work, but the feeling is there. Warmth blooms in the center of his chest, every soft touch feeling like sunlight dappling on his skin.
Intimacy. That's the word, isn't it? Intimate, to allow Astarion so close. To listen to these stories and know them for the secrets they are, not because the information contained therein is so valuable, but because he knows for a fact Astarion has never told anyone before.]
Clever thing.
[Dalyria, he means, though from the way he stares at Astarion as he works, perhaps he means both. There's a faint smile on his lips, and let them both pretend it's leftover from the derisive little snort he'd made about Petras.]
Is that how you grew close? Trying to escape that bleak mundanity?
[The words fascinate him a little. It isn't that Astarion's never spoken of his frustrations before, but that was limited to his family. If my father didn't put a leash on me, if my brother wasn't such a stuck-up brat, but always there was the assurance that it was internal, not external.
And Fenris won't be a brat about it. He won't scoff over the perceived problems of the rich; he won't sneer that Astarion knows nothing of hardship. He might have a few weeks ago, but . . . things are different now, and he is not so callous as all that. His gaze is softer, his expression more settled as his voice rumbles between them.]
no subject
He's so aware of it. Even as he basks in it (the tension easing out of his body in ticks, his whole self gently but surely slumping towards his charge), there's a whisper in the back of his mind that urges him to savor this. Memorize it. Remember every detail (the buzz of the lantern irritating to elven ears and the warmth of its glow; the feel of the mattress groaning between their combined weight, ancient springs creaking each time Astarion draws out another sliver of glass). Remember the way it feels to have chilly fingers gently pressed against bare skin, Astarion's expression pinched as he focuses. Remember how it feels to be cared for . . .
And how it feels is, not to put too fine a point on it, good.
Simple and soft and warm in a way Fenris knew once, a long, long time ago. Memories that linger only in whispers and faint sensations . . . his mother's hand stroking through his hair, her scent all around him and her body soft as he curled in close . . . and it's not the same right now. He isn't so soft-eyed as to go doeish, his body still upright and still as he lets Astarion work, but the feeling is there. Warmth blooms in the center of his chest, every soft touch feeling like sunlight dappling on his skin.
Intimacy. That's the word, isn't it? Intimate, to allow Astarion so close. To listen to these stories and know them for the secrets they are, not because the information contained therein is so valuable, but because he knows for a fact Astarion has never told anyone before.]
Clever thing.
[Dalyria, he means, though from the way he stares at Astarion as he works, perhaps he means both. There's a faint smile on his lips, and let them both pretend it's leftover from the derisive little snort he'd made about Petras.]
Is that how you grew close? Trying to escape that bleak mundanity?
[The words fascinate him a little. It isn't that Astarion's never spoken of his frustrations before, but that was limited to his family. If my father didn't put a leash on me, if my brother wasn't such a stuck-up brat, but always there was the assurance that it was internal, not external.
And Fenris won't be a brat about it. He won't scoff over the perceived problems of the rich; he won't sneer that Astarion knows nothing of hardship. He might have a few weeks ago, but . . . things are different now, and he is not so callous as all that. His gaze is softer, his expression more settled as his voice rumbles between them.]